Chapter 73: I Will No Longer Raise My Hand Against an Innocent Soul

On the sandy ground of the arena.

Faced with the order of the arena’s master—the Lord of the Slave Capital—Shi San finally, beneath the expectant gazes of the audience, slowly straightened his massive frame.

His entire body was covered in wounds, blood streaming down his muscular contours and pooling into dark red puddles on the sand.

Tap tap tap.

The slaves, who had just been fiercely wielding their weapons, instantly retreated several steps, watching him with caution.

For they, as fellow slaves, had witnessed the Butcher’s bloody performances firsthand and knew well that even grievously wounded, he could snap their necks in an instant.

This was the absolute aura forged by his hundreds of victories in life-or-death battles.

“The Butcher!”

“The Butcher!”

The audience erupted again in cheers, their roar like a tidal wave drowning all else, enough to stir any warrior’s blood.

Yet Shi San did not attack the slaves; instead, he lifted his head and gazed up at the dense sea of faces above.

He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, veins bulging thickly along his neck, and shouted with all his strength:

“I will never again raise my hand against an innocent soul!”

His voice, low and resolute, echoed like thunder through every corner of the arena.

At that moment, every person in the arena froze.

Some spectators stared blankly; others gaped in shock; the slaves on the sand dropped their weapons in awe.

Even the nobles high above loosened their wine cups in surprise.

Clang!

The cloudy glass cup shattered on the ground, jolting Sir Simon, who had been stunned by a slave’s defiance of his command.

“I am not the—”

Before Shi San could finish, a massive palm of blood-red magic descended from the upper platform and slammed into him.

Boom!

With a tremendous explosion, a huge crater blasted open in the sand, burying Shi San beneath it, alive or dead, unknown.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our gladiator has encountered a minor issue today—the Beast vs. Lion match is postponed by one day.”

Sir Simon’s voice, tightly suppressed with fury, rang out over the arena.

“Refund our tickets! This is rigged!”

“I’m not betting anymore—this is definitely the Man-Eating Lion’s win!”

The spectators, snapping out of their shock, roared in anger.

They had paid dearly to watch a slaughter and gamble for instant wealth—not to listen to a slave preach morality!

“Ladies and gentlemen, all tickets are free this time, and you may place new bets shortly.”

After several deep breaths, Simon Clay gritted his teeth until they threatened to crack before forcing out those words.

He could no longer calculate how many gold sols he had lost—but it was unquestionably a sum beyond ordinary comprehension.

This was literally killing him!

Even as a titled baron and war hero, he was still a true Clay man.

As the Clay ancestor Frankenstein once said—take my life, but never my coins.

Only when the audience began to file out did this farce finally draw to a temporary close.

“Bring me the man in charge of the Butcher!” Simon snarled.

He wanted to see which bastard had corrupted his most prized slave.

Moments later, in a lavishly decorated hall.

The floor was covered in deep red velvet carpet, embroidered with golden vines and flowers; heavy silk curtains hung at the windows; a massive crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, hundreds of crystal pendants glittering like stars, refracting multicolored light.

Every corner of this place screamed its owner’s unmatched wealth.

“Was it you who turned my Butcher into a fairy-tale hero?” Simon sat on the main seat, coldly staring at the man kneeling below.

“No no no, Lord Simon, you know me—I’d never dare!”

Benson turned ashen, banging his head against the floor with frantic thuds, soon blood trickling from his forehead.

“Hmph. I knew you didn’t have the guts.”

Seeing this, Simon’s anger slightly eased.

“If you weren’t a Clay man like me, I’d have thrown you into the beast pen long ago!”

“Tell me every word you spoke to the Butcher before his fight. Omit one, and I’ll slit your throat,” Simon growled.

“Yes, I told the Butcher—” Benson stammered.

After hearing his account, Simon fell into deep thought.

He was certain the Butcher’s change in mindset was not Benson’s doing.

Then who? Could someone possibly speak to the Butcher from beyond the dungeon?

And as for the Butcher thinking of it himself—impossible. A slave born into servitude, long accustomed to killing, would never believe killing was sinful.

Forget it. As a merchant, his immediate priority was not to find the culprit, but to minimize his losses.

“Throw that Butcher into the most crowded slave cell. If he can kill them all, give him weapons. If he can’t—ha, tomorrow he’ll fight the Man-Eating Lion barehanded.”

Simon’s gaze turned icy, brimming with murderous intent.

In a vast dungeon.

Hundreds of slaves crammed the space, turning what had once been spacious into a suffocating crush; they pressed together like goods, with barely room to move.

Their bodies pressed against one another, sweat and grime mingling, the air thick with a rotting stench.

Their faces bore exhaustion and despair, eyes hollow and numb, as if they had long lost all human desire.

“In you go!”

Five guards struggled to carry the battered Shi San, then hurled him into the cell with all their strength.

Thud!

His massive body hit the dungeon floor with a thunderous crash, sending the slaves scrambling in terror away from him.

They had either heard or seen the Butcher’s horrors—they feared he might kill them on a whim.

“Damn, heavier than a beast!”

The guards cursed as they left.

At that moment, a figure approached the dungeon with a complex expression.

At the sight of him, the slaves in the dungeon shrank together in fear.

For he was the dungeon’s overseer—Benson Clay—whom they had all, in some measure, felt the lash of.

“Shi San, I know you’re still conscious. With your physique, even after all those injuries and Simon’s palm strike, you won’t die so easily,” Benson said slowly.

But to his disappointment, the giant merely lay motionless, eyes tightly shut, as if already dead.

Yet he knew—Shi San simply refused to acknowledge him.

“Sigh. Merciful Lord Simon has given you another chance. Kill every other slave in this cell, and you’ll get healing and weapons. Otherwise—tomorrow, you fight the Man-Eating Lion with nothing.”

With that, Benson sighed and left, leaving behind only the dying giant in the dungeon.

(End of Chapter)