Dawn was still only a promise on the horizon when Lucius awakened. Unlike the previous day, it wasn't the servants' call that pulled him from sleep, but rather his own internal discipline—a precise clock formed by years of military training that persisted even in this ancient world.
For several minutes, he remained perfectly still, conducting a methodical inventory of each injury. His entire body protested—inflamed muscles, stiff joints, bruises that pulsed with each heartbeat. The previous day's wounds had stiffened during sleep, transforming simple movements into exercises of pure willpower.
He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the opposite wall. The weak light of the oil lamp partially illuminated his torso, revealing the colorful map of bruises and cuts—testament to the "welcome" received at the ludus.
"No more," he murmured to the empty room, voice low but charged with icy determination.
As he rose for his morning ablutions, Lucius's mind operated with crystalline clarity, dissecting the previous day's events not with emotional anger, but with analytical precision. He had made a fundamental error—miscalculated the rules of this particular environment. In the modern military world, even in the most brutal special forces training, there was purpose behind the harshness, method in the brutality. Here, cruelty was an end in itself, hierarchies maintained through fear and gratuitous violence.
His approach of patient observation and gradual adaptation had been interpreted as weakness. A mistake he would not repeat.
While cleaning the previous day's wounds and reapplying medicinal ointment, Lucius coldly evaluated his options. He could try the slow path—months of effort, gradually proving his worth, enduring daily abuse in hopes of eventually earning respect. Or he could take decisive action, establish his place in the hierarchy through undeniable demonstration of lethality.
The basin water tinged slightly red as he removed the bandages. The reflection in the polished bronze showed eyes different from those he had possessed the day before—colder, more distant, as if something fundamental had changed during the night.
"I cannot allow myself to be injured daily," he reasoned, voice low but precise. "The body needs recovery to strengthen. Efficient training requires periods of growth, not constant trauma."
The decision crystallized with absolute clarity. It wasn't a matter of wounded pride or emotional revenge—it was pragmatic calculation. To implement his physical strengthening plan, he needed time and energy. To have that, he needed to be feared, not merely tolerated.
From the small leather pouch hidden beneath a loose floorboard, Lucius withdrew the dagger he had received from the merchant months ago. The blade gleamed with cold light in the room's shadows—exceptional quality steel for this era's standards, perfectly balanced, still with impeccable edge.
For a moment, he considered leaving it behind—facing his opponents unarmed would demonstrate even more dominance. But pragmatism prevailed. The message would not be just for the gladiators, but for Tacitus and, by extension, for the Senator. It needed to be unequivocal.
He concealed the dagger in an improvised sheath tied against the inside of his thigh, covered by the simple training tunic. He was unlikely to be searched—gladiators weren't considered a threat outside the arena, a Roman arrogance he would exploit.
When he finally left his quarters, his face was perfectly composed—no trace of the lethal decision he had made. To the servants he encountered along the way, he presented the same neutral and controlled expression as always.
The journey to the ludus proceeded without incident, Rome's streets gradually awakening to another day. When he reached the gates of the training complex, the sun was just beginning to illuminate the city's taller buildings.
Unlike the previous day, there were no visible guards at the entrance. Only a few servants performed morning tasks in the main courtyard, and few gladiators had already emerged from their quarters.
Lucius crossed the gate with deliberately measured steps—neither hurried, suggesting anxiety, nor slow, suggesting reluctance. Every movement was calculated to convey purpose and control.
It was at this moment that he saw him—Numidius, the massive African who had been the first to provoke him the day before, conversing with two other gladiators near the practice weapons. Even at a distance, the man's body language revealed absolute confidence, the kind of arrogance that came from years of uncontested physical dominance.
Lucius slightly altered his trajectory, approaching the group with neutral expression. The other gladiators noticed his approach first, nudging Numidius and indicating the newcomer with malicious smiles.
The African turned slowly, a cruel smile forming when he recognized Lucius. Initial surprise at the "domina's favorite" appearing so early quickly gave way to predatory delight.
"Look here," announced Numidius, voice carrying across the nearly empty courtyard. "The whore came back for more. I thought you'd be crying in your lady's arms after yesterday."
The others laughed, anticipating the morning entertainment. One of them—a younger gladiator with a diagonal scar across his face—stepped forward.
"Perhaps we should show him how a real training day begins," he suggested, striking his fist against his open palm. "Before the others arrive."
Lucius stopped a few steps away, eyes fixed on Numidius.
"Say what you want about me," he said calmly, voice so controlled it seemed almost casual. "But you mentioned domina Livia yesterday. And you're about to do it again."
The statement seemed to momentarily confuse Numidius, who frowned before smiling again.
"What? The whore defends his mistress?" he mocked, taking a step forward. "Or is she so good in bed that it's worth—"
The movement was so fast that none of those present fully registered what happened. One instant Lucius was standing two steps away, the next his right hand struck precisely at Numidius's exposed throat.
It wasn't a common punch or even a traditional combat blow. It was a surgical attack directly to the larynx, executed with the stiffened edge of his hand—a Spetsnaz technique designed specifically to incapacitate instantly.
The African staggered backward, eyes wide with shock as his hands clutched his throat. A wet gurgle escaped his lips as he struggled to breathe.
But Lucius had no intention of finishing quickly. This would not be execution—it would be lesson.
Before Numidius could recover, Lucius advanced again. With surgical precision, his elbow connected with the African's right knee. The audible crack of tearing ligaments echoed through the courtyard, followed by a strangled cry of pain as the joint bent in an impossible direction.
The other gladiators froze, eyes wide at the methodically applied violence.
Numidius fell onto his intact knee, still struggling to breathe, face contorted in agony. He tried to raise his arms in desperate defense, but it was too late.
Lucius grabbed the extended right arm. With brutal and calculated movement, he twisted it at an unnatural angle while simultaneously applying violent downward pressure to the elbow.
The sound of bone breaking was nauseating—wet and sharp at the same time. The humerus broke through the skin, white bone fragments emerging through torn flesh in a grotesque compound fracture.
Numidius's scream this time was more animal than human—a primitive sound of absolute agony.
"You talked too much," said Lucius, voice so calm it seemed obscenely displaced amid the brutality he was executing. "Now you won't be able to talk anymore."
With that, his fingers found precisely the African's facial nerves, pressing specific points that sent waves of paralyzing pain through the man's skull. Numidius's mouth opened in a silent scream, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.
"You don't need your hand anymore either," continued Lucius methodically.
He grabbed the African's left hand, fingers finding the small metacarpal bones. One by one, with deliberate precision, he broke each finger—the cracks in rapid succession like kindling in a fire.
Blood now flowed freely from Numidius's nose and mouth. His body convulsed in shock spasms, nervous system overloaded by pain beyond endurance.
"And you certainly don't need another knee."
The blow to the left knee was applied with a heavy boot, crushing the kneecap and transforming it into fragments beneath the skin. Numidius fell completely, now unable to maintain himself even kneeling.
Lucius slowly circled the prostrate body, like a predator evaluating dying prey. Every movement was deliberate, calculated for maximum psychological impact on the observers. This wasn't just execution—it was demonstration.
"One last lesson," he announced, crouching beside the African's head.
He grabbed the lower jaw with one hand, the upper with the other. With constant and relentless force, he began separating the jaws in opposite directions.
Numidius's eyes widened in absolute horror when he understood the intention. He tried to fight, but his broken limbs and body in shock wouldn't respond.
The sound of the temporomandibular joint rupturing was audible to all present. Lucius continued applying pressure, forcing beyond what the human body was designed to endure.
With a final horrifying crack, the lower jaw separated completely on one side, hanging grotesquely as Numidius emitted inhuman sounds of agony.
Only then did Lucius draw the dagger. The blade gleamed briefly in the morning light before positioning precisely against the African's exposed jugular.
"Do you live?" he asked, voice low and controlled, perfectly audible in the shocked silence that had descended over the courtyard.
The words, a perfect echo of the arena's ritual, carried meaning impossible to ignore. It was the formal question asked to the defeated gladiator, awaiting the signal from the games' editor.
Numidius, beyond the capacity to respond, only emitted wet gurgles through his destroyed jaw.
"The gods demand your blood," declared Lucius coldly.
With a single, precise, and brutal movement, the blade cut deeply, opening Numidius's throat from ear to ear. Arterial blood exploded in a vivid red arc, hitting the stone floor with surprising force.
The African convulsed several times, blood spurting in rapidly diminishing pulses, before finally becoming still.
But Lucius hadn't finished. Following the impulse of the moment, he grabbed the dead man's hair and, with two additional strikes of the dagger, completely separated the head from the body.
He rose slowly, holding the grotesque trophy by the hair. Blood dripped down his tunic, arms, and face—no longer the beaten gladiator of the day before, but something more primitive and terrible, like an incarnation of death itself.
The other two gladiators vomited where they stood, absolute terror replacing any impulse to fight or flee. One of them had urinated in his clothes, a dark stain spreading visibly through the fabric.
It was at this moment that Lucius noticed they were no longer alone. Other gladiators had begun arriving for morning training, stopping in absolute shock upon witnessing the bloody scene. Among them, Tacitus and Cassius observed from the entrance of the main building, expressions frozen in disbelief.