The first blow landed on flesh—an arm sliced open, blood spilling onto the ground in thick, red rivulets. The crowd erupted in cheers, as though they had waited their whole lives to see that first drop of blood.
But there was no pause.
The second man retaliated with a slash of his own, his blade biting deep into his opponent's thigh. The man stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from his throat as he fell to one knee. Blood poured freely now, staining the dust beneath them. The crowd roared louder, chanting for death.
They wanted more.
The wounded man, struggling to rise, was given no mercy. His opponent moved in for the kill, driving his blade through the air in a final, vicious strike aimed at his throat.
And then, with a swift, brutal motion, it was over.
The blade found its mark. The defeated gladiator fell to the ground, the life leaving his body in an instant, his blood pooling in the dust beneath him.
The arena erupted in thunderous applause, the crowd roaring in approval, their bloodlust momentarily sated. The victor, still gripping his bloodied blade, raised it high in the air, saluting the emperor once more.
He, too, knew that this victory was fleeting—that his time would come, perhaps sooner than he expected. But for now, he stood as a survivor, even if only for a little while longer.
Aric watched the from his seat, his expression unreadable.
The excitement only rose as the next round of gladiators was brought forth. But this time, the fighters were not ordinary men—they were cultivators. Their presence sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd, who murmured in anticipation of the more skilled combat that was about to begin.
Aric sat in silence, his sharp, gray eyes watching every movement from his seat in the imperial box. His brothers, however, had begun to exchange words, their voices carrying just enough for him to hear.
"I've never liked this bloodsport," Darius, the third prince, muttered, his expression clouded with discomfort as he glanced at the arena below. He was always the princely one, ever the image of diplomacy and kindness—it was but a charade, although a perfectly executed one.
"It's senseless, this display of slaughter. If I had my way, we would see proper battles—between trained warriors, not men tossed into the arena for the entertainment of the masses."
Valen, the first prince, chuckled darkly beside him, a smirk curling on his lips.
"Oh? Then why not send your own guard down, Darius? Surely you'd find it more to your taste to see your men in action?"
Darius smiled, but there was an edge to it, as though the first prince's teasing hadn't quite hit the mark he intended.
"Very well," Darius said, voice clipped. He turned to Zarot, the hulking warrior at his side, and his lips twisted into a cold smile. "Leave him half dead," he whispered, loud enough for only his guard to hear.
The two guards descended into the colosseum, stepping onto the sandy arena floor to the cheers of the crowd. The master of the games, informed on the duel, raised his arms to silence the onlookers.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he called out. "A special battle between the guards of the royal princes! Representing the third prince, Zarot the Unbreakable! And representing the fourth prince, Alan of the House Arkhan!"
The crowd roared in approval, eager to see a clash between royalty's finest.
Zarot stepped forward, his massive frame a shadow over the smaller, leaner Alan. His sword, an enormous blade that seemed impossible for any normal man to wield, rested easily in his hand.
He swung it through the air, testing its weight as if it were no heavier than a twig. His movements were deceptively graceful, belying the sheer power he carried.
Alan, for his part, stood calm, his armor gleaming under the sun. He held no visible weapon, but his stance was firm, his posture unshaken. He glanced up at Zarot, his eyes devoid of fear.
The master of the games raised his hand once more.
"Let the battle... BEGIN!"
Zarot moved first, a blur of motion that seemed impossible for a man his size. He closed the distance between them in an instant, his enormous sword cleaving through the air with terrifying speed. The blade came down with such force that the very ground beneath them seemed to shake. Dust and sand exploded into the air, obscuring their forms.
For a moment, the crowd gasped, their breath held as they waited for the dust to settle, expecting to see Alan's lifeless body cut in two. Darius leaned forward, a satisfied smile already playing on his lips.
But as the dust cleared, what the audience saw instead made their eyes widen in disbelief.
Alan stood, unharmed, his hand gripped tightly at the edge of Zarot's massive blade, holding it still as though it were nothing more than the steel it was. The blade trembled in his grip, but he did not flinch. His eyes, sharp and cold, locked onto Zarot's.
The colosseum fell in stunned silence.
"He had barely said 'go,'" Alan said, his voice steady, almost casual. "Aren't you a bit too eager to die?"
A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd, and the smile on Darius's face faded into a frown.
Above them, in the royal box, Aric's expression could still not be read.