The second round of the gladiator tournament had come to an end.
And yet, its conclusion carried an irony so sharp it was almost laughable. The very challenge designed to test the strength and unity of all the gladiators together—the monstrous red wolf—had been crushed not by a coalition of desperate men, but by one single warrior. Nathan.
The beast that should have required dozens of gladiators fighting in perfect cohesion to subdue had been slain by his hand alone. He had fought without aid, without hesitation, and the sight of his lone figure standing bloodied in the ruins of the creature's body had burned itself into the eyes of every soul present.
Now, as the echoes of the battle faded, his name thundered across the marble walls of the Colosseum. The chants of the Roman citizens refused to die, rolling again and again like waves crashing upon the shore. Septimius! Septimius! It was as though the city itself was breathing his name.
