SPARTAN WARLORD SYSTEM: CONQUERING EMPIRES AND BEAUTIES

Chapter 9: The Roaring Lion and the Kneeling Flower

CREAAAK. SLAM!

The cracked wooden door scraped shut and was secured with a rotting timber bar. Darkness swallowed the rickety hut, leaving only slivers of silver moonlight filtering through gaps in the stone walls and thatched roof. The night wind swept through the Eurotas Valley, carrying a bitter chill that seemed to seep straight into the bones.

Jackson released the end of the hemp rope, letting it drop onto the muddy clay floor. His breathing came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as pain gnawed at his completely empty stomach. The five-kilometer walk back from the city council hall, dragging three prisoners along with him, had drained the last reserves of his malnourished new body.

In the corner, the three women sat on a pile of damp straw, their hands still bound tightly in front of them.

PTOO!

A bloody glob of spit landed barely two inches from Jackson's feet.

Freya lifted her head, her expression feral. Her tangled copper-red hair hung across her forehead, revealing a pair of sharp green eyes that burned like those of a starving wolf caught in a blizzard. The muscles in her lean arms and defined abdomen tightened beneath her ragged hemp clothing.

"Don't look at me like you're my master, you scrawny brat!" Freya's voice was hoarse and low, trembling with deep-seated hatred. "You think changing your name on some council parchment gives you the right to touch Freya the Butcher? Lay a hand on me, and I swear by Hades, lord of the underworld, I'll kill you in two breaths!"

Jackson didn't flinch. His steel-gray eyes met hers with the calm of a seasoned mercenary who had survived hundreds of life-or-death encounters and heard more empty threats than he could count from cornered prisoners.

"Save your curses, lioness," Jackson replied flatly, not a trace of fear in his voice. "You can't break anyone's neck when you haven't eaten in three days."

Beside Freya, Casandra sat with her back straight against a stone pillar. Her thin silk clothing was smeared with dirt and torn in places, yet the Athenian woman still carried herself with aristocratic grace. A cold, mocking smile played across her lips as her eyes examined Jackson from head to toe with surgical precision.

"The man has a point, Freya. Don't waste your breath," Casandra said smoothly, her voice as sweet as honey laced with arsenic. She tilted her head slightly and looked directly at Jackson. "But you've made a fatal mistake, Spartan boy. You think bringing us home means you've acquired three slaves to satisfy your lust? In Athens, men like you are nothing more than pawns sent to the front lines to draw enemy arrows. I know the laws of this cursed city. You have seven days before the tax collectors drag you to the cliffs of Taygetus. And until then, whatever schemes you have for getting your hands on us will fail."

She spoke without raising her voice, yet every word carried a calculated threat. Both Casandra and Freya understood their situation perfectly. They weren't trying to escape the hut that night, not because they had submitted to Jackson or feared him, but because they knew Sparta's laws all too well. Any female slave or war captive caught wandering outside the settlement without her master's written permission would be hunted like an animal by the night patrols of the Krypteia.

No matter how much they hated Jackson, staying behind these stone walls was the only logical way to survive until morning.

Yet amid Freya's blazing threats and Casandra's cold venom, a muffled sob suddenly broke the silence.

THUD.

Shirin lowered her forehead to the dirty clay floor beside Jackson's feet. Her small frame trembled violently, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The torn back of her Persian tunic exposed a series of horrifying old whip scars. She pressed herself against the damp straw, her face hidden as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"M-My lord... thank you for choosing me," Shirin choked out, her voice breaking as tears fell onto the dusty floor beneath her forehead. "The gods heard my prayers. They sent you to me..."

Jackson frowned slightly, watching the Persian girl's trembling back.

"Get up. I didn't tell you to kiss the ground."

"No, my lord... please, let me kneel." Shirin slowly raised her head. Tears streamed down her round cheeks, and her large eyes were clouded with overwhelming gratitude. "If you hadn't chosen me in the assembly hall today, I would've been dragged to the Eurotas border barracks by now. I know what happens to Helot women there. They force them to serve dozens of soldiers, day and night, until their bodies give out. Then they throw what's left of them into the river."

The twenty-year-old girl crawled a little closer and pressed her cracked lips against the hem of Jackson's coarse hemp tunic.

"You saved my honor, my lord. You saved me from that hell," Shirin whispered with absolute submission. "Even if all you ever gave me was cold water, even if you beat me every night, I'd still gladly die serving you, Lord Jackson."

Freya snorted in disgust.

"Pathetic Persian slave! You're humiliating yourself before a weakling who can't even defend himself!"

Shirin didn't answer. She simply bowed her head lower, tears dripping onto her bound fingers.

Jackson silently studied all three women. Nathan Cross's analytical mind cataloged every detail and sorted the information he had gathered in this new life. Freya was a wild weapon that needed to be subdued through overwhelming strength. Casandra was a dangerous chess piece who could only be controlled through superior intelligence. Shirin, meanwhile, was an emotional anchor, a fragile heart that needed protection if she was ever to blossom into an unwavering pillar of loyalty.

Jackson wasn't tempted to react to Freya's insults or Casandra's threats. On the modern battlefield, he'd seen four-star generals break down in terror and the most ruthless mercenaries beg for mercy when their ammunition ran dry. Words were nothing but wind. In the real world, power belonged to whoever controlled the most basic needs that kept people alive.

Jackson took two steps back and leaned against a crooked wooden post. His body was nearing its biological limits. Cold sweat gathered on his forehead, and his vision occasionally blurred from acute hypoglycemia.

At that very moment, a sound shattered the tense silence.

Grrrrrr... Grrrrrr...

The rumbling of hungry stomachs echoed through the hut. Jackson wasn't the only one starving. Freya's hard-earned abs, Casandra's slender waist, and Shirin's petite frame all betrayed the same desperate hunger.

The burning ache of an empty stomach tore through their masks of pride in an instant.

Freya clenched her jaw, her face flushing with embarrassment. Casandra turned toward the stone wall, trying to hide the slight tremble of her lips.

Then, two meters above Jackson's head, crimson particles of light burst into existence and formed the translucent figure of Ares. The god floated upside down, casually holding a wine cup.

A shrill, mocking laugh exploded inside Jackson's head.

[BWAAHAHAHA! Gods, I'd pay good money to die laughing right now, if I weren't a god already!]

Ares clutched his armored stomach, pointing at Jackson and the three women with exaggerated contempt.

[So, how does it feel to have three vicious wives when you're starving like a stray dog in the marketplace, Jackson? One wants to snap your neck, another wants to poison you, and the last one is bowing like she's met a prophet. But all four of your stomachs are singing the same damn hunger anthem! What are you having for dinner, rocks? Or are you finally ready to get on your knees and listen to advice from the most handsome and generous god in the entire universe?]