The Amphitheater of Cartag
The amphitheater of Cartag remained silent, even after the figure of that small slave had left.The air was still thick with the stench of blood, iron, and fear.
Monster blood hadn't even finished soaking into the sand when the voices of the crowd finally began to stir like a swarm. Thousands of people—nobles, merchants, soldiers, and commoners—rose from their seats, unable to process what they had just witnessed:
—"Who the hell was that little slave, some kind of superhuman?" cried a merchant in a purple robe, incredulous. "How can trash do that without magic, just raw strength?"
—"That wasn't a slave, that was a damn monster in disguise!" a braided woman spat, clutching her son. "The Order of Light must hunt him down, he's a threat. Didn't you see how he crushed the Troll? The damn Troll!"
—"I saw it clear," added a war veteran, half his face carved with scars. "That strange mask… that way he moved. He wasn't a slave, he was a demon. How do you explain those bizarre movements, like the little freak was… dancing?"
Laughter burst from the younger ones in the stands.
—"Dancing? Hah! That little shit wasn't dancing, he was mocking all of us! I paid to see slave blood, not some damn clown!" one shouted, hurling his wine cup to the ground.
But not everyone joined in the mockery. Many eyes stayed fixed on the arena, still stunned, still haunted by the image:An anonymous slave, bathing in monster blood, defying them all with a raised finger and an insolent dance.
Rumors spread like fire on dry grass:
—"Maybe… that bastard will win the Franzkrapp."
—"The Franzkrapp?! It already happened in Nordkrieger. No slave has ever beaten a superhuman, no slave ever will. Impossible."
—"Then why did I hear a guard whisper it?"
—"A filthy slave with such a wicked name, pulling off that kind of stunt… I can't live in a world where that's possible," muttered a woman under her breath.
—"Lies! That slave was probably a god in disguise. Only divine power could massacre monsters like that. No slave could do it."
—"Don't be stupid. The day a god lowers himself to the status of a slave, that'll be the end of the world."
The arguments swelled until the hum of the crowd began to drown out the trumpets.The Announcer, from his dais, was forced to raise his voice, his tone booming through a sonic crystal.
—"Ladies and gentlemen of the glorious Gregorian Empire! Today we witnessed something unexpected. But do not forget—the preliminary rounds have come to an end!"
The audience erupted in outrage and boos:
—"No!"—"There are still gladiators left!"—"We want more blood!"
The Announcer, masking his nerves with a smile, pressed on:
—"Our beloved sponsors have chosen to reserve the remaining beasts for tomorrow's tournament. We won't waste our jewels on mere trials. The true spectacle begins at noon!"
The crowd split. Some cheered, excited by the promise of the tournament. Others stormed off, cursing the slave who had "ruined" their fun with his arrogance.
The Cells Beneath the Arena
In the damp cells below, another kind of silence reigned.
The few surviving slaves and gladiators who hadn't yet faced the deadliest beasts listened to the announcement with trembling ears.
A young man with dark skin, his torso torn raw by lashes, collapsed to his knees.
—"Kairos…" he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "The god of opportunities… saved us."
Several followed his example, kneeling, pressing their foreheads against the wet stones.Through sobs, they prayed to the god they believed had granted the miracle—that the preliminaries had ended before their turn, that their lives had been spared for at least one more day.
But not all shared the fervor.
In another cell, closer to the arena, the gladiators who had seen the Abuser with their own eyes did not kneel. Their gazes were fixed on the ground, a strange gleam in their pupils.
—"It wasn't Kairos," one rasped, his voice raw from battle cries. "It was him."
—"That little… slave," added another, gripping the bars. "He didn't fight like the rest. Not even like a trained gladiator. That bastard… he enjoyed humiliating the crowd."
A third, jaw shattered and bandaged, slumped against the wall. His voice was bitter:
—"Enjoyed it, yes… but he didn't save anyone."
Silence hung heavy.
—"Remember? Six of us entered with him," he continued, voice breaking. "Where are they now? Dead. Devoured. Crushed. He could've done something… anything! But no. He just kept dancing like a lunatic while my brothers screamed and got torn apart."
The air thickened with resentment. Some glared at him with quiet rage, others with resignation.
—"What did you expect?" one spat blood. "That a slave would risk himself for other slaves? That doesn't exist."
—"But…" another argued, eyes shining, "didn't you see how he did it? It wasn't just strength! It was freedom! That dance, in the middle of death… it showed us that even the gods can be wrong!"
The debate grew heated.
For some, the Abuser was a selfish monster, a madman who let his companions die.For others, he was a spark of hope—a symbol that being more than entertainment was possible.
Galio
High above the coliseum, in a private stone chamber, Galio had returned after seeing Sam off.Now he stood in silence, staring at the empty arena.
His reflection blended with the blood-smeared glass.For a moment, he didn't see the Abuser… but another young man.
Gat.
His son—hair wild, eyes blazing—charging a colossal beast.Throwing himself in front of a wounded slave to block the killing blow.
"Father, everyone deserves a chance."
Those words, the last Gat had spoken before falling, pierced Galio's memory like blades that never healed.Gat had died defending a slave—the same trash Galio now despised and exploited.
He closed his eyes, fists clenching.
The masked face of the Abuser, the insolence in his voice, the way he moved—too much like Gat.A painful echo he couldn't ignore.
With a sigh, he took a crystal sphere carved with runes into his hands. Stroking it, the reflection of a man appeared within: Acrisio, regal in his bearing, his robes stitched with golden thread.
Acrisio: —"Galio," he said, raising a brow. "Is the spectacle over? Were the beasts satisfied?"
Galio: —"Yes, my lord," he bowed. "Only… tomorrow will hold a great surprise."
Acrisio's reflection smiled with intrigue.
Acrisio: —"Good. I like surprises. I only hope His Highness Alex enjoys it."
Galio nodded, but his thoughts weren't on Alex, nor on Acrisio.
They were on the masked youth who had defied an entire tradition—in the worst month possible—with a dance.
And on Gat, his dead son, who had once believed in the "trash slaves."
"Come on, Abuser…" he whispered in his heart as the crystal darkened.
"Show me the worth my son believed he saw in you."