Grayson sat on the splintered wooden bench at the edge of the arena, shifting uncomfortably in his creaky Hollywood armour.
The place looked like something out of a medieval set designer's fever dream. Scarred stone walls ringed the training grounds, gouged deep by past weapons. Training dummies were strewn about in various states of dismemberment, straw spilling like spilled guts. The air itself reeked of sweat, steel, and faint blood, thick enough that Grayson half-expected someone to call "Cut!" and wheel in a fog machine.
Just that this wasn't the Fake stage set he was familiar with.
His eyes scanned the room. Around the arena, rows of recruits milled about, some nervously fiddling with their cheap gear, others muttering prayers under their breath. A few leaned against walls, sharpening blades and pretending to look confident.
Above, spectators, family members, Adventurers, and townsfolk, crowded the upper gallery, eager to watch the new hopefuls throw themselves into danger.
Grayson had felt stage fright before, but this was more than that. This wasn't a cushy casting call or a summer stock theatre audition.
He shifted again, the fake bronze plates of his "movie armour" catching the torchlight. His costume, crafted for a fantasy action flick that had never even made it past production hell, was pristine, flashy, ridiculous compared to the worn and practical gear of the other recruits. The jeers had started the moment he'd walked in.
"Did the circus lose a clown?" someone whispered.
"Looks like a peacock wandered into the pit," another snickered.
Even the spectators joined in, chuckles rippling through the gallery. Every mocking word jabbed at him, but Grayson forced himself to breathe. He wasn't new to being laughed at. He'd bombed auditions, flubbed lines, and worn tights in Shakespeare in the Park. If there was one thing Hollywood had taught him, it was how to stand in front of an audience and not crumble like a half baked cookie.
He squared his shoulders. "You've had worse," he muttered.
The heavy door creaked open, dragging everyone's attention. A man strode into the arena. The guild examiner.
He was nothing like the costumed warriors Grayson had worked with on set. This guy wasn't playing at soldier, he definitely was one. Hardened. His scarred arms were roped with muscle, his leather armour scuffed and patched from real battle. His face was weathered, rough brown hair and beards lining around his head and face, the eyes sharp and cutting as he scanned the line of recruits. When his gaze landed on Grayson, one eyebrow twitched.
"You." the examiner said pointing at Grayson, his gravelly voice echoing across the chamber.
Grayson stood, the weight of every mocking eye clinging to his back as he shuffled toward the centre of the arena. The examiner gestured to a waiting opponent: a MID-TIER Adventurer already limbering up, cracking his knuckles.
"This trial is simple," the examiner announced for all to hear. "You are not required to win. You are to endure. Show competence. Show spirit. Show the will to survive. If you cannot, then you do not belong here."
Grayson swallowed. Endure. He could do that. Maybe.
Then, just as the MID-TIER Adventurer raised his weapon, it happened.
DING!
A bright panel flashed across Grayson's vision:
[New Role Assigned.]
[Role: Gladiator Slave (C-Tier)]
[Traits: Savage, Tenacious, Show Boater.]
Grayson blinked. "Gladiator slave? Seriously?"
It figured. Of all the roles the system could have picked, it had saddled him with one that literally screamed "captive meat-for-the-sword." What was he thinking? That he would get a superman Role? Lmao, Hopeful fool.
Still, the traits pulsed him his mind.
Savage? I'm civilised man for Christ's sake.
Tenacious? Well, if my 30 years in Hollywood showed anything, it was that I was as tenacious as they could come
Show boater? Hah! Easy peezy lemon squeezy.
They weren't all Unfamiliar. And if the system wanted him to lean into this, well, he could work with that.
His brain flipped through a rolodex of film references, every sword-and-sandal script he'd ever skimmed. Then it clicked, Spartacus: blood and sand. The 2010 to 2013 series that streamed on Starz. Played by Andy Whitfield in season 1, Liam McIntyre in seasons 2–3, and Steven S. DeKnight as the showrunner.
Grayson smirked despite himself. "Well, at least it's not Gladiator starring Russell Crowe," he muttered. "That movie made me cry, and I don't need that kind of pressure."
His mind flashed to scenes of Spartacus in chains, sweaty and defiant. The movie had always seemed half like a historical epic and half like a hard core Porn, but hey what better source material for a "gladiator slave" role, right?
"Fine," Grayson whispered as his opponent advanced. "I'll be your Spartacus."
The fight began.
The Adventurer lunged, a wooden practice sword swinging hard at Grayson's ribs. He barely dodged, stumbling, the crowd laughing at his awkward shuffle. But then something shifted within him, his primal actor instincts, honed on countless film sets of choreographed fights, kicked in.
He sidestepped again, the move exaggerated and flashy. The strike whooshed past his chest. Someone in the stands gasped. Another whistled.
Grayson's pulse quickened. Yes. This he understood. Not combat, But Audience.
He snarled, baring his teeth, and let out a guttural shout.
"FREEDOM!!!!"
The sound startled even him, but it drew roars from the gallery. He ducked another blow, then swung his practice blade wide, the arc so theatrical it looked staged. The Adventurer grunted, thrown slightly off by the dramatics.
[Role Gauge: 13%]
Grayson's eyes flicked to the panel. The bar had ticked upward.
Another notification flared:
[Prop Activated]
[Slave Shackles: +10% Strength, -5% speed]
And then, with a metallic clink, shackles appeared at his ankles, faintly glowing like system conjurations. They dragged at his ankles, heavy and hindering, yet he felt power surge through him,. Grayson braced himself, swung with all his might, and his blow actually knocked the Adventurer back a step.
The crowd erupted. Cheers, laughter, even applause.
The examiner crossed his arms, watching with an amused gleam in his eye.
Grayson leaned into the role more, Each dodge became a flourish, each counter a snarl, each stumble a wild recovery that somehow looked deliberate.
He was acting the part of a chained beast forced to dance for survival. The traits bolstered him, Tenacity pushing away fear, Svagenes electrifying his swings, show boating keeping his Acting spirit Active.
For a moment, just a moment, he felt unstoppable.
The MID-TIER Adventurer recovered, drove him back, and finally knocked the weapon from Grayson's hand. The blow would have ended it if not for the examiner raising a hand.
"Enough."
The Adventurer lowered his weapon, and Grayson stood panting, sweat rolling down his temples, shackles still clinking faintly at his ankles. The crowd's reaction was undeniable, they were entertained.
The examiner strode forward, his stern expression cracked with something close to amusement.
"You fight like a fool....and you look the part." the man said bluntly giving Grayson's fake Hollywood armour a thorough Looking at. Then, after a pause, he added, "But you fight with spirit. And sometimes, spirit is what matters most."
Grayson blinked, too tired to reply.
The examiner turned to one of his aides. "Give him a provisional guild ID. Let's see if he can survive long enough to prove whether this… performance of his has substance."
The crowd chuckled, some clapped, others jeered. Grayson didn't care. His chest heaved as the panel flickered, confirming the reward.
Grayson allowed himself a grin, wide and unashamed.
DING!
[C-tier Role: Complete.]
[Performance Rating: B+]
[+23 FP]
[Role Gauge Peak @15%: No Character inheritance]
"heh, B+ rating?. Spartacus would be proud," he whispered.