As the chains came off, no one moved. They just stood there, backs pressed against the cold stone, their wrists still raw from the iron’s bite.The bloodied man gestured with his gladius, as if his patience was nonexistant. “Move. Line up.”

  His voice boomed through the chamber, sharp and commanding. The prisoners flinched at the sound but obeyed. One took a shaky step forward, then another.

  Ampelius followed, his restraints falling away. He moved without thought, stepping forward as the others fell into line. But as he entered the arena, the sudden brightness stung his eyes. He blinked, adjusting, taking in the vast, open space. Above, in the bleachers of what could have once been an indoor football stadium, guards stood watching from the catwalks. They were silent sentinels, their faces unreadable, weapons hidden in the shadows. Some even looked like spectators, watching from above, but that didn't matter.

  No one spoke as they stepped forward, claiming their weapons and falling into line.

  For minutes, they stood there, nervous, shaking, drowning in silence. No one dared look at each other too long. No one dared hope. They knew the truth. There was no way out of this.

  The Roman Empire had deemed them tools. They're nothing more than weapons to be sharpened and discarded. Ampelius' vision blurred as his mind slipped, untethered from the moment. He wasn't in the arena anymore, but a figure approached, a human shape, blurred at first, then sharpening.

  Bella.

  She walked toward him, smiling, untouched by war. Her clothes were fresh, pristine as if nothing had happened since the night of the attack, as if none of it was real and she was an angel to take him away.

  He was crouching. and he didn't remember lowering himself, didn't even know when his body had moved. Bella leaned down next to him , whispering, her voice just out of reach. He couldn't hear her as the arena flickered around him, like a distant dream, but his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. Then, her voice cut through the fog.

  "Those fools don't know what they’ve unleashed. Act first, then strike when the time is right," she said, vanishing in the blink of an eye

  Reality snapped back like a blade striking stone. Ampelius was no longer crouched, he was standing over a bloodied body. A body with a gaping wound. A body still twitching. A body whose weapon, slick with blood, now clenched in his own hand.

  He never heard the whistle, but the fight had already begun. Prisoners tore into each other, screaming, thrashing, pleading. The sand darkened with blood, torches casting jagged, flickering shadows across the arena.

  He had no memory of striking the man beneath him. But the anger remained, coiling inside him, twisting into something primal.

  Suddenly, a second prisoner locked eyes with him. He was nervous, but determined. He stepped forward, weapon raised, intent burning behind his gaze. Ampelius’ grip tightened.The fight wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

  The slaughter dragged on. Blades flashed, screams echoing through the arena, only to be cut short by the wet crunch of steel on flesh. Some fought like cornered animals, lashing out in desperation. Others moved with cold efficiency, striking before they could be struck. But those who hesitated were gutted without a second thought.

  Blood pooled in the sand, thick and reeking, turning the ground into a slick, putrid sludge, which was a far cry from the beaches his grandparents had once defended against when the Romans invaded. There was no glory here. No cause. No victory.

  Only survival. And even that was temporary.

  "You."

  The voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. Ampelius stood triumphant amidst the carnage, the last one standing. His breath was heavy, his body slick with sweat and blood, some of it his own, most of it not. He glanced around at the broken bodies, his grip tightening on the bloodied weapon.

  Then, as if realizing for the first time what he had done, he let it slip from his fingers. The blade hit the sand with a dull thud.

  The gladiator who had sent them in stood watching him, but not like the others. His stare was calculating, measured, not just seeing Ampelius, but assessing him.

  "You, champion," the man repeated. "Get over here. I won’t ask again."

  Ampelius felt something stir inside him, a shift deep in his mind. His thoughts latched onto the gladiator, like a thread pulling him toward something inevitable.

  Then, the voice returned. Listen. Follow instructions.

  Ampelius stepped forward, expecting the debriefing he had been promised. The gladiator took a slight step back, his gaze sweeping over him with a mix of curiosity and scrutiny before speaking.

  "I’ve never seen anyone fight like that before. You’re… different." His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it, something cautious. "My superiors are impressed. They want to see you face our top champion."

  The gladiator paused, as if weighing his words. "They’re willing to take the risk. Drop your weapon and follow me."

  Ampelius dropped his weapon and followed the gladiator through a doorway that led into a dimly lit catacomb. They moved through the winding passages, guided by markers and signs, passing several closed doors.

  Eventually, they emerged into a new arena, an area that was pristine, untouched by the blood and bodies of the previous battleground. Immediately as his eyes adjusted to the brighter lit area, he noticed them. Dozens of elite Roman soldiers and officers stood watching from the sidelines, their expressions unreadable.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Standing in the middle was a bigger invidiual, a man with scars all over, an experienced killer. The gladiator stops him right here, providing instructions for what comes next.

  "That’s Glaz. At least, that’s the nickname he was given. No one knows his real name as he never speaks." The gladiator’s voice was steady, a matter-of-fact. "All we know is he was arrested at a bar fight. It took over ten officers to bring him down, and one of them got thrown through a window. That officer, who was thrown through the window, was actually the one to give him that nickname, that’s how he earned it. However, when he got to jail, he didn’t stop fighting. He killed one inmate and crippled another for life. He got put into his own cell after that."

  He gestured toward the towering man. "The right people heard about him and decided he’d be useful in the arena. Didn’t matter that his crimes already earned him a death sentence, this just makes it more entertaining and allows us to lower the prison population."

  Ampelius glanced over. Glaz huffed, muscles tensing as he sized him up. The champion was a giant of a man, his presence alone heavy enough to fill the room. Their eyes locked. Glaz was ready.

  "He’s seven-foot-four, weighs more than both of us combined, and knows how to fight." The gladiator motioned toward the weapons. "Like before, you’ll pick up your weapon across from him and wait for the whistle."

  The gladiator paused. "You get one free question."

  Ampelius didn’t hesitate. "Is he single?"

  The gladiator blinked, visibly thrown off. For a moment, the room was silent, then a few of the watching soldiers chuckled under their breath.

  With a sigh, the gladiator replied, "I’d say yes, considering he kills everyone he meets."

  The gladiator exhaled sharply, unimpressed, and walked off.

  Ampelius retrieved his weapon, which was just a small dagger. His opponent held one as well, though it was larger, more like a hunting knife. By comparison, Ampelius’ blade felt weightless, insignificant. He had the sudden urge to drop it and fight with his hands, but he resisted.

  Glaz stood across from him, a bull ready to charge, but disciplined enough to wait for the whistle.Then, Ampelius felt it. Something was off. His senses began to sharpen, his movements already adjusting as if he had done this before. He could almost see the fight unfolding before it even began. His body felt too fluid, too precise, too controlled. It was as if a switch had flipped in his mind. And for the first time, he felt like he had complete control.

  Glaz wasted no time. The moment the whistle blew, he launched forward very fast, brutal, and efficient. His arm swung like a hammer, a crushing blow aimed to end the fight in a single hit. Ampelius saw it before it even happened. His own body moved on its own, like a whisper of motion, effortless and precise. The strike passed through empty air as he flowed around it, as if he had already lived this moment before.

  He didn’t counter. Not yet. He let Glaz's own momentum do the work. The champion lurched forward, off balance, unable to stop himself. That’s when Ampelius struck.

  His dagger flashed in a perfect, fluid motion, slicing into Glaz’s shoulder before the brute even registered the pain. It was so fast, so surgical, that Glaz stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. He recovered with a growl and retaliated, swinging wildly. But Ampelius was already two steps ahead.

  He redirected Glaz’s force again, hooking his leg behind his opponent’s knee and sweeping it out from under him. The champion crashed to the sand, his breathing heavy, his movements slower now.

  Ampelius tilted his head. He could end it here. But that would be too easy.

  Instead, he wanted to toy with him.

  The moment Glaz pushed himself up, Ampelius would deliver a sharp, calculated kick to the back of his knee. There was a sickening pop as something inside gave way, and the champion collapsed again, gasping in agony.

  Ampelius watched, his expression unreadable. He had felt it, that weakness in Glaz’s knee. He could tell from the way he moved, that the slight hesitation as his leg braced heavier than the other. It was an old injury and all it needed was the right amount of force.

  Glaz attempted to rise again, but Ampelius lunged, using his dagger to end the fight. But even in his pain, Glaz refused to go down easily. He twisted at the last second, swinging his arm like a club. The impact barely clipped Ampelius, but his second hand appeared, a flash of metal. The hunting knife.

  Glaz threw himself forward, using what little strength he had left to drive the blade at Ampelius’ eye. It was a reckless, but it was a desperate move. And that was exactly what Ampelius wanted.

  He sidestepped the attack with casual ease, almost bored, letting Glaz’s body carry itself too far forward. The champion had nothing left, his arms were weak, his body failing. His knee was completely ruined and unable to hold his weight.

  Glaz collapsed forward, his knife slipping from his grasp as his breath came in ragged gasps. He had lost. And for the first time in the arena, he knew it. But before Ampelius could land the final blow, a sharp whistle cut through the air.

  "STOP. That’s enough."

  A loud voice echoed through the arena, halting the fight in an instant, sparing the defeated champion. For a moment, Ampelius just stood there, breathing heavy, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. The voice in his was silent now, but something within him has changed, and it wasn't going anywhere.