In the eyes of the World Nobles, known as the Celestial Dragons, the people of this world could roughly be divided into four categories:
Their noble-blooded kin Loyal dogs serving the gods Lowly commoners Slaves
But in the eyes of the Sarsalian family, the world's inhabitants were categorized differently:
Clan members with silver hair Celestial Dragons from other families People they found pleasing to the eye Slaves
In other words, this aloof, silver-hair-obsessed, eccentric family was remarkably exclusionary. Save for a rare few, the Sarsalian family had little contact with the other eighteen Celestial Dragon families. They even maintained a separate estate in Mary Geoise, distinctly set apart from the others, exuding an air of, "We, the noble silver-haired Sarsalians, have no interest in befriending you mongrels."
What was even more bizarre, however, was that the other eighteen Celestial Dragon families didn't shun or isolate the Sarsalians for their aloofness. Instead, it piqued their interest. They viewed the Sarsalians' haughty isolation as the true demeanor of a [Creator God], marked by pride and grandeur. Far from ostracizing them, the other World Nobles fawned over the Sarsalians, considering it a great honor to befriend one of their members.
Collecting rare treasures, amassing slaves of exotic races, and forging friendships with the mysterious, aloof Sarsalians—these were among the few pursuits that drove the World Nobles.
To those who served the Celestial Dragons, this absurd phenomenon was utterly baffling. For centuries, they studied in secret, trying to unravel why the Sarsalians were so revered or what mystical allure their sacred "Sarsalian Silver" held. In the end, they could only grumble to themselves: What a chaotic circle.
Holy Land Mary Geoise, Sarsalian Family Estate – Blood Arena
The Blood Arena was an enormous circular coliseum, but its stands, which should have been packed with roaring spectators, were eerily empty, lending an air of desolation to the scene.
At the center of the arena, a massive, bare-chested giant from the Giant race swung a colossal spiked club, locked in combat with a dual-wielding swordsman. Despite their stark difference in size, their strength was evenly matched. The two clashed relentlessly, trading blows in a fierce, unending struggle.
There were no typical gladiatorial cheers or battle cries. The arena was unnervingly silent, save for the piercing clang of metal colliding, reverberating through the vast, empty space like a monotonous dirge. The grim atmosphere turned the Blood Arena into a stage of brutal tragedy.
In the VIP Box
"Oh? That little girl bought three slaves?"
A silver-haired elder, engrossed in the gladiatorial match, turned with surprise to the blonde CP0 agent beside him. "What kind of slaves did she buy, Mayne?"
"They're three female warriors from Amazon Lily, Saint Bartholomew," Mayne replied, bowing slightly in her crisp black suit. She continued respectfully, "The three sisters are around the same age as Lady Lisanna. According to the auction house manager, they were captured by traffickers on their very first voyage. They've never even seen a man before."
"Caught on their first voyage? Hahaha, how pitiful!"
Saint Bartholomew burst into gleeful laughter. Though he called them pitiful, his cloudy old eyes held no trace of sympathy—only a glint of cruelty.
"Such a shame they're a bit young. Otherwise, I'd toss them into the arena for some fun. I'm rather curious about the strength of those Amazon warriors."
He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Still, as the first slaves that little girl has purchased, these three are a bit underwhelming…"
Saint Bartholomew doted on Lisanna, a new clan member with exceptionally pure blood. After a moment's contemplation, he turned to the middle-aged man seated beside him.
The man wore sunglasses and sported two catfish-like black mustaches. His attire, emblematic of the Celestial Dragons, marked his status, while his flaxen hair made it clear he wasn't a Sarsalian.
"Saint Rosward…"
Saint Bartholomew stroked his beard casually as he spoke. "I heard a certain nation recently offered you three Devil Fruits as tribute?"
"Indeed," Saint Rosward replied, turning his gaze from the arena's duel. "One Paramecia-type and two Zoan-types. As for their specific abilities, we'd need to consult the Devil Fruit catalog to figure that out."
He glanced at the silver-haired elder, puzzled. "Why? Are you looking to add them to your collection?"
The mustached Celestial Dragon's tone suggested he was more than willing to make a generous gesture.
Devil Fruits, the ocean's secret treasures, could fetch over a hundred million Berries on the open market—priceless rarities. Yet to the Celestial Dragons, they were little more than slightly uncommon collectibles.
"Want them? No, no, no. How could the Sarsalian family stoop to such shameless behavior?"
The silver-haired elder snorted lightly before continuing, "As it happens, I acquired two new slaves just the other day—captains from the New World, no less."
A sly, almost mocking smile crept across Saint Bartholomew's wrinkled face. "I hear you're fond of collecting captain slaves. How about I trade these two New World captains for your three Devil Fruits? What do you say?"
(That's exactly what I was waiting for!)
Saint Rosward, already aware of the offer, lit up with delight. "Hah, no problem at all!" he exclaimed.
The two men locked eyes and burst into hearty laughter.
"…"
Mayne stood silently to the side, listening to the two Celestial Dragons barter over slaves as if they were mere commodities. She was long accustomed to such dealings, but today, an unfamiliar feeling stirred in the blonde CP0 agent's heart.
(Will that somewhat naive little girl eventually become like them? Cold, cruel, and utterly aloof?)
As a member of the World Government's intelligence agency, Mayne was no saint herself. But compared to some of her more ruthless colleagues, she considered herself among the most principled.
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the arena, followed by a thunderous thud—the sound of something massive collapsing to the ground.
The impact shook the earth, the tremors reaching even the distant VIP box.
"That giant lost? Tch, what a useless oaf," Saint Rosward scoffed with disdain.
"That man was once a renowned dual-wielding swordsman," Saint Bartholomew said calmly, nodding. "The giant was no match for him. Though, I must say, the blood loss is quite fitting for a giant's size."
Mayne glanced toward the arena's center. The giant lay sprawled on the ground, a massive chunk of flesh carved from the back of his neck. Hot blood gushed from the wound like a small fountain, quickly staining the ground a vivid crimson.
The dual-wielding swordsman showed no trace of a victor's pride. He knelt beside the giant's corpse, motionless as a statue, letting the blood rain down and dye his body red. His expression was blank, numb.
(Perhaps he'd rather it was him who died…)
Mayne let out a quiet sigh.