Chapter 394 - 170: Slaughter_2
Then, after everything is over, he would take that enormous wealth of his to Brazil or some more habitable place, buy a large tract of land, and then purchase dozens of jet-black slaves, said to be stronger than mules and horses, to comfortably become a plantation owner and enjoy life.
At present, these beautiful visions are nearly shattered.
Werner originally thought he was on the brink of despair. Upon seeing the two dressed natives, his thoughts changed—
He used to think that the "ghost" was a cold-blooded killer with a sharp mind, a strong physique, and mastery of some optimization technique for matchlock guns, living in solitude on a mysterious island.
Now he discovered the killer's companions. Seeing them so frail and laughable, he equated the elusive Chen Zhou with the natives.
No wonder.
After all, Chen Zhou never showed up in person. The improved rifle in his hands merely displayed its range and accuracy advantages.
Before he truly began quick reloading, Werner, who had only ever seen various matchlock guns, couldn't have imagined that there could be a gun that shot so accurately, far, and fast.
However, even though Werner now looked down on this "ghost" who mingled with the natives, he knew he had no guns or cannons. He could not compete with that ghost, so he temporarily held back, preparing to wait until after the next shot to command the natives to push the canoe and escape to the sea.
...
This wait was nowhere near as long as the last.
After only two or three minutes, gunfire rang out from the direction of Rock Beach.
Seeing the "leading bird" get its head blasted to pieces with one shot, Werner's diminished awe surged back to his brain.
No matter how foolish, he could see the formidable performance of this new type of firearm.
Knowing full well that he could only seize the moment of bullet reloading to forcefully unite the natives to push the boats into the sea for a chance at survival, he hurriedly got up. Limping, he "sprinted," while drawing the exquisite long saber from his waist with the hand not holding a wooden stick.
...
"You bunch of stupid pigs, get up quickly, run!
If you don't leave now, it'll be too late.
If you don't leave, we'll all die here!"
Emotionally agitated, Werner almost screamed out these words.
Unfortunately, because he looked down on the natives, and despite having been in contact with them for nearly a hundred days, he hadn't learned a single word of their language, relying on yelling and hitting for communication.
Shouting out this crazed phrase not only failed to arouse the terrified natives but instead drew Sunday's attention.
...
The boy was already nearly 1.75 meters tall, half a head taller than the natives of his time, and even when standing far away from Werner, he appeared slightly taller.
Due to performing heavy physical labor, combined with being in a growth period and having strong nutrient absorption, there was not much flesh on his cheeks, leaving only a prominent nose bridge and slightly narrow, eagle-like eyes.
Coldly watching the brown-haired man shouting and yelling, seeing him holding a wooden stick, visibly injured, Sunday silently patted Monday's shoulder, signaling him to stay calm.
Then, he dropped the rope in his hand, lightly gripped the shiny iron blade, and twirled it in a flourish.
Instead of retreating, he stepped forward, positioning himself directly in front of all the natives, almost next to the other two "troublemakers" who had collapsed on the ground.
His attention was half on the brown-haired man and half on the prone natives.
Sunday's gaze grew colder.
He was waiting, waiting for a second person brave enough to resist to appear—
Not having decisively killed the first resister, instead, having the "Celestial God" intervene, in his eyes, this was a disgrace.
Tribal warriors would never forget the bloodshed in conflict, nor the lives they have taken.
Under the watchful eyes of the "God," he could be meek as a lamb.
But if someone dared to affront the "God's" authority, the knife in his hand would show no mercy.
This time, Sunday anticipated a superior performance.
...
"Are you all deaf?
Look who I am!
Who led you to the island? Who led you to victory? Who replaced your broken wooden knives?
If you don't want to die, get up quickly to push your boats!"
As time ticked by, Werner, knowing the longer it dragged on the more likely he was to die, saw that the natives remained unresponsive, and he was furious.
He only regretted not bringing a whip with him, otherwise, he would have lashed at these "Wild Monkeys" to show them the penalty for disobedience.
...
Werner, who returned and had long been feared among the many indigenous people.
Usually, he would either beat or scold this group, and the irony is that the indigenous people responded well to such treatment.
They worshiped violence and strength; while some felt resentment after being beaten, others developed admiration for Werner, hoping to submit under his rule.
The gunshots and the deaths of the indigenous people frightened many, but Werner's fearless demeanor and the Spanish raiders' long-standing, god-like performance inspired courage in some.
Just like how Saturday and Sunday relied on Chen Zhou, drawing confidence from him.
When some indigenous people saw Werner, their broken spirit instantly mended, and they regained the strength to resist.
...
Soon, an indigenous man who also wielded a knife freed himself from the fallen state, gave a contemptuous glance at his peers, and decisively stood up.
The indigenous man rose quickly, but Sunday moved even faster—
Like a leopard poised to strike, he darted forward, grabbing the indigenous man's tangled and filthy hair.
Despite Sunday's young age, his time on the island had made him stronger than other malnourished indigenous people.
His grip was both precise and forceful, immediately lowering the man's head.
Before the indigenous man could struggle to his feet, Sunday stomped heavily onto his bare shoulder, flipping him over onto the ground.
The knife he failed to grasp tightly fell onto the sandy ground along with his overturned body.
Agitated by the pain, the indigenous man's eyes flashed with savagery; he was about to clamber up for a desperate fight against Sunday when he took another kick.
This blow was even stronger than the previous, landing directly on the man's chest and pressing him down, making it hard for him to resist further.
Then, Sunday thrust his blade downward, tearing open the indigenous man's dark throat.
...
For Sunday, killing a person was no harder than killing a fish or slaughtering a sheep.
Having been away from the battlefield for so long, he even somewhat missed the thrill of life and death hanging in the balance, along with the long-lost scent of fresh blood.
With his artery severed, the indigenous man's neck erupted with blood like a fountain.
His desire to live outweighed everything, and he mustered all his strength to struggle, trying to free himself from Sunday's foot and distance himself from the knife.
Yet as his blood continued to flow, it also drained away his strength and life.
After one final bout of frantic resistance, his arms supporting his body grew weak, leaving only vague groans from his throat and the trickle of bloody foam at the corner of his mouth.
...
In just a few seconds, this indigenous man who initially responded to Werner became a ghost under Sunday's knife.
Looking at the bloodstains spreading and dyeing the sand red, Sunday frowned slightly—the clothes stained by blood were hard to clean.
He silently shifted his foot off the indigenous man, turned his head, and stared at Werner who was leaning on a stick with a taunting and provocative gaze.
"Why aren't you shouting?"
He spoke in perfectly enunciated Chinese, flicking the blood off his blade and casually wiping it on another indigenous man's back, facing Werner, as if speaking to him.
...
For the first time, Werner heard this language, distinctly different from the indigenous tongue.
But what shocked him even more was Sunday's gaze.
He had witnessed the brutal and bloody hunts between indigenous tribes and even saw savage cannibalistic sacrifices.
Barbaric, fierce, ignorant, cruel, hungry...
Such characteristics, symbolic of backwardness and lowliness, were common among the members of these isolated island tribes.
But on Sunday's face, apart from decisiveness and ferocity, there was another expression Werner couldn't comprehend—
Arrogance.
It was a gaze of equality, even condescension, showing no fear of him.
This person looked at Werner just as Werner looked at other indigenous people, full of a superior sense of pride.
Werner didn't know what had given this clothed indigenous man the confidence to be arrogant.
The hand gripping his knife tightened further, revealing whitened knuckles.
Yet, he quietly took a step back—
This inherently unruly person, who regarded indigenous people as inferior and was a born robber, had to acknowledge.
Facing this yet-to-grow-up, vicious and clothed indigenous man, he was afraid.