Back in his own lair, Aimo leaned back in a wide-backed rocking chair, leisurely puffing on a cigar.
"Tell Yale I want a batch of competent gladiators trained, in preparation for the tournament three years from now that will gather the finest fighters from all the arenas across the continent. Did you hear me? Go! Tell Yale I want the best—if he can't deliver, he can get lost!" Aimo's voice boomed toward the doorway, and several subordinates quickly obeyed and left.
"How's the boy?" Aimo asked, turning to look at Luo Yi, who stood behind him.
"Fine. He's already been placed in a cell," Luo Yi replied.
"Hm… there's something about that kid. I don't know why, but he has a certain… charm, you know?" Aimo inhaled deeply, exhaling a smoke ring that lingered in the air as his eyes scanned the ceiling, lost in thought.
"Stay still! Don't move!" Ya was roughly tossed into a cell, lying there for a while before finally sitting up.
The entire cell block resembled a wide corridor, with cages lined up on both sides. A six-man-wide passage ran down the middle. Three sides were reinforced with iron bars, each as thick as a forearm, with gaps too narrow for more than three fingers. Behind the cages lay a solid stone wall. Ya's cell, located at the far end, gave him a view of the circular arena and, beyond the thick railing beneath the opposite stands, a few pairs of red eyes watching intently.
Ya leaned back, stretching his limbs while gazing at the slightly arched ceiling. At that moment, he had no goals—survival alone was enough.
The golden sunlight, though beautiful, felt merciless in this half-deserted plain. The heat, even for desert dwellers, was oppressive, and for Ya—raised among cool forests—it was unbearable. Crawling into the shadow beneath his bed, he refused to move an inch.
Ya's cell was a single-occupancy room, highlighting Aimo's special attention toward him. Next door lay a peculiar cell. A figure, equally avoiding the sun, lay in a corner on a moldy straw pile. His tattered clothes and stillness suggested death—he had not moved in three hours since Ya entered.
This stood in contrast to other cells. Though they housed gladiators, basic cleanliness and minimal amenities were provided, even in Ya's smallest cell. As dinner time approached, the other gladiators polished their weapons or chatted while waiting for meals, yet this mysterious man remained motionless.
"Dead?" Ya wondered silently. It was hard to believe anyone could refuse food out of fear of heat.
"Oh, newbie. Didn't expect a kid to squeeze in here. Our food is far better than elsewhere. Lucky you. By the way, what's your name, kid?" A burly man with an axe, sitting across, grinned at Ya. His face was rugged, tiger-like eyes fierce, and a disheveled beard gave him a brutal appearance.
Ya ignored him.
"Hey, kid, I'm talking to you! How dare you ignore me!" The man's temper flared.
"Gold Horn, perhaps you should think before acting. Scaring kids with that huge axe isn't necessary," a man in a white robe spoke calmly from the next cell. His pale face and soft blue eyes suggested refinement, belying the fact that he was a gladiator.
"Tch, scholar, mind your own business. I'm just making sure the kid adjusts," Gold Horn growled.
"I'm not fussing. Kid, what's your name?" The scholar asked gently, but Ya remained indifferent, half-closed eyes lazy as ever.
"Haha, scholar, today's your turn to lose face. Looks like beauty doesn't help you much," Gold Horn laughed.
The scholar only smiled harmlessly, tapping his fan lightly on his head and stretching. "About time… I'm getting a bit hungry."
During this exchange, no gladiator dared interrupt. These two were among the three undefeated champions of the Frenzy Blood Arena. With over fifty matches each and never once injured, their prowess commanded respect—even arena staff approached them cautiously.
Soon, several burly men pushed in large food carts, and dinner began. Meal times were lively; gladiators shouted, sang, or laughed across the walls. Yet two plates remained untouched: Ya's and the stranger in the straw pile.
As the meal ended, some gladiators prepared equipment for the next day, others fell into sleep. The sun set behind distant mountains, leaving a crescent moon climbing in the east. The plains cooled under the night sky, and Ya slowly stretched, standing to gaze at the sparkling stars. A breeze tousled his hair, a rare moment of calm in the chill.
Hidden in the straw, the mysterious man stirred slightly, his bright eyes gleaming even in the dark.
In the private chambers of the Crow Hall:
"Boss, you really intend to hand all the stock over to Aimo?" an unremarkable man asked Tenya, bowing slightly.
"What do you think, Puson?" Tenya replied, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand while observing the liquid's mesmerizing color.
"Boss, the Crow Hall isn't just for his Frenzy Blood Arena. This move doesn't just hurt our business with other owners—it's an insult, as if we're under his command. Aimo can do whatever he wants," Puson said darkly.
Tenya pondered. "If we refuse, it's open confrontation. The west district belongs to Frenzy Blood; we'd gain nothing. But he's no fool. Why now? Why return and demand the stock at this exact moment, right after coming back from the Middle East? Something must have happened there. If we don't play this carefully, with outside forces and Frenzy Blood's support, we'll have no room to maneuver."
He drained his wine. "Give him the goods. We're the top slave merchants in the west, first in the Baimu Plains. Even if Frenzy Blood receives all this stock, we'll still control other buyers. Arrange shipments for the remaining stock within seven days. Aimo, don't underestimate me."
"Yes, boss. Following you, nothing is impossible," Puson said obediently.
Three days later, Aimo dispatched men to the Crow Hall to collect his stock. The massive caravan of slaves caused a stir throughout Tianjiu City. That afternoon, his Middle East contingent returned with another caravan of slaves and beasts, shaking the city further.
At the Frenzy Blood Arena:
Although massive, handling so many slaves was no easy task. The entire arena bustled with activity, shadows racing back and forth.
"Boss, are you sure taking so much at once is wise?" Aimo's closest aides gathered in his study.
"Fab, my old friend, why worry so much? Such caution isn't like you," Aimo smiled.
"But boss, the financial responsibility is heavy. The food and clothing for these slaves alone is enormous. I only look out for our arena's future," Fab replied earnestly.
"Heh, my dear Fab, I know your concern. Soon enough, your courtyard will overflow with ruks," Aimo said, laughing heartily.
"And what of the slaves?" asked a portly man nearby.
"Yale, I told you—we train a batch of excellent gladiators. Young, strong, and full of potential. They'll be our ace fighters three years from now. Age and potential matter; current skill is secondary. Just pick the best." Aimo shrugged, cigar between his teeth.
"Understood, boss. I'll select them now." Yale left obediently.
"Ah, how is the sorceress? I've had no time to visit her yet," Aimo suddenly asked.
"She rarely appears and prefers solitude. I believe she is still there," said an elder in black formal attire, standing straight and composed. His name was Orhwin Rofis, the arena's steward and a fallen noble.
"Orhwin, thank you for maintaining the courtyard while I was away," Aimo said, giving him special attention.
"Merely my duty," Orhwin replied formally.
"Good. Once Yale selects the fighters, we'll discuss profit strategies. For now, let's end here. I must visit the sorceress. Come, Luo Yi." Aimo stubbed out his cigar, then strode ahead.