Chapter 618.5: King of Slaves—Sparta
Crunch!
The bloody, gory scene unfolded again before everyone.
They could only watch as a former companion was torn apart and devoured piece by piece by the gnolls, twisted with greed.
Unspeakable humiliation and pain surged in their hearts.
The overseer coldly swept his gaze over the crowd, meeting countless eyes full of anger and fear.
He let out a cold laugh, glaring fiercely at all the slaves:
"Today is just a warning. If you still can't finish your tasks tomorrow, you'll all die with me!"
All the miner slaves lowered their heads, feeling that the overseer was not just talking nonsense. An endless sense of anger and desolation welled up inside them, but they had no idea what to do.
Sparta handed over his ore expressionlessly, and those behind him also completed their tasks without issue.
The overseer's face softened slightly. He glanced at Sparta and continued coldly:
"You did well this time. I hope you can set a good example."
After saying this, the overseer left with dozens of snarling gnoll enforcers, leaving behind a crowd of wailing miner slaves.
Ignoring the desperate figures begging around him, Sparta steeled his heart and left.
His thinking was simple: he had to survive first if he wanted to help more people survive.
The miners gradually left the tunnel, leaving behind nothing but shattered flesh and blood.
Some red-eyed miner slaves couldn't help but stare at the pieces of meat scattered across the ground.
Sparta gave them a cold glance, walked straight out of the mine, and as usual, took out his two rice balls and handed them to a few particularly weak miner slaves.
The slaves were deeply grateful, taking a few careful bites before saving the rest.
The slaves gradually left the mining area, flowing down to the bottom of the valley like a swarm of ants.
A vast cluster of shanties, like a refugee district, lined both sides of the river.
The half-elf who had greeted Sparta earlier nodded silently and returned to his run-down wooden hut.
As usual, Sparta took out his last two rice balls in front of the other slaves and ate them all at once.
This was to make sure other slaves wouldn't try to steal his food at night.
Sparta wasn't afraid, but it would be a hassle.
Besides, he still had something important to do today.
Noticing many disappointed gazes turning away, Sparta calmly returned to his hut and, a bit excited, closed the door behind him.
The figure he imagined was not inside. Sparta's face fell a bit.
"Are you looking for us?"
A clear voice reached Sparta's ears. He instinctively turned, his hand unconsciously reaching behind the door.
A rough iron dagger was now in Sparta's hand, but he didn't dare make a move.
Only because the person before him radiated faint magical fluctuations.
A spellcaster!
And at least a high-level spellcaster!
Sparta's expression didn't change as he stared at Trist, asking in a low, hoarse voice:
"I've already given you the intel. Where's what you promised?"
Under Sparta's wary gaze, Trist smiled, pulled down his hood to reveal light purple skin, and said under Sparta's incredulous stare:
"We'll never break our promise."
As he spoke, Trist tossed over a storage bracelet.
Seeing Sparta cautiously receive and examine it, Trist smiled and continued at his own pace:
"I heard the Cole Elves have increased the daily mining quota again recently."
"You must have many who can hardly hang on anymore, lacking food and medicine, right?"
Sparta paused briefly, then continued as if nothing happened, head still lowered:
"Don't you already know? Why ask me again? No need to go in circles. If you have something to say, just say it."
Trist's mouth curled into a faint smile. Reminded of his own past, he gestured for Sparta to sit and explained straightforwardly:
"I'll provide weapons and equipment for a thousand people, plus food and water for fifty thousand for a full month."
Sparta's heart skipped a beat, and he stared at Trist's smiling eyes, trying to discern his true intentions.
Trist didn't look away, acting with perfect composure and an indescribable confidence and pride.
With a sigh, Trist took a sip of gritty river water, seemingly speaking to himself:
"I was once a slave too. Thought the drow were bad enough, but the Cole Elves are just as bad."
"Well, drow and Cole Elves were originally the same, only split by disagreement…"
"Let me guess, every year, lots of half-elves are sent here, right?"
"And the number who die each year is probably about the same…"
"Quite interesting. If the drow found out, maybe they'd stop fighting and join forces to torment their kin…"
"No, the drow never see other drow as kin anyway."
"The Cole Elves pretend to be upright, but behind the scenes, they're just as bad…"
"Besides the slaves here, there are over four million half-elf slaves throughout the Cantrell Mountains…"
"There are so many kinds of half-elves—I've seen dozens myself. It's remarkable."
All the while, Sparta kept a close eye on Trist, ready to react, but couldn't help recalling—
The destruction of his home, the enslavement of his kin, the death of his family.
Rage surged in Sparta, making his breath heavier, but he quietly considered his next steps instead of taking Trist's bait. He bluntly asked:
"Are you a drow spy? Here to stir up rebellion among the Cole Elves?"
Sparta had seen drow-Cole hybrids before, their skin more black than Trist's light purple.
But besides the drow, Sparta saw no other force that could rival the Cole Elves.
Trist shrugged and replied calmly and confidently:
"Half a year ago, I might have lied to you without hesitation."
"But now it's different. I'm used to telling the truth. Our territory doesn't allow lying."
"I'm a Bay Territory grey elf, originally a drow from the Underdark, here to save you from the fire."
Bay Territory?
Grey elf?
Drow origin?
Sparta was skeptical but etched the words 'Bay Territory' deep in his heart.
Based on recent news, the Netheril Empire's Bay Territory had indeed fought the Cole Elves.
And Bay Territory, allied with the Ail Elves, had even won the war.
Sparta had thought Bay Territory was far from the Cantrell Mountains, but it turned out to be so close.
His mind raced, but his body never relaxed, ready to flee at any moment.
Without waiting for Sparta to process, Trist pulled out a map and unfolded it in front of his astonished eyes.
The map showed the entire Cantrell Mountains—terrain, fortresses, and cities.
Every location, stronghold, and fortress was recorded in detail.
Sparta instinctively compared this precious map with what he knew in his mind.
He immediately noticed some differences, but sensed this map was probably more accurate.
Just from a glance, Sparta could identify many dangers—these details could save his people from much loss.
Sparta hesitated for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the entry for Glory Fortress.
"Glory Fortress. Cole Elf-held. 21,372 Cole Elf soldiers, 4,376 other armed forces, total population 112,417."
"With 376,422 slaves (-500)!"
Seeing the red number, Sparta felt a pang in his heart.
Even without Trist saying so, he knew the 500 meant 500 dead half-elf slaves.
Sparta unconsciously clenched his fists and said hoarsely:
"If we want these supplies, what's the price?"
Trist shook his head, replying evenly:
"No price, but the Cole Elves will be very unhappy, and they'll definitely start purging the half-elf slaves…"
Sparta could easily picture the bloodbath that would follow, knowing the Cole Elves' ruthlessness in the half-elf districts.
He shook his head firmly, voice cold:
"Half-elf slaves with families wouldn't dare resist, even if beaten to death."
"And those without families are already targeted and in terrible shape…"
"Even with weapons and food, we could last half a day at most before being slaughtered."
"Your plan is useless. It's just sending us to die for nothing."
Trist nodded in satisfaction, admiring Sparta's clarity:
"If I'd been as clear as you, I wouldn't have lost all my family back then."
"Others don't matter, but I pity my little brother…"
"You're lucky. Bay Territory won't let you die in vain."
"Your task is 'simple'—just lure the soldiers out of the city."
"And when we take Glory Fortress, we'll provide food for hundreds of thousands of half-elves and help you train your troops."
"The Cole Elf army will definitely come to quell the revolt."
"Your task is to kill the smaller Cole Elf forces and lure the main army!"
"If you can do that, accept our offer!"
"If you'd rather watch all the half-elf slaves die from overwork, hunger, or beatings, you can just do nothing."
"But I hope you'll think it over, King of Slaves—Sparta!"
King of Slaves!
A glorious yet shameful title!
Sparta had led more than one rebellion and freed millions of half-elf slaves.
But alas.
Facing a million-strong Cole Elf army.
Facing the terrifying archmages of the elves.
Facing the barrenness of the Cantrell Mountains.
Sparta's every rebellion had ended in failure.
Countless half-elves were trapped in the mountains and starved by the Cole Elves.
Sparta grew lost, helpless, and anguished.
The more half-elf slaves he saved, the more died.
After each rebellion, the Cole Elves would deliberately let him escape.
A terrifying thought haunted him:
He, the King of Slaves, was created by the Cole Elves!
The Cole Elves had many motives, each making Sparta shudder.
Using his uprisings
To purge disobedient Cole Elves.
To kill off aged half-elf slaves.
To abandon mines no longer worth working.
Using the corpses and heads of his people to bring the Cole Elves glory.
Realizing this, Sparta, in great pain, gave up being the King of Slaves and went into hiding.
Using his powers to alter his appearance and voice, he lay low in Glory Fortress, powerless as countless slaves died.
He instinctively widened his eyes, a powerful aura erupting—though not leaking out—fixing on Trist.
Sensing a pressure no less than that of a peak extraordinary professional, Trist nodded in satisfaction:
"I'm lucky to have met the true King of Slaves."
"Let me tell you some good news—our lord wants to see you."
"He has a plan to save four or five million half-elf slaves at once. Are you interested?"
Lord?
The lord of Bay Territory?
He's here?
Save four or five million at once?
That's just wishful thinking!
But Sparta's sharp instincts told him Trist wasn't lying.
He hesitated, lost in deep thought.
It sounded like wild boasting.
But what if?
What if it really worked?
Sparta did not fear death, and was confident he could escape if betrayed—even by a legend!
As long as he hadn't completed his mission, he believed he would never fall!
He had to save all the half-elf slaves!
That was his destiny as the King of Slaves!
Sparta's appearance rapidly changed into that of a weathered middle-aged man. With a firm voice, he said:
"I hope you're not lying to me, or I'll ruin your plans!"
A hand landed on Sparta's shoulder. Meeting his shocked eyes, Matthew smiled slightly and said:
"You won't!"