Chapter 8 – The Grand Annual Tournament!
A trembling Administrator re-shackled him, then several gun-toting Administrators marched him back to the dungeon.
The Slaves inside shrank into the corners, shaking at the sight of Dante Voss drenched in blood.
Dante Voss returned to his old cell, leaned against the wall, and began tallying the day's gains.
Open the System.
[Physique: 91]
[Strength: 107]
[Speed: 107]
[Spirit: 94]
[slaughter points: 1,005]
This time he had not only killed ninety-nine others but also taken out an Administrator, earning a full thousand slaughter points.
Opening the backpack, he found plenty of white-grade loot from the hundred kills.
[delicious bento box × 7]
[5 L Mineral Water × 3]
[Fruit Crate × 2]
[Fine Wine Crate × 1]
[Cigarette Carton × 1]
[Half-Empty 5 L Water × 1]
[Used Lunch Box × 1]
Seeing no one could spot him, Dante Voss first drained the half-jug of water, then slipped it back into the backpack.
Next he pulled out a delicious bento box and started eating.
After finishing, he closed the backpack and considered how to spend his points.
He opened Ability first and checked the next rank of Swordsmanship.
[Next Rank: Advanced Swordsman]
[Description: Proficient with the blade; abundant techniques, capable of complex combination moves.]
[Upgrade Cost: 500 slaughter points.]
"Complex combinations, huh?"
Dante Voss rubbed his chin and finally gave up on the upgrade.
His current Intermediate Swordsmanship was already enough; pushing it further wasn't necessary.
Better to raise attributes.
After all, attributes are the root of everything!
With that thought, Dante Voss dumped every last Slaughter Point into stats.
Over a thousand points flooded into his attributes; a torrent of heat surged through his body.
In that instant body and Spirit both sublimated.
Moments later Dante Voss felt reborn—Strength coursed through his frame and his sharpened mind could pick out the breathing of Slaves in distant cells.
[Physique: 341]
[Strength: 357]
[Speed: 362]
[Spirit: 344]
[slaughter points: 0]
...Saint Mike looked down at the blood-soaked Arena, his smile growing ever more smug.
He turned to the deferential Vic and asked:
"When does the Grand Annual Tournament begin?"
"My Lord Saint Mike, it starts mid-next-month," Vic replied respectfully.
"Tomorrow looks perfect; move it to tomorrow." Saint Mike spoke casually.
"Y-yes, yes!" Vic nodded like a chicken pecking grain, daring not to protest.
Yet he hesitated. "But my lord, what of the other Celestial Dragons..."
"Say it was my order!" Saint Mike waved it off.
Vic exhaled in relief.
He had feared the other Celestial Dragons would vent their displeasure on him; now that Saint Mike had spoken, his worries vanished.
Saint Mike rose. "Stage this Grand Annual Tournament well. Satisfy me and I'll recommend you to the World Government."
Vic was overjoyed. "Many thanks, Lord Saint Mike! Your humble servant will not disappoint you."
"Good. Your performance will decide."
Saint Mike nodded contentedly, then rode his Slave out of sight.
After seeing him off, Vic could barely keep his grin in check.
At last his promotion was at hand; becoming a high official of the World Government was the greatest glory for lackeys like him.
With that thought Vic raced to his office to prepare for tomorrow's Grand Annual Tournament... Time flew in the dark dungeon, and Dante Voss slept for a long while.
"Thud-thud-thud—"
Louder than usual footsteps jolted Dante Voss awake.
He stared toward the dungeon entrance, brows knitted.
His senses told him the newcomers outnumbered the usual tenfold.
A full thousand men!
What was going on?
This far exceeded the daily head-count for matches.
Under Dante Voss's puzzled gaze the Administrators herded a huge crowd of Slaves into the dungeon.
Hundreds of Slaves filled the cells; the once-empty dungeon became packed overnight.
Crimson-dyed Dante Voss remained unmolested; no one dared approach.
Ignoring them, Dante Voss used his Spirit stat of 344 to probe the reason behind the sudden influx.
Sure enough!
By concentrating, he overheard two chatting Administrators by the gate.
"Grand Annual Tournament? A thousand-man bloodbath? Celestial Dragon Mounts joining the fight?"
From the scraps he gathered, his performance had prompted Saint Mike to order the annual "Grand Tournament" held ahead of schedule.
This contest dwarfed the daily bouts tenfold; over a thousand Slaves would take part.
And the Celestial Dragons themselves would field specially purchased Slaves.
Dante Voss frowned.
Ordinary Slaves were no threat; even if they all rushed him he wouldn't blink.
But those hand-picked by the Celestial Dragons were different.
At minimum they were pirates worth tens of millions in bounties—far above common thugs.
With his average stats around three hundred he might not stand against such monsters.
Yet with a thousand Slaves present, Dante Voss still had a chance to power up first.
A thousand Slaves meant ten thousand attribute points!
If he could harvest them all, he might finally gain the Strength to break out.
The thought made Dante Voss's heart quicken.
Though daily killings were offered here, the place was too dangerous with too many strong foes.
He was the meat on their chopping block.
Better to escape and grow elsewhere.
Outside, the vast population would let him develop even faster.
Besides, he was sick of this imprisoned life!
Calming his excitement, Dante Voss closed his eyes to rest and save Strength for the coming battles.
He had no idea how much time passed.
An elated Vic strode in with a large contingent of Administrators.
Today Vic was on cloud nine; if the tournament went flawlessly he would be promoted.
He hadn't slept a wink for it.
Glancing at Dante Voss, Vic's grin widened; it was thanks to him the promotion was possible.
As thanks, Vic would send him to his death.
He had divined Saint Mike's wish: the noble wanted to show off his newly acquired slaves; nothing could go wrong.
With that in mind Vic's gaze turned icy.
First he explained the rules to the other Slaves, then introduced Dante Voss's glorious kill record in detail.
The Slaves stared at Dante Voss in shock, chilled by his blood-soaked clothes.
Vic nodded in satisfaction and handed out food to everyone.
When Dante Voss reached for a share, Vic raised his pistol and ordered:
"You don't eat this meal."
Dante Voss froze, fixing Vic with a cold stare.
Vic felt a chill but still commanded:
"Back! No food for you this time."
To guarantee the tournament went smoothly he had to weaken Dante Voss.
Though he doubted Dante Voss could beat Saint Mike's Slaves, every extra precaution helped.
Dante Voss's killing intent toward Vic deepened, yet he offered no resistance and returned to his corner.
The Bun had only been for show; if food was denied he could do without.
He understood Vic's ploy—starve him to blunt his edge.
But the man had no idea Dante Voss was already full.
Once today's matches ended and he reaped huge gains, he would break out—and settle the score with Vic.