radicalducati Chapter 283 Gladiators Set Out for Slave Island
Chapter 283 Gladiators Set Out for Slave Island
Chapter 283 Gladiators Set Out for Slave Island
"No, Father."
"We shouldn't leave so soon. I'm going with Mr. Spartacus."
Rebecca's voice sounded unusually firm in the drawing room, which surprised Cyrus, who looked at his daughter in astonishment.
For ten years, she was always the child who needed protection in his eyes, and even when she was wielding a sword in the arena, there was always a hint of fear in the depths of her eyes.
But now, a flame he had never seen before burned in those amber eyes.
"Father, I want to go with Mr. Spartacus," Rebecca repeated, her voice not trembling.
"Rebecca, this is too dangerous—" Cyrus tried to dissuade her.
"I know it's dangerous," Rebecca interrupted him, turning to Spartacus.
"But Mr. Spartacus is my Heroic Spirit, and we have a contract. Moreover—"
She clenched her fists.
"I lived in Dressrosa for ten years, and in those ten years I watched how the people of this country became numb in a false sense of happiness."
"I've seen how those who become toys are forgotten, I've seen you, Father, fight every day in the arena, yet no one remembers you—"
"I think I now know what oppression is like."
She raised her head and looked directly at Cyrus.
"If I were to leave now and hide somewhere safe, what would have been the point of wielding my sword in the arena for the past ten years?"
"Is it just about surviving?"
Cyrus opened his mouth, but could not utter a word.
"My father taught me that a true warrior not only protects those he cherishes, but also has the courage to stand up against injustice."
Rebecca's voice grew increasingly firm.
"I want to go. I want to see with my own eyes the rebellion that Mr. Spartacus spoke of, I want to see with my own eyes the plight of those slaves—"
"Then, I want to do something with my own strength. If I can—"
Spartacus looked down at the girl who only reached his chest, and a tender expression appeared on his scarred face.
"Contractor, I have sensed your awakening," he said in a deep voice, his tone like the friction of rocks.
"But the battlefield is not an arena; there are no rules, no cheers, only the reality of blood and iron."
"I know," Rebecca nodded.
"But that's precisely why I must go. Mr. Spartacus, you said that resistance is not blind destruction, but a fight to protect what is worth protecting."
"I want to see for myself what is worth protecting in this hellish place on earth."
Doflamingo leaned against the window, watching the scene with great interest, the corners of his mouth curving into a wider smile.
"Fufufu—Interesting. The little princess of the Riku royal family actually wants to go with the berserker to liberate the slaves?"
He glanced at Hawkeye: "What do you think?"
Hawkeye paused for a moment before slowly speaking: "Her swordsmanship is quite good, and she has ten years of experience in the arena, so she also has practical combat experience."
"If Spartacus is willing to divert his attention to protection, he should be able to defend himself."
"And—" he looked at Rebecca, "a true swordsman needs to be tempered on a real battlefield. The arena in Dressrosa is, after all, just a stage."
Cyrus closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
ten years.
For the ten years he was turned into a toy, he could only watch his daughter fight in the arena with that ridiculous look on his face.
Every time she was injured, every time she nearly lost her life, his heart ached, yet he couldn't even bring himself to say a word of caution.
He always thought that when she grew up and became strong enough, he could protect her and help her leave this place to go to a safe place.
But now he understands that his daughter never wanted to be just someone who needed protection.
The blood of the Liku royal family flowed in her veins, as did the blood of him, the warrior.
"—Alright." Cyrus opened his eyes, his voice hoarse. "Go."
"Father!" Rebecca's eyes lit up.
"But," Cyrus said, grabbing her shoulders and looking directly into her eyes.
"Promise me you'll come back alive. No matter what you see or experience, you must come back to see me alive."
Rebecca nodded vigorously, tears welling in her eyes: "I promise you."
"Fufufu—what a touching display of fatherly love!" Doflamingo clapped his hands.
"Then it's settled. Rebecca will go with Spartacus, while Cyrus will be assigned to the Revolutionary Army by us."
He glanced at Moonlight Moria, who remained silent in the corner.
"Moria, you come too."
Moria's tall frame shifted, and his face, hidden in the shadows, rose: "Me?"
"You are one of the founders of the Crusades, but you have no Heroic Spirits to date," Doflamingo bluntly stated.
"This trip is both to assist you and to give you an opportunity. If the participants on that island are not suitable to be won over, you can try to gain their qualifications."
A glint of shrewdness flashed in Moria's small eyes.
He does need heroic spirits.
Of the three founders of the Cross Society, Doflamingo had Shakespeare, Hawkeye had Kojiro Sasaki, but only Gecko Moria had nothing.
In this era where the power of heroic spirits begins to stir up the seas, the absence of heroic spirits means that one will be eliminated sooner or later.
"Understood." Moria stood up, his massive body almost touching the ceiling. "I'll go."
"Also, take this with you." Caesar Clown floated over and handed over a strangely shaped device, which looked like a hybrid of a compass and a Den Den Mushi (snail phone).
"This is a Spirit Origin Detector developed by a genius. It can detect the magical energy fluctuations of Servants and Masters. Although the accuracy is not high, it can find the general direction."
Moria took the instrument and nodded.
"Then, let's go." Doflamingo waved.
"The ship is ready. Remember, our primary objective is to recruit new participants, and our secondary objective is to gather intelligence."
"If things can't be done—destroy that qualification, and don't let other forces get it."
Spartacus snorted coldly and did not respond.
Rebecca gave her father a final hug, then turned and followed Spartacus's mountain-like figure.
Cyrus looked in the direction his daughter had gone, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
The voyage to the slave island of Saturn lasted two days.
This was an unassuming merchant ship, flying the Dressrosa flag, but it was actually equipped with sufficient firepower and escape equipment.
Moria didn't bring many subordinates, only a few capable zombie soldiers.
These were the last of his stockpiles. He was already thankful that he could put together these few to serve as a facade, let alone any fighting power.
Rebecca stood at the bow of the ship, the sea breeze blowing through her long pink hair.
This is the first time she has left Dressrosa in ten years.
No, to be precise, it was the first time she had ever truly gone to sea in her memory.
Ten years ago, she was too young to remember what it felt like to leave Dressrosa.
"Are you nervous?" a deep voice asked from the side.
Rebecca turned her head and saw Spartacus walking up to her.
Even though this berserker had concealed his aura, he still exuded a chilling sense of oppression.
"A little," Rebecca admitted honestly, "but—more than anything, I'm excited."
She gazed at the distant horizon.
"I've finally left that country. Although it's in this way, and although my father couldn't come with me—I've finally made it out."
Spartacus paused for a moment, then spoke slowly.
"The first step to freedom is often leaving the cage, whether that cage is made of iron bars or woven from false happiness."
He looked at Rebecca.
"Your arena in Dressrosa is also a cage. The rules, the audience, victory and defeat—all are shackles that bind you."
"You fought, but not for your own will; you won, but were not free. Is the freedom you have now the freedom you truly desire?"
Rebecca was stunned; she had never thought of it that way before.
I never imagined that this seemingly bold and even somewhat mad berserker could utter such philosophical words.
For her, the arena was a means of survival and a way to protect herself.
She thought she was at least free on that stage; after all, she could choose to fight and choose to win.
But now Spartacus tells her that it is also a kind of cage.
"Then—what is true freedom?" she asked softly.
Spartacus gazed at the sea, the waves reflected in his burning eyes.
"Freedom is the right to choose," he said in a deep voice.
"Choose what to fight, choose what to die, choose what to live. There are no rules imposed by others, no fate to be forced upon you."
"In my lifetime, I was a slave. In the arena, I fought and won, the audience cheered for me, and my master gave me delicious food and wine. But I was still a slave."
"Because I had no choice. I could not choose not to fight, I could not choose to leave, I could not choose what to fight for."
"Later, I rebelled. My companions and I stormed out of the arena and fought against the Roman legions, and fought all over Italy."
"At that time, we were still fighting, still bleeding, and still dying."
"But we are free."
"Because that is our choice. We choose to fight for freedom, and we choose to die for dignity."
"That is the path we chose ourselves, not a destiny imposed upon us by others."
Rebecca listened quietly, recalling the scene she had seen in her dream that night.
The enemy's formidable army formation was broken by these unorganized slave gladiators.
She suddenly understood why this seemingly savage and brutal berserker was called a symbol of resistance.
What he resisted was never the battle itself, but the fate of being forced to fight.
"Mr. Spartacus—" she said softly, "Do you think the slaves on that island will choose to rebel?"
Spartacus's lips curled into a smile that could almost be described as ferocious.
"The deeper the oppression, the deeper the spark of resistance is buried. But the spark will eventually ignite, because it is the most primal instinct deep within the human soul, the yearning for freedom."
"Our journey may be the spark that ignites that flame."
At dawn on the third day, the outline of Saturn Island appeared on the horizon.
From a distance, it appears to be a typical spring island, with lush vegetation and a pleasant climate.
A white castle stands in the center of the island, surrounded by a neat town.
Further out are messy low-rise buildings and slums, and on the outermost edge, close to the coast, you can see large plantations and mines.
"Saturn, if I remember correctly, is the name of the god of harvest and time in mythology. How ironic."
Moria stood at the bow of the ship, looking at the intelligence report in his hand.
"The ruler of this island calls himself the Grand Duke of Saturn, but in reality he is a slave trader."
"Seventy percent of the island's population were slaves, twenty percent were commoners, and ten percent were nobles and guards."
Rebecca gripped the hilt of her sword tightly: "Seventy percent—are they all slaves?"
"More accurately, property," Moria sneered.
"Here, slaves aren't even considered human beings; they're merely talking tools. They can be bought and sold, and they can be punished."
They can be executed at will.
Spartacus's breathing became heavy, and Rebecca could feel the almost tangible anger emanating from him.
"Calm down, Mr. Spartacus," she said softly. "Let's find the person involved first, and then we can make further plans."
Spartacus took a deep breath, barely suppressing his anger: "—I understand."
The boat docked at a secluded little bay on the east side of the island.
Moria hid the ship, leaving two zombie soldiers to guard it, and then, with Rebecca, Spartacus, and three other elite zombies, quietly infiltrated the island.
Upon entering the island, a sense of oppression immediately hits you.
Along both sides of the road, slaves could be seen everywhere, chained up and toiling under the scorching sun.
Most of them were ragged, emaciated, with numb eyes, mechanically repeating the work at hand.
Moving stones, clearing roads, and planting crops.
Every so often, fully armed guards patrolled, holding whips and spears, their eyes fiercely scanning the slaves.
If anyone is even slightly slow, the whip will lash down without mercy.
"Hurry up! You lazy pigs!" A guard brandished his whip, lashing an old slave who had fallen.
"No one's going to eat until all these stones are moved today!"
The old slave struggled to get up, but was clearly too weak and fell to the ground again.
The guard raised his whip, ready to strike again.
A giant hand grabbed the whip.
The guard was taken aback and looked up.
It was a giant man over three meters tall, with bulging muscles and crisscrossing scars all over his body. He wore only simple leather armor and had a huge curved sword hanging at his waist.
What's most unsettling are those eyes, eyes burning with flames.
"Who...who are you?" the guard's voice trembled. "This is the Grand Duke's territory. Unauthorized persons are not permitted here—"
Spartacus did not answer.
He just gave it a light tug.
The guard, whip and all, was flung away and crashed into a tree in the distance, losing consciousness.
The surrounding slaves were stunned, staring blankly at the giant who had suddenly appeared.
Spartacus looked around at the numb, fearful, and bewildered eyes, and a burning rage rose in his chest.
This is oppression.
This is the hell he saw and experienced in his lifetime.
"Mr. Spartacus!" Rebecca ran over and grabbed his arm. "Calm down! We can't be exposed now!"
Moria emerged from the shadows, his face grim: "Berserker, don't forget our main objective. Causing trouble now will only alert the enemy."
Spartacus clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking.
He saw it.
The slaves had deep marks from iron chains digging into their flesh on their wrists and ankles.
Those whip marks, burns, and mutilated limbs.
Those empty, hopeless eyes.
It was exactly the same as he remembered.
"I understand." He squeezed out these words through gritted teeth and loosened his fist.
Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief, turned to the slaves, and lowered her voice: "You'd better leave quickly, before the other guards arrive."
The slaves looked at each other, and no one moved.
Finally, the rescued old slave spoke in a trembling voice: "Leave? Where can we go? The island is guarded everywhere—there's no escape. If we're caught—we'll be executed—"
Rebecca's heart clenched.
That was utter despair, a despair that even the thought of escaping was extinguished.
Moria urged impatiently, "Let's go, the detector is responding, the target is in the direction of the slums."
The three quickly left the scene, leaving the slaves standing there, as if everything that had just happened was an illusion.
Spartacus ran at an insane speed, the sound of wind cutting through the air constantly echoing in his ears.
But what truly shattered his senses was the utter silence of the surrounding slaves—this was oppression.
I will definitely kill all the oppressors here!