Keros sat numbly as the medic finished applying fresh bandages, his mind still dazed from the unexpected defeat at Viktor's hands days prior. Though his body slowly mended, deeper wounds festered within his battered psyche that no medicine could reach.
He had been so sure of his destiny, so confident in the power thrumming in his veins. But at the moment of ascension, cruel fate had intervened to humble him utterly. Now, stripped of cocky illusions, Keros was left adrift - another nameless, failed warrior in a city of them. Cheers still erupted daily from the nearby colosseum, the games proceeding without him.
As Keros wrestled confusion, another commotion drifted down the infirmary hallway. He turned to see four men carrying a moaning figure on a stretcher, blood dripping in their wake. The medic hurried over, brow furrowing.
"Great Sewaya's mercy, not another. What happened here?"
"Maximus Rutilus," grunted one of the assistants. "Shattered this fool's shoulder in their bout just now."
Keros' eyes widened in surprise. He had heard terrified whispers of the legendary champion who currently held the tournament's belt. Could this be the storied titan himself?
The medic clucked his tongue, inspecting the mangled joint. "Well, his fighting days are certainly finished, more's the pity. I'll do what I can to patch him up. Place him there."
As the whimpering patient was situated, Keros caught a brief glimpse of the man's face. His craggy features and close-cropped grey hair matched descriptions of the infamous Maximus. So the old warrior still possessed deadly skill after all these years. A small comfort, Keros supposed bitterly - at least Viktor had not bested him purely out of ineptitude.
Finished with his work, the medic ordered the assistants out. "Let him rest - the milk of the poppy will soon ease his pain. Out, all of you!"
Before leaving, one attendant whispered excitedly to his companion, "Did you see Lord Maximus' display? He crushed that fool one-handed in minutes!" They hurried off down the corridor, oblivious to Keros glowering in the corner.
So the esteemed champion was already secures in the semifinals, awaiting some new upstart to challenge him. Bitter envy flooded Keros at the thought. How easily destiny flowed for a fortunate few like Maximus while he languished, forgotten in this dim infirmary. It was all so grotesquely unfair.
Fists clenched, Keros rose unsteadily, bracing his still-healing ribs. Moping would change nothing. The qualifying rounds continued without him - perhaps there he could find some spark to reignite depleted hopes. Leaning heavily on a crutch, he hobbled off in search of redemption.
The qualifying arena's stands were significantly less occupied, most casual attendees more interested in established fighters on the main stage. But true students of combat understood that the qualifying rounds often showcased shocking talents yet unknown.
As Keros eased gingerly onto a stone bench in the front row, two figures entered for the next match. One was a stocky, bald-headed man who smashed gauntleted fists together in anticipation. Facing him stood a deceptively slight woman wearing loose crimson pants and vest - but the coiled tension in her posture warned against underestimating her capabilities.
At the magistrate's signal, the bald fighter immediately lunged, swinging massive fists like stone sledgehammers. But they found only air. The woman ducked and spun fluidly aside, letting his momentum carry him forward uselessly. As he stumbled past, she delivered precise chops to the back of his knees and neck. The giant collapsed face first into the sand.
He rose sputtering, rage contorting his features. The woman remained light on her feet, flowing like water around each enraged charge, exploiting gaps ruthlessly with pinpoint strikes. It was a study in contrasts - muscular brute force against elegant, effortless avoidance.
Within minutes, the giant swayed on unsteady feet, blood streaming down his face. As he stubbornly staggered forward once more, the woman suddenly stepped inside his reach and jabbed fingers into three vital points across his torso. The bald warrior's eyes bulged in distress before he toppled like an oak to the arena floor, limbs twitching feebly.
"Ikora Sunwolf is victorious!" bellowed the announcer. "She advances to the semi-finals!" The medicus hurried out to examine her unconscious opponent as Ikora strode calmly away without fanfare.
Keros watched her depart, impressed despite himself. So women could indeed compete in their own bracket, though it was clear Ikora could handily defeat most men as well. Perhaps he had been foolish limiting his scope to male adversaries. What heights might he have reached with such a mentor?
So lost in thought, Keros almost missed the names announced for the next major bout - Viktor, son of Ragon versus Jorath the Exile. Surprise jolted through him. He had assumed Viktor was already eliminated in an earlier matchup. Instead, the vicious Myrtanian seemed poised to cement himself as front runner to challenge Maximus with a win here.
Squaring his shoulders, Viktor entered to a chorus of jeers and muttered curses, his earlier popularity fading after the dishonorable tactics against Keros came to light. In contrast. Their noisy partisan support seemed to unnerve Viktor, whose jaw clenched visibly.
At the horn's blast, Viktor surged forward behind his shield, swinging his longsword fiercely to batter through Jorath's guard right away. But the exile nimbly sidestepped before bringing his own curved scythe whistling down towards Viktor's neck. Viktor blocked the strike off his shield barely in time, skidding backwards from the force.
And so the duel commenced in earnest - Viktor utilizing smashing power and reach advantage against Jorath's blazing quickness and unpredictability. For endless minutes neither could find purchase as blows rained down fast and furious. The arena thundered with excitement at this masterful display of elite technique and honed battle instinct.
As the minutes wore on, a sheen of desperate sweat now covered both fighters' brows. The next traded blow could decide everything at this point of exhausted impasse. Sensing his opening fading, Viktor swallowed his warrior's pride and bellowed loudly, "Face me with honor, coward! Remove that cursed mask and stand before your betters openly!"
A murmur rippled through observers at this call for transparency meant to provoke loss of focus. But Jorath remained composed behind his eerie visage. "As you wish, brute," came the muffled reply.
To everyone's collective shock, Jorath reached up with gauntleted hand and swept the menacing black mask away. Gasps of stunned recognition burst from the Albion contingent, followed swiftly by wails of dismay. Keros strained on his seat for a glimpse of the exile's now exposed face.
A tense silence hung over the arena as the unmasked Jorath strode toward Viktor, scythe glinting wickedly in the harsh sunlight. Shocked murmurs continued rippling through the stunned crowd.
Keros craned his neck, squinting against the glare. What secret had Jorath kept hidden behind that mask to elicit such a reaction? But distance and shadows obscured the exile's newly bared features.
Viktor seemed likewise rattled by this unexpected revelation. He circled warily as Jorath closed in, frustration mounting as no openings presented themselves.
"Your tricks are for naught, knave," Viktor spat. "Whatever rotten twist of fate placed us here today, I shall see it corrected!"
He charged forward recklessly, bashing aside Jorath's scythe to grapple him brutally against the arena wall. "Now let us see who cowers behind masks of lies!" Viktor snarled, tearing violently at Jorath's face to remove his skin itself if need be.
But Jorath abruptly went limp in his grasp. As Viktor adjusted his balance in surprise, Jorath exploded into motion - smashing his head viciously into Viktor's nose before breaking free. Viktor reeled backwards, momentarily blinded by pain and involuntary tears.
Pressing his new advantage ruthlessly, Jorath slashed a series of burning cuts across Viktor's arms and thighs too swift to counter. Within seconds, scarlet rivulets streamed freely down the Myrtanian brute's armor.
"Yes, behold truth laid bare before you," Jorath proclaimed loudly over Viktor's agonized grunts. "As you stand revealed now - pretender to prowess far beyond your meager reach!"
Bellowing fury, Viktor surged forward, heedless of dripping wounds. But his reckless strength had abandoned him along with blood and reason. Jorath deftly sidestepped what should have been a deathblow, following through to open Viktor's back brutally from shoulder to hip.
Keros watched as his enemy fell to the ground, a pool of blood forming around him. Never had he envisioned this humbling of the man who had shattered his spirit completely mere days prior. Perhaps gods truly dispensed justice.
"Know your place before your betters, boy," Jorath pronounced coldly, placing an iron boot between Viktor's shoulders. Then, exerting sudden force, he pressed Viktor's face into the churned filth below.
Viktor struggled weakly, spewing muffled profanities, before finally getting unconsicos for minutes, abject humiliation complete. Streaked crimson masks replaced hidden lies as Jorath stepped away from his thoroughly conquered foe towards destiny's next trial. None could doubt now the exile's astounding skill nor Viktor's woeful inadequacy.
The crowd cheered raucously, slaves rushing onto the field to collect the vanquished Viktor and scrape gouts of blood from staining the arena marble. Such was the price of hubris before cold brutality of experience.
As feeling returned to Keros' numbed thoughts, the herald's next booming proclamation jolted his attention with announcement of the first semifinal pairing - Jorath would face the legendary champion Maximus Rutilus himself tomorrow at high sun!
Could this mean he had a chance to make it to the finals against his enemy?? Never had sweeter possibility emerged from bitterest loss. Perhaps tides still shifted for those destinies had marked...
******
The restless night crawled by endlessly before dawn's rosy fingers finally streaked across a cloud-strewn sky. Swelling multitudes flooded the capital's avenues and byways, choking every approach to the colosseum. Today's semifinal bouts promised more delicious drama as the tournament reached its climax.
In one of the small preparation rooms lining the subterranean tunnels beneath the arena stands, Nero carefully unwound lengths of treated leather strap specially suited for garroting unwary enemies or anchors for climbing otherwise sheer surfaces. An array of powders and elixirs rounded out his personal arsenal. Not that anyone had bothered searching his nondescript robes too thoroughly - what threat could a scrawny adolescent pose here?
Fools, every one of them, Nero thought smugly. Slipping past legions of guards and into fighters' camps had required skill, not bravado or sharpened steel. Information was the most potent weapon for those overlooked and underestimated.
Nero intended to continue proving that to devastating effect against today's overconfident opponent, some obscure warlock named Vladimir the Vile. As if silly titles frightened those who knew real power dwelled in shadows, not strutting under the harsh light of scrutiny. The other fighters were blind to true danger in their midst.
Smooth and silent as liquid night, Nero flowed between tutting guards to glimpse today's first combatants already standing across from one another in the arena's heart. There loomed Maximus, truly resembling a minor giant, grizzled features set grimly as he tested his mace's heft and balance.
Facing the undefeated legend hovered wraith-like Jorath, twin blades carving sigils in the air, leather armor adorned with strange runes from distant lands. Nero sensed concealed power and fury simmering behind the exile's placid exterior. This would be a clash writ boldly into tournament annals, no matter the outcome.
As the cacophonous crowds reached fever pitch drowning all other noise, Nero slipped back down the empty passageway towards his own solitary final preparations. Many saw Jorath as fate's favorite, but the knowing understood destiny made its true home in shadows and silence. There capped flasks and powders held Nero's deliverance if skill somehow faltered.
There could be no hesitation, no distraction from the awaiting task. One match, then eternal renown for previously invisible Nero waited tantalizingly within reach. All obstacles would be removed by any means necessary. The meek were about to inherit the colosseum sands, and none could halt inexorable fate's churning wheels...