“Take the tower.” Angron stepped over a burning skimmer.
At the end of the street, the red light atop the district relay tower pulsed rhythmically.
In the projection cast from the control console, every flash coincided with a few red dots flickering out.
Those weren’t numbers.
They were people.
Angron took three steps forward.
No marching footsteps followed behind him.
Someone was shouting.
Someone dragged a wounded leg, trying to crawl out.
Iron shields clattered against the ground, spears were scrambled over, and two newly freed battle-slaves squeezed into the doorway, neither willing to back down first.
Karrus grabbed a man by the collar, tearing him off his companion.
“Point those barrels outward!” “Fight over them again and I’ll break your fucking hands first!” Angron stopped.
He glanced back.
The main gate of the Bloody Sand Arena stood wide open.
Outside lay the shattered remnants of the suppression squad.
Inside squeezed a crowd of people who had only just removed their slave collars.
They dared to kill now.
But they still didn’t know how to fight.
The wounded inside the Bloody Sand Arena, the armory, the control consoles—all had been left behind.
If the High Riders crept back in through a side entrance, this freshly won victory would be lost in an instant.
Angron turned and started walking back.
Karrus froze in place.
“What about the relay tower?” “We take it,” Angron said, passing right by him.
“But first, we hold this place.” He approached an overturned anti-grav vehicle and bent down to grip its underside.
Its chassis was still smoking, the damaged engine spurting occasional bursts of blue flame.
Angron hauled it out of the rubble and dragged it toward the main gate.
Metal scraped against flagstones.
Sparks trailed behind it all the way.
*Boom!* The vehicle’s frame crashed down across the left side of the gateway, blocking most of the entrance.
He dragged over another wrecked vehicle and jammed it into the right side.
Only a narrow gap remained in the center of the main gate.
Large forces outside couldn’t surge in, while those inside could take cover behind the wreckage and fire out.
Karrus understood.
He grabbed his shock spear and waved it at the battle-slaves behind the gate.
“What the hell are you staring at?” “Move!” “Bring over every usable iron plate you can carry!” The crowd finally moved.
Ignoring them, Angron walked toward a heavy machine gun that had been knocked askew at the roadside.
Its mounting posts were twisted, and belt ammunition lay scattered across the ground.
He seized the mount and yanked upward.
Concrete and metal tore apart with a sharp crack.
Several nearby battle-slaves scrambled out of the way.
Angron carried the heavy machine gun behind the anti-grav vehicle, pointing its barrel down the street.
“Who knows how to use this?” From the crowd, a grey-haired veteran gladiator raised his hand.
Half of his left ear had been sliced off, and his chest bore old scars left by rifle butts.
“Seen the guards use it.” He paused.
“I know how to load it.” Angron stepped aside for him.
“Then hold this position.” The old gladiator stepped behind the gun.
He reached out to touch the cold grip.
Before, whenever a slave refused to step into the arena or a gladiator approached a restricted area, this gun would chatter.
Its muzzle had always pointed inward.
Now, it belonged to him.
The old gladiator gathered the scattered ammo belt and pressed the rounds into the feed tray, one by one.
“I’ll hold it.” Angron nodded and strode into the Bloody Sand Arena.
The people who had been crowding the entrance moments ago were parting to both sides.
The wounded were dragged down to the lower levels.
Iron racks and shattered guardrails were hauled toward the main gate.
Some still didn’t know what to do, standing frozen and watching Angron.
Angron stepped onto a broken stone dais.
From here, he could see most of the Bloody Sand Arena.
The VIP balcony had collapsed.
Red carpet hung down into the blood-soaked sand.
The bodies had not yet been fully cleared.
Collars just ripped off lay strewn across the ground.
The place was wrecked.
But it was now in their hands.
“Wounded go below!” His voice boomed over the arena’s din.
“If you can’t hold a gun steady, don’t touch one!” “Anyone with a shield, cover the gate!” “Anyone who understands machinery, get to the control console!” Angron raised his hand, pointing at the vehicle chassis, iron frames, and corpses scattered across the sands.
“The rest of you, haul everything you can find to barricade the gate!” Silence fell for a moment.
Karrus kicked an iron frame.
“You heard him!” “Move!” The orders finally trickled down through the crowd.
No formations.
No bugles.
Yet those who had been pushing toward the exit moments ago began carrying the wounded inside and dragging steel plates toward the gates.
Angron jumped down from the stone dais.
“Finally learned to look behind you, eh?” Oenomaus stood nearby, supported by a combat slave.
The cloth around the old man’s nape was soaked through with blood, his face deathly pale, but his tongue remained as sharp as ever.
Angron walked over.
“You should be lying down.” “A man lying down can’t keep order among a bunch of newly caged fools.” Oenomaus looked toward the main gate.
Wrecked vehicle frames choked the entrance.
The old gladiator crouched behind the heavy machine gun.
Shield-bearers were taking up positions on either side of the gateway.
He gave a single nod.
“Looking a bit like a real defense now.” Angron looked outside the Bloody Sand Arena.
“We can’t lose this place.” “Damn right we can’t.” Oenomaus gestured with his chin at their surroundings.
“The High Riders made this place a cage.” Angron stared at the wide-open main gate.
“The gate is still here.” “The bars are just facing the other way.” Oenomaus glanced at him, saying nothing more.
A tech-slave ran down the steps clutching an auxiliary control pad, nearly tripping over the corpse of a house guard.
“The main control works!” he panted.
“Four turrets on the high wall are destroyed, but three remain!
We can also raise part of the blast shields around the VIP seats!” Angron looked up.
Three greyish-black turrets hung mounted on the high walls.
Their heavy barrels slanted down.
All pointed toward the center of the arena.
Those barrels had watched the battle-slaves for years.
Refuse to fight?
Fire.
Approach a restricted zone?
Fire.
Revolt?
Fire.
They had always aimed inward, keeping the inmates in check.
“Can you turn them around?” The tech-slave followed his gaze.
“The wiring is a bit—” “Turn them.” The tech-slave swallowed his words and hurried toward the control console with his pad.
Angron stood in the center of the Bloody Sand Arena, staring up at the high wall.
Before long, the first turret clanked.
*Clack.* Gears ground together slowly, as if rusted stiff.
The black barrel lifted inch by inch, sweeping across the stands, turning across the arena floor.
Many in the arena froze instantly.
A young slave who had just come up from the lower cellblock clasped his head and ducked to the ground.
Those nearby instinctively ducked their heads.
They knew that sound all too well.
Every time those turrets turned, someone fell.
But this time, no shots rang out.
The black barrel slowly swung over their heads.
Crossing the sand.
Passing over the main gate.
And finally aiming straight down the street outside the city.
The young slave stayed curled up, waiting two breaths.
He wasn’t dead.
He raised his head, staring at the barrel that was no longer aimed at him.
The second turret moved.
Then the third.
The three black barrels turned outward one after another, training their sights down the entire street in front of the Bloody Sand Arena.
Silence filled the arena.
The old gladiator crouching behind the heavy machine gun looked up as well.
Suddenly, he let out a laugh.
It wasn’t loud, but others joined in.
Someone snatched a discarded collar off the ground and hurled it viciously into the street outside.
Karrus stood atop the barricaded vehicle hull and spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm toward the wall turrets.
“Should’ve pointed ’em that way a long time ago.” Angron watched the three turrets.
The rage in his chest still burned.
But it was no longer as chaotic as before.
The main gate was blocked with wreckage.
Heavy guns covered the street.
The wounded were being moved below.
For the first time, the newly freed had a piece of ground to stand their ground on.
If the High Riders wanted back in, they would have to cross under those guns.
The Bloody Sand Arena had changed hands.
Oenomaus walked over to Angron.
“Karrus goes with you.” “I’ll handle the rest here.” Angron looked at the blood-soaked bandage on the back of his neck.
The old man grinned grimly.
“You tear up the streets outside.” “I’ll hold the door for you.” Angron held out his fist.
Oenomaus bumped it with his own.
“Don’t die beneath that tower.” “Wait for me to come back.” “Save the jinxes.” Angron turned.
Karrus had gathered the mobile battle-slaves behind the main gate.
Their shields were mismatched.
Their guns were incomplete.
But it was enough to march forward a distance.
As Angron prepared to step out, his nose suddenly caught a faint sweet scent.
It was very subtle.
Nearly lost amidst the reek of blood and scorched metal.
He stopped in his tracks.
“What’s that smell?” A nearby tech-slave sniffed the air too.
The next moment, all color drained from his face.
“Poison gas.” Angron looked toward the lower-level passage.
A wisp of white mist was seeping out from cracks in the ground.
Creeping up the steps inch by inch.
The tech-slave looked down at his auxiliary pad, tapping the keys frantically.
“Something’s wrong.” “The internal gas valves are shut off.” Angron looked up toward the end of the street.
The red light on the relay tower was still flashing.
He looked back down at his feet.
The white mist had already engulfed the first step.
“Damn it.” “Where is the gas coming from?” The tech-slave pointed toward the eastern side of the Bloody Sand Arena.
“The East Well!” “It connects to the city’s main gas lines!
They’re pumping it in from outside!” Karrus gripped his shock spear.
“Then the relay tower—” “Hold the gate first,” Angron said, turning toward the eastern lower level.
Coughing fits were already echoing from below, one after another.
He picked up his pace.
“I’ll go plug this leak.”