One by one, the guards inspected and forced prisoners into restraint harnesses. Ampelius stood in line as he studied their methods. Each check was methodical: search, strip, secure, until nothing remained of the man except what they allowed. Then it was his turn.

  The harness locked around his body, restricting his movement entirely. His arms were pinned, his legs immobilized, leaving him as nothing more than cargo to be handled. The juggernauts tossed him forward without care, passing him to the next set of guards like a piece of freight.

  A figure in a blue uniform stepped forward, distinct from the others. The exoshekton framework reinforced his limbs, making him look almost mechanical, like he was part man and part machine. Without a word, he lifted Ampelius with ease and carried him toward the entrance of the next section, which took him outside briefly.

  As they hauled him through, Ampelius had a look at Mount Trajan, which loomed overhead. He noticed the faint plume of ash spiraling upward, though barely visible to the naked eye. It was being carried away like a whisper on the wind, a breath from the earth itself. The sight held him captive, if only for a moment. Then the Asventi stirred in his mind.

  "The Zavon are weak."

  The voice was colder now, like it was edged with something that hadn’t been there before.

  "They failed their mission. You will not. Rome still stands—stronger than ever."

  Ampelius’ lips twitched, though they were dry and cracked. His body was restrained, but his thoughts were still his own. Or so he believed.

  "The mission is not over. You'll soon see."

  The words settled over him like a shroud, pressing into the corners of his mind, creeping into the cracks. The Zavon were gone, defeated, but how? Rome shouldn’t have survived. He had seen the destruction firsthand. Had they given up? His breathing slowed, deep and steady. There was no answer. Only the certainty that he wasn’t finished.

  Then the guards dragged him forward, deeper into the compound’s underground depths, and Mount Trajan faded into the dark. After what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes, Ampelius arrived at Block B. According to the rusted metal sign above het massive archway, its faded letters barely legible. The entrance swallowed the dim light from the torches lining the corridor. Then he realized this wasn’t an ordinary prison.

  The ground trembled beneath his boots, not from explosions or machinery, but from the roar of an unseen crowd. A deep, rhythmic pounding filled the space, like a war drum, a heartbeat of violence.

  The air carried the scent of sweat and blood, an unmistakable cocktail of combat.

  He had heard rumors before, whispers from his cousin about a brutal underground tournament disguised as a "rehabilitation program" for the most dangerous prisoners. Something he could never confirm. Until now. Rome did not waste bodies.

  Even now, they would find use for the condemned, forcing them into the ancient art of gladiatorial combat. But why? Was this meant as entertainment for the guards? Training for Roman soldiers? Or something worse, a spectacle hidden from public knowledge, a place where men fought and died without an audience beyond these walls? Ampelius swept the arena floor with his eyes.

  Several prisoners, stripped to the waist, clashed with steel swords and heavy shields. There was no ceremony, no flourish just survival. One man, bloodied but standing, drove a gladius into his opponent’s thigh, forcing him to his knees. Another was already down, motionless, the dust beneath him dark with blood. This was no ancient reenactment. Rome had abolished gladiator games centuries ago. And yet, here they were, still playing their old games, hidden in the depths of the modern Empire.

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  The guards shifted right, following a path down a narrow stairwell. The air grew stale, damp, thick with the scent of sweat and something else, something metallic. The flickering glow of torches barely reached the bottom, casting long, jagged shadows across the stone walls.

  At the base of the stairs, several prisoners, the same ones from earlier, were ripped from their harnesses and tied to the wall, their bodies left exposed to the cold air. The only light came from the open corridor leading to the arena, where the orange glow of floodlights and torches spilled in, illuminating the scene in a flickering half-light.

  Ampelius was dragged forward, his back slamming against the cold, unyielding stone as the guards fastened shackles around his wrists and ankles. The metal dug into his skin, tighter than necessary, ensuring there was no hope of escape.The fear was obvious.

  Some prisoners pleaded with the guards, their voices cracking, desperation pouring from their lips. Others muttered prayers, eyes squeezed shut, trying to shut out reality. One man lashed out, his rage bubbling over, only for a guard to drive a boot into his gut, folding him in half as he gasped for air.Then the guards left, marching back up the stairway. With a final clang of metal, they slammed the gate shut, sealing them in. Silence. Then came the sound of footsteps.

  Someone entered from the arena, a lone figure, tall and broad, his face carved from war and hardship. A jagged scar ran from his brow to his jawline, splitting across his ruined lips. His entire body was drenched in blood, fresh and still glistening, soaking into the tattered fabric clinging to his skin. In his grip, a gladius, its steel slick with gore. Chunks of flesh clung to the blade, viscera dripping onto the stone floor with sickening wet plops. The room fell deathly quiet.

  The man paced in front of them, slow and deliberate, dragging the tip of his blade across the stone, letting it screech like a dying animal. He stopped at each prisoner, pointing the sword at their throats, studying their reactions and measuring their worth.Then one prisoner broke. A man in the far corner panicked, his chains rattling as he thrashed against the wall. "Please," he gasped. "I'll do anything! Let me go! Please!"

  The bloodied man barely spared him a glance.

  "Silence."

  But the prisoner kept begging, his voice growing higher, more frantic. Without hesitation, the blade lashed out, a quick, precise strike, plunging deep into the prisoner's throat, severing flesh and silencing his words in a choked gurgle as his eyes widened in shock. Blood gushed from the wound, pouring down his chest in thick rivulets as his body spasmed.Then, he went limp, his head slumping forward, mouth still open in a final, unfinished plea.

  The room stood deathly still. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, a shaky exhale. Barely a whisper. The bloodied man lifted his blade, its slick, crimson edge catching the dim torchlight. Slowly, deliberately, he pointed it at each prisoner, his gaze heavy, weighning them like butchered meat.

  Then he spoke.

  "Welcome to Day One of the rest of your life."

  His voice was cold. Measured. Absolute.

  "From this moment forward, you are no longer men. You are tools. Tools to be tested, sharpened, used, and discarded. But Rome only keeps the finest blades. And today, they only need one."

  His gaze swept over the prisoners, lingering just long enough to measure their fear, their resolve.

  "I've been given a choice, I can either pick one of you myself or let you fight for it." He smirks, blood still dripping from the edge of his gladius. "I’d rather let the lot of you have a fair shot."

  He steps forward, tapping his blade idly against his palm.

  "Here’s how it works. I will release you, one by one. You will run into the arena and pick up a sword. Then, you will wait. When the whistle blows, you fight. And you fight until only one of you remains."

  He lets the words sink in, watching as realization tightens around their throats like an invisible noose.

  "Try to attack me as I unchain you, and I will cut you down where you stand. Strike before the whistle, and you will be put down by the best sniper Rome has ever trained. Step out, find a weapon, and stand by it. Wait for the signal."

  He gestures toward the shadows beyond the gate, a silent reminder that even here, even in the pit, Rome is watching.

  "Survive, and you will return here for debriefing. Then I will tell you everything you need to know. If you die, well… then you were never worth knowing."

  His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. "Good luck."