The day of the fourth round of the grand gladiator tournament finally dawned — a day long awaited by the roaring crowds of Rome. Today's spectacle promised something both familiar and thrilling: a duel to the death between two seasoned gladiators.

Such duels were, by all accounts, the very essence of Roman entertainment. There was something primal about them — the clash of steel, the cries of pain, the scent of sweat and blood merging under the scorching sun. It was a scene that stirred both horror and admiration in the hearts of the people. And today would be no different.

The Colosseum, carved from pale stone and stained by centuries of violence, was once again brimming with life. The noise of thousands of spectators rolled like thunder, echoing through the corridors. Dust rose with every stomp of sandals, and the anticipation was so thick one could almost taste it in the air.

High above, in the marble-carved balcony reserved for Rome's elite, Caesar had already taken his seat. Draped in his imperial robe of crimson and gold, he watched the preparations unfold below with his usual detached calm — though the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed a mind always calculating.

Two seats near him, however, remained conspicuously empty — the ones that belonged to Crassus and the Pope. Their absence had not gone unnoticed, and their vacant thrones stood as silent witnesses to the quiet unrest that brewed beneath Rome's gilded surface.

There were more absences still. Fulvius and Fulvia, too, were missing from their usual places of honor. Their disappearance was deliberate — upon Nathan's warning, they had gone into hiding. Caesar might have caught wind of Fulvius's subtle involvement in Nathan's intricate plot to bring down the Emperor through Johanna, and it was better to remain unseen than risk discovery. For now, discretion was their best weapon.

Among the spectators sat Julia, Caesar's daughter, looking uneasy. Her eyes darted across the stands, searching instinctively for familiar faces — Fulvia, Licinia, Servilia — but none were present. The emptiness unsettled her.

She shifted in her seat, glancing timidly toward her father. It had been so long — far too long — since she had spoken to him. And now, more than ever, he felt distant. There was something different in him: colder, sharper, as if the weight of power had hollowed him out from within. His very presence seemed to chill the air around him, and even the guards nearby stood stiffer than usual.

Julia lowered her gaze, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The atmosphere today was different. Heavy. Tense. Something unseen was pressing upon the crowd — even the cheers felt forced, thinner than before.

Her eyes flicked toward Johanna, seated gracefully beside Caesar, her lips curved into a composed smile that Julia couldn't quite decipher. Not far from her sat Octavius, silent and severe, his posture rigid as if carved from stone. He stared ahead with an expression that betrayed neither joy nor anger — only focus.

Julia exhaled softly. She just wanted, if only for a moment, to see Septimius again. Perhaps even speak to him — just a few words would be enough.

Her wish would soon be granted, though the circumstances weighed heavily upon her heart. The opening duel of this round — the grand spectacle — was to be fought between Septimius and Benjamin. Only one would walk out alive. The thought twisted her stomach into knots. She knew the rules of the arena — mercy was a luxury reserved for no one.

Suddenly, the roar of the crowd surged anew. Heads turned skyward as divine thrones shimmered into being, suspended above the arena like constellations descending to earth. The appearance of the gods always drew gasps and cries of reverence.

Yet something was wrong.

Where Athena's radiant throne should have been, there was only emptiness.

The people still cheered — for Pandora, for Dionysus, and for Hermes, who stood behind her — but whispers began to ripple through the stands. It was rare, almost unheard of, for Athena to be absent. She and Pandora were nearly inseparable, divine sisters in spirit if not in blood.

Even Caesar noticed. His brow furrowed slightly, though he did not speak. Still, a small, satisfied smirk ghosted across his lips.

Perhaps, he mused, she was busy dealing with Nathan — snuffing out that troublesome spark before it became a blaze.

The Roman adjudicator, clad in a scarlet-plumed helm and polished breastplate, strode into the center of the arena. His voice would soon carry across tens of thousands of spectators — the herald of blood and glory — yet even before he spoke, a strange unease hung in the air.

Traditionally, Caesar himself would stand before the crowd, raising his hand and delivering one of his rousing speeches — a display of power meant to ignite both loyalty and fear. His words were as much a part of the games as the clash of blades. But today, he remained silent. His posture was stiff, his expression hard, and his eyes fixed on the sands below with cold indifference.

He was not in the mood for theatrics.

Not anymore.

He merely wanted this day to end — to see the outcome, to bury it, and to move on. The spark of enjoyment that once accompanied these spectacles was gone from his gaze.

This time, Benjamin was to be the victor. It had already been decided. The script of the games had been rewritten: Benjamin would triumph, and in doing so, claim Pandora's hand — a gesture meant to stir admiration among the citizens and mask the Emperor's true intentions.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

The news of the first duel — Septimius versus Benjamin — had spread like wildfire through the streets of Rome. Posters, heralds, and gossiping tongues had carried the tale to every tavern and marketplace. Caesar himself had encouraged it. He wanted attention — wanted every Roman to witness this climactic battle, to feel the weight of empire in every sword stroke.

Yet what began as clever showmanship soon turned into a cruel irony.

No sooner had the news reached the people than Caesar learned of Septimius's betrayal — a revelation that cut through his pride like a dagger. He had no time to rewrite the narrative or rearrange the order of combat. The stage was already set, the crowd already summoned. And so, bound by his own ambition, Caesar could only watch the story unfold.

But he was not a man easily cornered.

He knew that openly denouncing Septimius would be foolish. The man's fame had grown beyond the arena — he had become a hero to the people, a symbol of courage. To label him a traitor now would only draw suspicion and divide public opinion. Some among the masses loved Septimius more than they revered Caesar himself — and that, to the Emperor, was intolerable.

So Caesar devised a quieter cruelty.

The duel, he decided, would proceed as planned. But Septimius would not appear. Benjamin would stand alone upon the sands, and the herald would declare him the victor by forfeit. To the people, it would seem as if their beloved champion had fled — a coward's act, unworthy of their praise.

In one stroke, Caesar would shatter Septimius's image without ever raising a sword.

All of this, of course, rested upon one assumption — that Nathan would not dare show himself again. Caesar was certain of it. After what had transpired, only a madman would step into the arena knowing the Emperor's wrath hung above him like an executioner's blade. And besides, Athena was surely watching. Even if she had not yet descended, her eyes were upon this place.

Caesar leaned back slightly, lips curling in a faint, grim smile. "Let it begin," he murmured to himself.

The adjudicator raised his hand, his voice booming across the amphitheater.

"The first duel of the fourth round will now begin! The first contender — Benjamin, one of Rome's mightiest gladiators!"

A roar erupted from the stands. The ground trembled under the force of the crowd's cheer. Dust swirled in the air like mist rising from the earth, glinting in the sunlight as the iron gates creaked open.

From the shadows, Benjamin emerged.

The sight of him silenced the crowd for a heartbeat — then awe and unease rippled through the masses.

He was massive, towering, his every step a heavy thud that made the sand shift beneath his weight. His armor, forged of blackened steel, covered him entirely — plates interlocking like the scales of some ancient beast. His helmet concealed his face, revealing only a narrow slit through which his eyes glimmered — cold, lifeless, and dark. There was no fire in them, no pride or passion, only an abyssal emptiness.

The sunlight caught on the curves of his armor, sending flashes of silver and shadow across his form. With each movement came a rattling symphony of iron, the sound echoing like the approach of death itself.

He did not raise his weapon. He did not look to the crowd. He simply walked, step by step, to the center of the arena — a soldier not of flesh and blood, but of purpose and silence.

The people cheered his name again, though their voices wavered with a trace of unease. They could not explain it, but something about this man — or what remained of him — felt different.

Something hollow.

Something wrong.

"And now!"

The Roman arbiter's voice thundered across the arena, echoing from the ancient stone walls.

"The one you've all been waiting for! Standing against Benjamin, the challenger, the hero, the people's favorite—!"

He didn't even have the chance to finish.

"SEPTIMIUS!"

"SEPTIMIUS!!"

"SEPTIMIUS!!!"

The crowd erupted before his words could conclude. Tens of thousands of voices merged into one colossal roar — a wave of devotion that shook the heavens. The sound was deafening. It rattled the very air, rising above the banners and echoing through every archway of the Colosseum.

Men pounded their chests, women waved their scarves, and children screamed his name with unrestrained joy. The name Septimius carried through the wind like a battle cry — fierce, proud, alive.

Even the arbiter took a half-step back, startled by the sheer intensity of it.

From the imperial balcony, Caesar sat motionless, his hands tightening upon the gilded arms of his throne. His expression betrayed nothing, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth spoke volumes. The sound of that name — shouted again and again — burrowed under his skin like a splinter.

Once, he had taken pride in Septimius. Once, he had believed the man would stand beside him — a loyal hound, fierce and obedient, a new Marcus Antonius to mirror his Caesar. A symbol of strength that would glorify Rome and, by extension, himself.

But now… that symbol had turned.

And the cheers that filled the air no longer praised the Emperor.

They worshiped another.

A low growl escaped Caesar's throat as he muttered under his breath, "How quickly they forget their Emperor."

The shouting continued, relentless. The crowd expected their champion to emerge — to stride forth with that calm, confident aura that had captivated them since his first victory.

But no one came.

The iron gate remained closed. The shadows beyond it unmoving.

At first, the delay seemed deliberate — a dramatic entrance to heighten the anticipation. Some even laughed, calling his name louder, their voices hoarse with excitement. The air trembled with hope, and every second of silence only fed their eagerness.

But as moments turned into a minute, and a minute stretched into two… the roars began to falter.

The voices weakened.

The chants faded.

And one by one, silence began to creep across the stands.

A murmur replaced the cheers — soft, uncertain, disbelieving.

"Where is he?"

"Did something happen?"

"Why hasn't he come out?"

Confusion spread like a slow contagion, infecting every face. The once-proud spectators now glanced at each other uneasily, as though they had all woken from a dream they couldn't explain.

On the balcony, Caesar exhaled slowly.

Then, a smile — cold, sharp, victorious — began to curl across his lips.

"As expected. He ran. A coward after all."

The words tasted sweet on his tongue. The crowd's faith in Septimius would crumble, he thought. Their cheers would turn to disappointment, then scorn. Rome loved strength, not ghosts.

At his side, Johanna let out a quiet breath, shoulders relaxing. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been gripping her seat until now. The fact that Nathan — or Septimius — hadn't appeared was a relief she didn't dare voice aloud. Perhaps he had truly vanished from their fates.

Down below, the arbiter looked uncertain. He glanced between the silent gate and Caesar's balcony, as if awaiting a signal. Then, hesitantly, he raised his arm.

"It seems… that Septimius has chosen to—"

BADOOM!

Cutting him off, a blinding flash of red light exploded across the sands.

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