Sparta: Many childrens, Many Blessings, Starting from the Gladiator Chapter 39 39

The gladiators dispersed. So checked their weapons one last ti, so loosened their stiff bodies, and so simply leaned against the wall with their eyes closed to conserve energy.

Marcus walked to the water bucket and scooped a bowl of murky water.

He didn't drink it. He only dipped his fingers in it and wiped it on his face and neck.

The cold water stimulated his skin, instantly clearing his sowhat dizzy mind.

He closed his eyes and sank his consciousness into the familiar dark space.

[System Panel Opened]

Points: 850

Skills: Danger Perception (Beginner), Berserk Battle Intent (Not Activated), Leadership Aura (Passive Effect), Advanced dical Knowledge

Attributes: Strength (1), Agility (1), Physique (Spartacus-Level Interdiate), Poison Resistance (Beginner)

Not bad.

He took a deep breath and closed the panel.

He walked to the so-called "window" on the wall — it was actually just a palm-sized vent that let in a sliver of weak light and the vague noise from outside.

The cheers were getting louder, mixed with the high-pitched roars of beasts and the collective gasps of the audience.

The warm-up performance had obviously reached the "exciting" part.

Ti crawled forward in the oppressive atmosphere.

About half an hour later, the sound of the lock being opened finally ca from outside the door.

The door opened. The staff mber from before poked his head in: "Marcus, Crixus, Octavius, Saxa, co out! The rest stay put!"

The four exchanged a knowing look and stepped out.

The staff led them through another narrower corridor to a slightly larger room.

This was the official preparation area. It was cleaner than the previous one, with a few long benches, a weapon rack in the corner, and even a few blurry bronze mirrors hanging on the wall.

There were already several people in the room — the gladiators from Nodis training camp.

Marcus locked onto the four main opponents at a glance.

"Anvil" and "Hamr" were a pair of twins who looked almost identical — square faces, wide mouths, short thick necks, and bodies covered in knotted muscles.

The two wore matching polished bronze chest armor and held large shields almost as tall as their shoulders along with wide-bladed heavy swords. Standing side by side, they looked like two iron-cast towers.

"Viper" was a tall and thin man with skin as dark as charcoal. His eyes were narrow and long, giving off a cold, sinister light.

He was playing with two daggers in his hands, the blades spinning rapidly between his fingers, drawing bright silver arcs.

When he saw Marcus enter, he grinned, revealing a mouth full of smoke-yellowed teeth.

"Spider" stood in the shadows at the back. He was a short, barrel-shaped fat man holding a folded black fishing net — the ropes were coarse, with faint small tal barbs attached.

He wasn't looking at Marcus. He kept his head down, using his short thick fingers to repeatedly check every knot on the net.

Besides these four, two gladiators wearing ordinary brown leather armor stood in the corner with their arms crossed, leaning against the wall — they should be the so-called "Shadow" brothers.

The two looked identical, with light golden hair and ice-blue eyes. Their faces were expressionless, like masks. Bulging throwing knife pouches hung at their waists, and they casually played with rope darts tipped with iron caltrops.

Six against four.

The nurical disadvantage was obvious.

When the Nodis side saw Marcus and the others enter, their eyes imdiately showed undisguised contempt and mockery.

"Yo, Batiatus only sent these few crooked lons and cracked dates?"

"Anvil" — or maybe "Hamr", it was impossible to tell — spoke in a rough, hoarse voice like a broken gong. "And there's even a woman? Has Batiatus run out of n? Hahaha!"

Saxa didn't even raise her eyelids. She walked to a long bench by herself and sat down, carefully checking if the dagger in her boot was securely tied.

Crixus snorted heavily through his nose: "Too much bullshit. When we get on the field, I want to see whose mouth gets torn first."

"Viper" chuckled lowly, spinning his daggers even faster: "Crixus, I heard you got knocked down by a newcor with one kick a few days ago? What, do your balls still hurt? Want big brother to rub them for you?"

Crixus's face instantly turned purple. His fists cracked as he clenched them, veins bulging on his neck.

Marcus reached out and pressed down on his shoulder.

"Save your strength."

Marcus said in a low, calm voice. "No matter how loud a mad dog barks, it's still just a dog."

The staff mber saw that both sides were only exchanging verbal jabs and didn't make a move. He clearly breathed a sigh of relief, hurriedly said "Wait here!" and retreated, locking the door again.

Only the ten opposing gladiators remained in the preparation area.

The atmosphere was so oppressive it felt like water could be wrung out of it.

Marcus walked to the weapon rack, casually picked up a training wooden sword, weighed it in his hand, and began slowly practicing the most basic thrusting, slashing, and blocking movents over and over.

He was observing — using the corner of his eye, carefully observing every opponent.

"Anvil" and "Hamr" stood in a very deliberate formation, one on the left and one on the right, five steps apart, supporting each other and ready to assist at any mont.

"Viper" was slightly hunched in the flank, slithering slowly like a real snake. His narrow eyes were fixed dead on Marcus.

"Spider" stayed in the corner, but the black net in his hand was already half unfolded, the edge dragging on the ground.

The "Shadow" brothers still leaned against the wall, but Marcus noticed their feet were slightly apart, center of gravity lowered, calf muscles tensed — a posture ready to burst forward at any mont.

Ti continued to pass in suffocating silence.

The cheers from outside grew louder and louder, mixed with the host's exaggerated shouts and the harsh striking of gongs.

One warm-up performance after another. The roars of beasts, the clash of tal weapons, and the frenzied screams of the audience blended into a sick and狂熱 symphony, pounding against everyone's eardrums through the stone walls.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened again.

A middle-aged fat man wearing a luxurious embroidered robe and a fresh laurel crown walked in — today's host and referee. His oily face was full of a professional excited smile.

"Brave warriors! The mont of glory has arrived!"

He spread his arms, his voice booming with affectation. "The highlight of the Founding Festival is about to begin! Five thousand distinguished spectators are waiting on the stands for your performance! Now, follow , and walk toward your destiny!"

The ten people silently stood up and followed the host out of the preparation area, stepping onto an upward-sloping stone ramp.

The light grew brighter and brighter, more and more blinding.

The cheers grew closer and closer, more and more deafening, crashing over them like a tidal wave.

Finally, they reached the end of the ramp and stood in front of a huge, rust-covered iron grate door.

Outside the door was blindingly white, scorching sunlight, burning hot sand reflecting strong light, and… a tsunami-like, almost roof-lifting frenzy of cheers!

Early access to upcoming chapters is available on Patreon.

Support the translator and binge ahead! patreon/arthursink ans a lot – thank you! ✍️