The journey back to the main Cassius house was an ordeal in itself. Each step sent waves of pain through Lucius's battered body. The sun was setting over Rome, casting long shadows through the streets that gradually emptied as citizens and slaves retreated into houses and taverns.
When he finally crossed through the gates of the senatorial property, Lucius allowed himself to limp visibly. There was no need to maintain the facade of strength here—no one from the ludus was present to witness this small weakness.
The guards at the entrance cast surprised glances at seeing his condition. One opened his mouth as if to make some comment, but thought better of it and merely nodded silently. The servants who crossed his path in the inner corridors reacted similarly—momentary shock followed by studied indifference. In this world, others' suffering rarely provoked empathy; more often, it merely awakened relief at not being the one afflicted.
When he finally reached his quarters, Lucius locked the door and allowed himself a moment of true vulnerability. He let himself fall onto the edge of the bed, a grunt of pain escaping involuntarily from his lips. For the first time since awakening in this ancient world, he felt a wave of genuine rage rising in his throat—not the cold, calculating anger that had guided him thus far, but something more primitive and visceral.
With a sudden movement, he swept a water jug from the nearby table, sending it crashing against the wall where it shattered into dozens of fragments.
"Damned barbarians," he murmured, his voice low but charged with intensity.
The momentary explosion brought no relief, only painful clarity. This world wasn't just different from his own—it was fundamentally more cruel, more direct in its brutality. In the twenty-first century, even in the most extreme situations—elite military training, real combat—there were codes of conduct, structures of mutual respect, basic recognition of shared humanity.
Here, there was no veil of civility covering the most basic instincts. Hatred was open, violence celebrated, cruelty not merely tolerated but actively encouraged. Humiliation wasn't a regrettable byproduct of the system—it was a deliberate tool, used with surgical precision to establish and maintain hierarchies.
"Rationality," he murmured to himself while examining a deep cut on his forearm. "What a joke. What good is thinking three steps ahead when they throw the pieces on the floor and stomp on you?"
The question hung in the air, without immediate answer. For a moment, Lucius allowed himself to feel the complete weight of his situation—alone in a strange and hostile world, surrounded by enemies, without a single true ally. The sensation of isolation was almost suffocating.
A servant knocked at the door, interrupting his dark introspection.
"Enter," he ordered, quickly composing himself.
The young slave entered carrying a large basin of clean water and cloths for wound cleaning. Behind him, two stronger men brought wooden crates.
"The tools you requested, dominus," announced the servant, placing the basin on a table. "And water for your... wounds."
There was poorly disguised curiosity in the young man's eyes, but no questions were verbalized. In this world, excessive curiosity from a slave could be severely punished.
"Put the crates there," instructed Lucius, indicating a corner of the room. "And leave."
When the door closed, Lucius quickly examined the contents of the crates. Livia had been generous and efficient—all the requested tools were there, along with good quality wood, ropes, leather strips, and even some forged metal pieces according to his rudimentary specifications.
First, however, he needed to tend to his wounds. He undressed slowly, each movement revealing a new bruise or cut. In the polished bronze mirror, his reflection showed a body marked by dozens of contusions in various stages of development—the newest vivid purple-red, others already maturing to greenish and yellowish tones.
The cut above his left eye would need special attention to avoid leaving a permanent scar. Methodically, he began cleaning each wound, applying the medicinal ointment provided by Servius to the most serious ones. The process was painful but familiar—how many times had he done this before, in another world, after training sessions that now seemed almost gentle in comparison?
"You've been through worse," he told himself, a mantra that sounded hollow even to his own ears.
While working on the wounds, his mind repeatedly returned to the combat with Mors. The defeat wasn't merely physical—it was a break in his perception of inherent superiority over the inhabitants of this ancient world. The masked gladiator wasn't just strong or fast; he was a complete predator, each movement calculated not for display, but for maximum lethal efficiency.
I underestimated all of them, he acknowledged internally. I assumed modern knowledge meant guaranteed superiority.
A mistake he wouldn't make again.
His reflections were interrupted by another knock at the door—firmer, more authoritative than the previous one. Before he could respond, the door opened and Livia entered, stopping abruptly upon seeing his condition.
"By all the gods," she exclaimed, eyes wide. "What happened to you?"
Lucius didn't respond immediately, observing her reaction with clinical interest. There was genuine surprise on her face, perhaps even concern. But there was something more as well—an almost fascinated gleam as she examined his marked body.
"Training day," he finally replied, continuing to clean a cut on his shoulder as if her presence weren't an extraordinary event. "Your father was quite specific about my complete participation in the ludus regimen."
"Training?" repeated Livia, indignation growing in her voice as she approached to examine the wounds more closely. "This isn't training—it's abuse! I'll speak with my father immediately. Tacitus clearly exceeded—"
"No," interrupted Lucius, his tone firmer than intended. He softened his voice before continuing. "This is precisely what your father intended. And it's necessary."
Livia stepped back slightly, surprised by the interruption. Lucius rarely spoke to her in such a direct tone.
"Necessary?" she questioned, incredulous. "How can this be necessary?"
"To establish my position," he explained, applying pressure to a particularly painful bruise on his flank. "To eventually be accepted. If you interfere, you'll only ensure I'm hated even more—and probably killed at the first opportunity that arises in the arena."
She studied him for a moment, initial anger giving way to more calculating understanding. "Gladiator politics," she murmured. "I suppose it's similar to the power games in the Senate, only more... direct."
"Precisely."
Livia moved around the room, fingers absentmindedly tracing the outline of the newly arrived tools. "So these are the materials for your... alternative training project?"
"They are," he confirmed, finishing treatment of the last serious wound. "I'll begin construction today."
"Now?" She seemed genuinely surprised. "In this condition?"
"Especially in this condition," he replied, rising with controlled effort to avoid showing how much the movement really hurt. "Pain is temporary. Weakness cannot be."
Something in his words seemed to capture Livia's attention. She observed him with a new kind of interest—not just the usual physical desire, but something more complex. Perhaps respect, perhaps simply renewed curiosity about the enigma he represented.
"May I help?" she offered, surprising him.
Lucius quickly evaluated the offer. It would have been more efficient to work alone, but there was strategic value in allowing her to feel part of the project.
"You can hold the pieces while I saw them," he suggested, selecting the necessary tools. "I'll need stability for precise cuts."
In the following minutes, a comfortable silence established itself between them while Lucius began working the wood. His movements were deliberate and precise, despite the pain each effort provoked. The plan for the training structures was necessarily simple—rudimentary versions of equipment that would be considered basic in any modern gym, adapted for the technological limitations of this era.
"What exactly are you building?" Livia finally asked, firmly holding a plank while Lucius sawed it.
"Parallel bars," he explained, indicating the mental design he was following. "For upper body strength exercises. And then, an inclined structure to work different muscle groups in the chest and arms."
"Fascinating," she murmured, genuinely intrigued. "And this is superior to conventional training at the ludus?"
"Complementary," corrected Lucius. "Their system has... merits. Particularly the work at the palus."
The mention of the training post brought back vivid memory of the brutality faced hours before. His muscles protested as if responding to the memory.
"Who was it?" Livia suddenly asked, eyes fixed on the most visible bruises.
"Who was what?"
"Who did this to you. Who defeated you." Her perception was sharper than Lucius had initially credited. "I see different marks—some are initiation rituals, of course. But there's a specific pattern here," she indicated the bruises on his left forearm, "that suggests real combat. Single opponent, refined technique."
Lucius hesitated briefly before responding. "They call him Mors."
The reaction was immediate—Livia straightened, eyes wide with genuine surprise.
"Mors?" she repeated, voice low. "Tacitus put you against Mors on the first day?" She shook her head slowly. "That goes beyond testing or ritual. He wanted to humiliate you... or see if you would die."
"I survived," commented Lucius dryly, continuing to work on the wood.
"More than survive," corrected Livia, studying him with new interest. "Few last more than moments against Mors. He's not just a gladiator—he's a trained assassin my father acquired under... particular circumstances."
The information was valuable—external confirmation of Lucius's own suspicions about the mysterious combatant.
"Do you know his history?" he asked casually, while beginning to assemble the first pieces of the structure.
"Only rumors," replied Livia, helping to stabilize the planks while Lucius fixed them with iron nails. "They say he was trained from childhood by a sect of assassins in the east. Others claim he's actually a fallen noble who killed his own family in rage. No one knows his face—the mask is never removed, not even during sleep, they say."
"And your father controls him?"
Livia laughed—a genuinely amused sound. "No one controls Mors. My father simply... directs his lethality. A mutually beneficial arrangement, apparently."
They worked in silence for some time, the frame for the parallel bars gradually taking shape. Despite the pain, Lucius found a certain comfort in the precise physical work—something tangible and controllable in a world that seemed determined to remind him of his limitations.
"Why are you really doing this?" Livia eventually asked, watching him test the stability of the partially completed structure.
"I already explained—"
"No," she interrupted, surprising him. "Not the equipment. All of this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing not just the room but implicitly the entire situation. "Accepting humiliation at the ludus. Building to exhaustion after being beaten. There's more here than simple survival or ambition."
The question was unexpectedly perceptive, forcing Lucius to consider his response carefully. For a moment, he almost told the truth—that he was trapped in a world not his own, that every movement was calculated to eventually find a way back, or at least to create a position of genuine power in this hostile environment.
Instead, he opted for a half-truth he knew would resonate with her.
"Control," he finally replied, adjusting a diagonal support for greater stability. "In a world where everything can be taken at any moment—freedom, dignity, life—the only real control is here." He touched his own temple. "And here." He indicated the body that, despite its wounds, still obeyed his will.
Livia remained silent for several moments, absorbing the response. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a different tone—softer, almost vulnerable.
"We're more alike than you imagine," she said, surprising him. "For a woman in Rome, even one of the highest lineage... control is also an illusion. My body, my future, even my thoughts—all belong first to my father, then to the husband he chooses."
It was a rare opening—a glimpse of the real person behind the facade of capricious aristocrat. Lucius recognized the moment as a valuable opportunity to deepen his influence over her.
"Perhaps that's why your 'whims,' as your father calls them, are so important," he suggested, putting the finishing touches on the first part of the structure. "Your small acts of rebellion are your form of control."
She studied him with slightly widened eyes, as if seeing him for the first time.
"Exactly," she murmured. "You really understand."
"I understand that we all seek to control what we can, when the world insists on reminding us how powerless we are," he replied, testing the weight of the newly constructed parallel bars.
The structure was rudimentary compared to the modern equipment he knew, but it would serve its intended purpose. With a few final adjustments, Lucius stepped back to evaluate his work.
"Is it finished?" asked Livia.
"This part, yes," he confirmed. "Tomorrow I'll build the inclined bench, then the structures for weights."
"And then?"
"Then I begin the real work," he replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Transforming this body to survive whatever comes next."
Livia approached, eyes traveling over his battered torso with a mixture of concern and poorly disguised desire.
"Let me help with your wounds," she offered, fingers lightly touching a particularly vivid bruise on his chest. "I have better ointments than these."
Lucius recognized the offer for what it really was—not just medical assistance, but an implicit invitation to intimacy. At another moment, he would have accepted readily, seeing the opportunity to strengthen his influence over her. But something had changed on this brutal day—a fundamental reevaluation of his immediate priorities.
"Tomorrow, perhaps," he replied, surprising her with the gentle refusal. "Tonight, I need to rest properly. Tomorrow's day at the ludus will be even harder than today's."
Disappointment briefly crossed her face, but was quickly replaced by a new kind of respect.
"As you wish," she agreed, moving toward the door. At the threshold, she paused briefly. "You know, Lucius, there's something about you I haven't seen in any other man—not even my father. A determination that transcends simple ambition or pride."
"Just doing what's necessary to survive," he replied, exhaustion finally beginning to overcome him.
"No," she contested with a slight smile. "It's more than survival. It's as if you're playing a game that no one else can see."
With those disturbingly perceptive words, she departed, leaving Lucius alone with his thoughts.
When he finally allowed himself to lie down, every muscle in his body protesting, Lucius contemplated the day that had passed—the humiliation, the pain, the revelations. The ancient world had shown its true face today, more brutal and merciless than he had experienced so far.
In his original world, even in the most extreme situations, there was always structure, purpose, some level of mutual respect even among adversaries. Here, cruelty was refined art, cultivated through centuries of practices that transformed humans into disposable commodities for mass entertainment.
And yet... there was something strangely liberating about the brutal honesty of this world. No one pretended to feel civility they didn't possess. Hatred was open, violence direct, intentions clear even when deadly.
As exhaustion finally pulled him toward sleep, a thought crystallized in his mind: to survive and prosper in this world, he would need to learn not just its rules, but its fundamental essence—the capacity to face brutality with even greater brutality, to absorb pain and transform it into strength, to look at death without blinking and, if necessary, become the ultimate predator in a world of predators.
The training at the ludus wasn't just about physical combat—it was about forging a specific type of mentality, an inner hardness that few in the modern world ever needed to develop.
Tomorrow would be worse, as Briseus had promised. And the day after, worse still. But each blow, each humiliation, each drop of blood shed would be another step in his transformation.