The Roman Empire would never forget. Not that day, not that night, and certainly not the chain of tragedies that followed. Rome itself seemed to carve those memories into its marble bones, as if refusing to let future generations overlook what happened beneath its blood-soaked skies.

It had been the grand final of the greatest gladiator tournament ever conceived—an extravagant spectacle born from the ambition of Emperor Julius Caesar himself. The purpose was as bold as it was shocking: to choose a suitable partner for Pandora. Whoever triumphed that day would not only earn glory, wealth, and the admiration of Rome, but would also be granted Pandora's hand.

Even the Gods had taken an interest. Athena—protector, guardian, and divine patroness of Rome—had descended from Olympus to watch. She had witnessed every clash, every victory, every spill of sweat and blood throughout the tournament. And there she stood again, radiant and solemn in the final round, her presence alone enough to silence the roars of thousands.

The final battle promised to be legendary.

On one side stood Spartacus—the rebellious slave whose name had already grown into myth, a symbol of defiance, steel, and unbreakable will.

On the other side was Septimius, a newcomer from Alexandria. A mere mercenary when he arrived, yet in only a handful of battles he had captured the heart of Rome. His strength and charisma had spread like wildfire, making him even more popular than Caesar himself in the eyes of many.

Everything had been aligned for an unforgettable night: a glorious finale, a celebration of Rome's might, and a new chapter in its history.

But fate had other plans.

The duel between Septimius and Spartacus never reached its conclusion.The earth trembled. The air distorted. And then—like a nightmare stepping out of a forgotten prophecy—the two Beasts of Rome appeared.

Romulus and Remus.

The mythical wolf guardians who, for centuries, had been entrusted with the protection of Rome. Beings of legend, embodiments of Rome's spirit and strength. They should have been the Empire's shield.

Yet that night, they became its destroyers.

Without warning, the twin Beasts turned their power against the very city they were meant to defend. They rampaged through streets and forums, leveling homes, tearing through stone as though it were clay. Thousands were killed in moments. Panic swallowed the capital as fire and screams filled the night.

One of the Beasts—Romulus—descended into the coliseum itself, crushing pillars and sending spectators fleeing in terror. And there, before gods and mortals alike, Septimius stood his ground alone.

A single man.Facing a guardian wolf the size of a temple.

No one present that day—man, woman, or child—would ever forget that sight:the lone mercenary brandishing his weapon, refusing to retreat, refusing to bow. The clash of steel against divine fur. The shockwaves that shook the arena. The courage that froze time.

Outside the coliseum, the other guardian, Remus, was confronted by Athena herself. Under the terrified cheers and desperate prayers of the people, their goddess fought tooth and nail to protect them. For the citizens of Rome, it felt as though they had been thrust into the very heart of a myth made flesh.

But despite the awe of those divine battles, the night was nothing short of hellish.Rome drowned in chaos—thousands dead, buildings collapsed, fire everywhere. Assassins loyal to Caesar exploited the chaos, cutting down civilians in the shadows. A civil conflict erupted in the streets, adding to the carnage.

Only at dawn did Athena finally subdue the twin guardians, halting their murderous rampage. But the damage had been done, and the truth that emerged in the following days would change Rome forever.

When the wounded were barely being tended, when the dead were still being counted, a rumor began to spread—slow at first, then with unstoppable force.

The truth. A truth that struck Rome harder than any Beast ever could.

The one responsible for unleashing Romulus and Remus…The mastermind behind the guardians' madness…

…was none other than Emperor Julius Caesar himself.

Naturally, the revelation struck Rome like a thunderbolt.

For the citizens, for the soldiers, for the Senate—it was unthinkable. Julius Caesar, the man who had shaped Rome's destiny, the man loved and feared in equal measure, exposed as the very architect behind the rampage of Romulus and Remus.

But the evidence was undeniable.

Caesar fleeing the arena before the chaos even reached its peak.

Senators who opposed him mysteriously attacked that same night—some wounded, some slain, all conveniently targeted.

And most telling of all, Caesar's most loyal supporters had refused to attend the grand final, choosing instead to remain inside the fortified Senate Castle as if they had anticipated catastrophe.

Once the dots were connected, there was no going back.

A massive political counteroffensive erupted at dawn—a sweeping propaganda machine designed to shatter Caesar's influence once and for all. It was orchestrated by two figures who resurfaced with impeccable timing: Fulvius and Crassus. Their sudden return immediately shifted the balance of power.

When the sun rose the next morning, as smoke still curled from ruined streets and the cries of the wounded lingered in the air, an emergency gathering of the Senate was convened. The atmosphere was tense, suffocating—half mourning, half outrage.

All senators loyal to Caesar were barred entry.

Only those who opposed him and the few who claimed neutrality were allowed into the chamber.

The debate that followed was long, heated, and emotionally charged. Hours passed as Fulvius and Crassus led the discussions, presenting testimony, eyewitness accounts, and sealed documents that stripped away the last shreds of doubt.

By the end of the assembly, Rome's verdict was unanimous.

Julius Caesar would be stripped of all titles, honors, rights, and privileges.He was to be declared hostis publicus—a criminal and traitor to Rome.

With Caesar removed, Crassus, now the sole surviving Emperor, assumed the role of provisional leader. His authority would last only until another council could determine the future of the Empire, its leadership, and its direction.

But for now, their priorities were unmistakably clear:

Reveal the truth.

Restore order.

Purge corruption.

The first had already been accomplished.

Of course, there were still Romans who admired Caesar, who clung stubbornly to the heroic image they had built of him. But even they had to bow to the overwhelming evidence—especially when influential figures across the Empire began confirming the accusations.

And perhaps, because Rome had found a new hero in Septimius, the truth became easier to accept. The mercenary's courage, his defense of the coliseum, his defiance against the wolf guardian—his legend overshadowed Caesar's betrayal.

With anger replacing disbelief, the people's love for Caesar curdled quickly into pure hatred.

Yet the man at the center of it all had vanished.

Caesar had disappeared from Rome during the chaos, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions. Crassus immediately ordered an Empire-wide hunt, dispatching troops and spies across every province. Caesar was to be captured alive and brought to justice.

While Rome searched for its fallen Emperor, the cleansing of corruption began.

The Senate Castle, saturated with Caesar's influence, was the first target. The entire structure was swept from top to bottom.

Freya and her classmates had already helped secure it during the night, holding key positions and preventing further attacks. Soon after, Fulvius arrived with disciplined cohorts of Roman soldiers. Their objective was clear: eliminate Caesar's remaining forces and reclaim full control.

It was not a peaceful transition.

Not a single senator loyal to Caesar was spared punishment. Fulvius, known for his uncompromising nature, dealt with them swiftly and mercilessly. Those who bent the knee and surrendered were stripped of their status. Those who resisted or attempted defiance were executed on the spot—examples meant to deter further rebellion.

By the end of the purge, the Senate Castle belonged once more to Rome, not to Caesar.

That night became one of the longest in Rome's history—an endless, sleepless stretch of chaos, steel, and blood.

For the citizens it was terrifying.

For the Roman soldiers, it was absolute exhaustion mixed with grim duty.

Once the rampage of Romulus and Remus had finally been contained, the hunt began.

Every ally of Caesar—no matter their rank, wealth, or influence—was hunted throughout the city and beyond its walls.

His assassins, who had taken advantage of the confusion to strike down opponents, were tracked through alleys, villas, and sewers.

The senators who had supported Caesar understood immediately what the night meant. Panic spread among them like a disease. They fled Roman streets in desperation… only to be pursued by Crassus's loyal soldiers.

Every estate owned by Caesar or his supporters was seized before dawn. Villas, treasuries, properties, armories—everything was locked down and placed under guard. What happened in one night would normally take months of political maneuvering. But Rome was no longer in the mood for politics.

It wanted justice.

And it wanted it swiftly.

No one slept that night.

Not the soldiers, not the senators, not the people of Rome who sat trembling in their homes, whispering prayers. The air tasted of dust and ash, the smell of destruction left by the guardians' rampage.

The night would later be named The Red Howling of Rome—a reference to the terrifying cries of Romulus and Remus echoing across the capital as they tore through streets like divine storms.

By the time dawn broke, the city was exhausted… but the work was far from over.

At the Theatre of Pompey, an emergency assembly was held. Senators gathered under the high marble arches, their faces pale and drawn. All morning, voices echoed in that chamber: accusations, testimonies, decrees. Fulvius and Crassus led the discussions, directing the flow like generals in a battlefield of words.

For hours, corrupted senators—those who had taken Caesar's gold, supported his schemes, or provided him influence—were brought forth one by one.

Each faced the harsh, unrelenting gaze of the Senate.

With Fulvius present, none dared to defend themselves. Even those who would normally have tried to argue trembled in silence.

One after another, sentences were passed.

Most were condemned to death.

A few had their properties seized and were exiled, considered too insignificant to trouble Rome any further.

Yet despite the heavy air of judgment, two crucial figures were absent from the theatre.

The first was obvious: Julius Caesar, the traitor Emperor himself—now missing, perhaps already far from the capital, slipping through the cracks of Rome like a ghost.

The second absence was more mysterious, and far more discussed among the senators:

Septimius.

The mercenary of Alexandria.

The Kingslayer, killer of the Pharaoh Ptolemy.

The hero of the coliseum.

The mercenary who had faced Romulus alone.

The man who, in a single night, had become the talk of every household in Rome.

And the man who had been so close to Julius Caesar since his return from Alexandria...

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