Chapter 316: Fighting Dog

Amoeba Worm Instance, 2:45 PM.

On the wasteland, more than ten shirtless men with painted faces waved the iron chains in their hands, shouting excitedly.

"Catch her!"

"Don't let her get away!"

The diesel engine roared.

The slave-catching squad, seated on what looked like a modified mountain bike, seized the opportunity, and the iron chains in their hands whistled as they flew out.

The end of the iron chain, with a rough hook attached, precisely grabbed the woman's back.

With a miserable scream, the woman's body was dragged to the ground by the taut iron chain, the sharp iron claws hooking her shoulders.

The hooks meshed, sinking deep into flesh.

"Amei!"

The man surrounded by four crude mountain bikes had eyes about to burst; he had a baby tied to his back, his face mad as he rushed toward the iron chain.

Flesh rubbed.

The man angrily held Amei, trying to use his body as a cushion beneath her.

He clenched the iron chain with both hands, ignoring the sharpness of the barbs, trying to pry open the hook with his bare hands.

As the vehicle dragged, the woman could only let out a feeble cry.

To protect her, the man refused to let go even if his legs were cut to shreds by gravel.

Bright red blood trailed behind.

The intense pain did not make the man choose to let go.

He merely looked anguished as he pried at the hook, over and over calling the woman's name loudly.

His face was pallid.

In excruciating pain, the frail woman nearly fainted.

"Run..."

"Don't mind me.."

The woman named Amei moaned weakly, her half-closed eyes dull as she looked at the baby behind the man.

Waa waa crying.

The child, unaware of what had happened, tightly shut his eyes and cried weakly.

"Drag!"

"Speed up! Drag them to death!"

"Hahaha!"

He threw out the iron chain; the muscular man with monster patterns painted on his upper torso, eyes wild with madness, wrapped the chain several times around like admiring a scenery, then tied it to the rear of the vehicle.

He panted heavily, his excitement impossible to conceal.

He most liked dragging living people into a pile of fragments.

What would ultimately remain depended on where the hook caught.

On the pickup beside the mountain bike, a man with a small braid glared at him dissatisfied:

"Don't drag!"

"She's too thin!"

Having said that, he shouted loudly to his companions around:

"First, stop the damn vehicle! Grab this guy!"

"He's strong!"

"Sell him to the slave arena!"

The man with the small braid indicated higher status.

Under his command, the vehicles gradually stopped.

At one end of the iron chain, the man's face pallid as he stared at the sharp claws hooked onto his wife's back, his fingers bleeding from cuts.

In the violent shaking, the tip of his right pinky was sliced off by the claws.

And the woman cushioning his legs had already lost consciousness, unknown if alive or dead.

Amei was too weak.

They hadn't eaten for three days, surviving only on tree bark and grass roots.

The baby behind her had sucked out Amei's last mouthful of milk; any more would be blood.

His crying was feeble.

Footsteps echoed repeatedly, the leather boots crunching on gravel.

The man, somewhat desperate, lifted his head; a pair of black leather boots studded with tangerines stopped before him.

"Swish."

The owner of the boots, with a left hand in a fingerless glove, grabbed his disheveled hair:

"Savage."

"You've been captured."

"From today on, you will be called Fighting Dog 77."

As soon as the words fell, the man before him grinned, his mouth full of gold inlays, a tongue stud on his tongue.

His smile was cruel.

Savage, no need to ask for a name.

He skillfully used his right hand to pry open the man's mouth, then his eyelids.

Like inspecting livestock.

A few seconds later, he smiled with satisfaction, then slapped the back of Fighting Dog 77's head:

"Dog."

"Do not look at the master!"

"Next time you look! I'll gouge out your eyes and sell them!"

Fighting Dog 77's physique is not bad; at least the tooth wear isn't too severe.

A fighting dog like this, sold into the slave arena, is worth at least half a bag of cornmeal.

Fighting Dog 77 trembled all over, lowering his head, his blood-soaked hands at a loss.

He dared not resist, and could not resist.

Despair, anguish.

I had thought that by sneaking over the wire fence, I could bring my wife and struggle to survive near the Safe Zone.

I never expected that the cut wire fence was actually a gap deliberately made by the Slave-catching Team.

He had heard many people say that, knowing what fate awaits a savage like him who sneaks across the border and gets caught.

Fear, dazed.

If it weren't for the child behind him still alive, if it weren't for his wife still lying on the ground, life or death unknown.

He would rather end his own life.

The man wearing mandarin orange leather boots paid no attention to his performance.

Every captured savage is like this.

He swayed his body, preparing to get on the vehicle:

"Separate that woman and the fighting dog."

"Leave the corpse."

The subordinate beside him kept nodding and bowing, many exchanged glances, then began to grin wickedly.

"Boss, should we keep this woman?"

"In this condition, no slave owner would buy her."

The obedient subordinate violently kicked the fighting dog to the ground, then roughly snatched the baby from behind the man.

Pleading, kowtowing.

The man, face wet with tears, begged them to return his child, only to receive a beating.

The man called Boss slightly tilted his head, looking at the subordinate who asked the question:

"Are you an idiot?"

"After some dressing up, someone will surely like him..."

The words had not yet faded.

The man wearing mandarin orange black boots listened doubtfully to the gradually approaching engine roar.

The speed was very fast.

Three vehicles?

Motorcycles?

Engines roared, gravel flew.

In the distance.

The fastest was Zhang Tie, his expression icy cold as he stared fixedly at the convoy.

Awakened Ones, their ears have always been sharp.