Transmigrated into a Redemption Novel as a Disciplinary Bug - Chapter 12

“Welcome to the Sweet Home Arena. We wish you a pleasant day.”

“This way, please. Kindly present your admission ticket.”

Both the ticket inspector and security personnel at the arena entrance were dressed in black tailcoats, their muscular physiques perfectly concealed beneath the refined attire, exuding an air of gentlemanly elegance.

To the uninitiated, one might mistake it for some sophisticated venue for fine dining.

Externally, the arena bore a striking resemblance to the ancient Roman colosseums of Earth. The ivory-white, nest-shaped structure stood open to the sky, grand and dazzling. A landmark in the black market that clearly reflected the substantial investment Sweet Home had poured into it.

The most elegant decorations adorned the most brutal and bloody interior, perfectly embodying Sweet Home’s signature style.

The ticket inspector examined Carlos’s credentials and, recognizing him as an employee disciplinary officer, promptly waved him through, handing him a wristband before he entered.

“Here is your wristband. Please keep it safe. You can use it to check the competition schedule and information about the participating fighters. Of course, you may also use it to select your preferred contestants.”

Despite Carlos’s employee status, the inspector did not skip the introduction, instead offering a polite and well-trained explanation.

After collecting his ticket and various other items, Carlos made his way into the spectator stands of the arena. The number of spectators was staggering. So crowded that it felt like one could barely move without brushing shoulders with others.

“Sir, take a look! The most promising fighter of this season’s arena—the dazzling rising star, Mara Gao!”

“The bravest warrior, Babbit! Don’t miss out!”

“Bowie Qiang! Bowie Miao! Bet on him, and your wallet will overflow!”

Several individuals stood along the passageways distributing fighter posters, their shouts echoing loudly. As Carlos passed by, he was handed several flyers, eventually squeezing his way to his seat.

[Host, the competition lasts seven days, but the protagonist’s match isn’t today. Why are you here?]

This time, the system materialized into a physical form, hovering near Carlos’s shoulder like a small metallic baseball. It resembled the common companion robot pets among the insectoids and didn’t stand out too much.

“To know your enemy and yourself, you must always be prepared. If I were as carefree as you, how could I possibly complete the mission?”

Seeing the system’s round, rolling form, Carlos couldn’t resist flicking it, sending it spinning through the air.

[But… but the rules for disciplinary officers are quite detailed. Wouldn’t it be enough to just read those? Host, wouldn’t it be better to go back and rest to prepare for the protagonist’s appearance tomorrow?]

Was reading the rules really enough?

The arena’s competition rules and participant list had been sent to Carlos on the day he received the notification, accessible via his neural interface email.

Sweet Home’s arena rules were traditional, strikingly similar to what he had encountered in the past: two female insectoids engaged in a bloody brawl, advancing through rounds until only one remained standing—the victor.

The spectacle of blood and violence served to satisfy the audience’s desire for catharsis, while also providing entertainment for the high-ranking elites during their leisure time.

Yet, upon closer inspection, there were significant differences.

This arena was also held to suppress the insectoid abilities of the enslaved fighters.

When female insectoids suffered external injuries or trauma, they would activate their insectoid abilities, transforming parts of their bodies into their primal forms—sharp mandibles, hyper-vision compound eyes, and so on. These abilities were the source of their formidable combat strength and served as their best armor for self-defense.

When the female insect is exhausted from battle and reaches the limit of its insect transformation ability, injecting the specially formulated molting agent from Sweet Home at this moment can cause irreversible damage to the female insect’s transformation capability.

It’s like cutting off a kitten’s claws along with the flesh, making it forever docile and non-threatening.

The esteemed buyers of insect slaves desire toys and female slaves, not weapons of war that could harm them.

According to the system, the protagonist is about to be pushed to exhaustion in brutal combat, losing the ability to transform into an insect.

【So, Host, what are you here to see today?】

The system perched directly on Carlos’s shoulder, following his gaze, only to find nothing but ordinary contestant introductions—nothing noteworthy. Its tiny head was instantly filled with question marks.

“Of course, to uncover the hidden tricks.”

Previously, Carlos could only see sparse names on the contestant list. Now, at the competition venue, he could use his wristband to check the detailed information of each participant.

As soon as the wristband was activated, it projected a holographic screen into the air. Carlos propped his chin on his hand, scrolling and reading.

Take, for example, the two contestants about to enter the arena.

Right on cue, the arena’s broadcast system announced:

“Now, let’s welcome our two contestants into the arena!”

Carlos carefully examined the detailed introductions, and the more he read, the more something felt off.

[Contestant: Hansent

Codename: Mighty Killer

Gender: Female

Species: Golden Beetle—Hercules Beetle

Record: ?

Self-introduction: Orders fulfilled upon request. For business inquiries, please add my neural account: 278393478. Regular customers enjoy an 8.8% discount, holiday discounts at 9.9%.]

The other contestant’s introduction was even more bizarre.

[Contestant: Mara

Codename: None

Gender: Female

Species: Mantis

Record: Highest achievement—sixteen insect kills

Self-introduction: IKEA bodyguard, orders welcome. For purchase details, visit Sweet Home’s official account.

Sweet Home is better because of you.]

One was advertising their own business, while the other was blatantly promoting Sweet Home’s insect slave trade—far from a proper self-introduction.

The iron gates on both sides of the arena slowly opened. Amidst cheers and applause, the two contestants made their entrance.

Hansent, codenamed “Mighty Killer,” strode confidently, blowing kisses to the audience and whistling in response to the fans’ cheers, radiating sheer excitement.

True to his name, he lived up to the “Mighty” title—built like a bear, wearing a simple tank top with a number tag dangling precariously from his waist. Every exposed muscle was robust and full of explosive power, clearly marking him as a formidable fighter.

But on the other side, the entering contestant presented a stark contrast.

Mara was an insect slave.

He was dragged into the arena.

A uniformed warden insect held a chain, the other end tightly connected to the collar around Mara’s neck.

Only after exiting the entrance did the warden press a button, causing the chain to retract with a clatter.

“Move faster.”

The insect slave was kicked in the backside by the warden, stumbling into the arena.

Mara, the insect slave, wore only a solitary pair of trousers, his upper body bare. His back was covered in wounds and whip marks, old and new overlapping, too many to count.

Mara glanced up at the sky once before lowering his head.

That look was all too familiar to Carlos.

In the cage of Sweet Home, no matter what color a bug slave’s eyes were initially, they would eventually dim, turning into the murky stillness of stagnant water.

“The two contestants’ approach!”

At the very center of the arena, a miniature drone hovered, flitting up and down between the two fighters, serving as the referee’s temporary loudspeaker. The referee bug itself was positioned on the grandstand above the arena, far from the center of the action.

At the command.

“Begin!”

Carlos could very well understand why the referee bug didn’t dare to step in personally.

The moment the match started, the bodies of the two bugs underwent a sudden mutation.

In almost the blink of an eye, the miniature drone was shattered into fragments by the impact of their collision.

Hansen transformed into a rhinoceros beetle, his head emitting a sound that grated on the ears of bugs—a sharp, cracking noise—as a pair of massive horns burst through his scalp.

Using his head as a hammer, he charged forward, crashing directly into Mara.

The once-full muscles on Hansen’s arms instantly withered, supplying the newly grown spikes, turning his arms into black, pointed weapons.

But Mara on the opposite side showed no movement at all, merely circling the arena to evade the charge, his movements exceptionally agile.

By the standards of these two fighters, they were truly at the level of champions—one with astonishing strength, the other with extreme agility—far from ordinary contenders.

There were many types of bug slaves in Sweet Home: some were specifically sold for hard labor. Low-level bug slaves usually came and went quickly, sold off in ordinary transactions, let alone at auctions.

Of course, there were also those meticulously trained to please nobles and lords, equipped with overseers like Carlos.

Mara was clearly the former.

As for the carefully trained high-level bug slaves, given the substantial investment in them, why would they be thrown into the arena like expendable items?

There was more than one way to strip a bug slave of their transformation ability, but the method Zelan faced was the most unreasonable.

Carlos frowned, stroking his chin, lost in thought.

“Hey, friend, is this your first time at the arena?”

The bug sitting next to Carlos suddenly spoke up. It was a spectator bug holding a bucket of popcorn, here to watch the fight, with a head of fluffy, explosive yellow hair that looked remarkably similar to popcorn.

“Oh? Is it that obvious?”

Carlos perked up with interest.

“I noticed you were just looking at Mara’s profile. He’s well-known in the arena—every bug knows him. Only newcomers bother checking the details. By the way, he’s also my favorite fighter.”

“He seems quite capable, but I think Hansen on the other side isn’t bad either,” Carlos replied, following the conversation.

“Ah, Hansen is nowhere near as good as Mara. The bug slaves who participate in the arena are all strong. Some of the bug slaves trained by Sweet Home seem born for the arena. They kill without blinking, far more powerful than those random fighters outside.”

Specifically trained for the arena? Carlos caught the key point.

It was likely to promote those bug slaves trained for hard labor, or perhaps to manipulate bets when spectators placed wagers on the fighters.

That made Zelan’s presence here even more suspicious.

Carlos rearranged the match schedule into a tree diagram, listing each bug’s opponents one by one. Then, based on the information he had gathered, he calculated their combat power step by step.

Carlos’s expression darkened as he gazed once more at the arena.

The outcome was already decided.

Mara had been circling the rhinoceros beetle, Hanson, whose stamina was clearly running low.

“Whoosh—”

Before the insect could even react, Mara’s forearm transformed into a scythe-like blade, severing the rhinoceros beetle’s neck in an instant. Hanson’s head rolled across the ground like a ball.

A life extinguished in the blink of an eye.

“Mara wins! Let’s cheer for the victor of the first round in Group A!”

The referee shouted the winner’s name, and the entire colosseum erupted into a deafening frenzy of cheers and roars.

“Mara!”

“Mara!”

“Mara!”

At the same time, Carlos’s calculations yielded a result.

A battle of attrition.

A deliberate, calculated battle of attrition.

Zelan would eventually be worn down and die in the arena.

“System, have you ever considered that the protagonist in the book might also face death?”

Carlos asked the system.

In his ears, the endless roar of the crowd surged, the surrounding madness engulfing every insect.

[How could that be? Of course not.]

The system reflexively responded to Carlos.

[By the way, Host, for the sake of the plot, we need to send him up there too.]

“Of course, we must do that.”

Absolutely not.

As Carlos spoke, his inner thoughts rose.

Whether for the sake of righteousness or that laughable conscience of his.

Once again, Zelan’s silver-gray eyes surfaced in Carlos’s mind—resilient and determined, reminiscent of a gloomy, rainy day in the wet season, seemingly cold and dull.

But inexplicably, Carlos felt they were like the pale gray at the break of dawn, the color of hope, the color of new beginnings.

He didn’t want Zelan to suffer this.

He thought Zelan should fly free.

He thought Zelan deserved hope.

“Let’s go, System. It’s time to prepare.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, they never intended to let Zelan walk out of here alive.

Sweet Home didn’t want an insect slave.

What they wanted was Zelan’s life.

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