Chapter 468: New Gladiator: Septimius Enters! (1)

Chapter 468: New Gladiator: Septimius Enters! (1)

The seventh group battle royal had finally concluded, and the echoes of steel, screams, and shattering bones were replaced by the grim symphony of the aftermath.Below, in the vast oval of the arena, the slaves had already begun their morbid work. They moved in hasty, disciplined swarms, driven by the whips and barked orders of overseers. Bare feet slapped against the blood-slick sand, carrying buckets of water, shovels, and coarse cloths. The stench of iron hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of burning flesh.

What at first seemed a monumental task—scrubbing away the carnage of dozens of fallen warriors—was, with hundreds of trembling hands under threat of death, progressing at an unnervingly brisk pace.The bodies—what remained of them—were hauled away with cold efficiency. The “lucky” dead were those whose remains were still mostly intact, spirited away before their features became unrecognizable. Others were mere fragments, a collection of limbs, shattered armor, and torn flesh, bundled together for disposal. The truly unlucky survivors were dragged from the sand, screaming or moaning faintly, their arms, legs, or organs gone. Nathan knew their lives were as good as over. Death would have been a mercy.

Once the last corpse was removed, the slaves turned to the blood. It was worked into the sand in thick, dark pools that had already begun to clot under the relentless sun. Barrels of water were upended, the liquid mixing with crimson to form streams that ran into the drainage channels. Sand was shoveled over stubborn stains, and coarse salt was scattered deliberately to purify the ground—or perhaps to hide the smell of death before the next spectacle.

From the VIP balcony, Nathan observed the process in silence. Not because he found it captivating—quite the opposite. His expression betrayed only a distant disinterest, as though he were watching ants dismantle the carcass of a bird. His gaze was unfocused, his posture relaxed, but he stayed there longer than necessary.

Halfway through the cleaning, Caesar’s voice broke the lull.”You’ll be late, Septimius,” he said, turning toward Nathan with a faint, knowing smile.

“Late?” Julia tilted her head, clearly puzzled. The rest of their group mirrored her confusion—except for Fulvius and Octavius. They alone had been privy to Nathan’s intent to enter the tournament as a gladiator.

“I am leaving,” Nathan said simply, already stepping away from the railing.

“Are you feeling sick, Septimius?” Julia asked, concern softening her tone. It was the only explanation she could imagine for him abandoning his seat.

Even Fulvia, Servilia, and Licinia watched him with raised brows, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

“No,” Nathan replied without looking back. “I am perfectly fine. Just… wish me good luck.” He didn’t linger for a response, descending the marble steps and leaving behind a row of stunned faces.

“Don’t… tell me…” Servilia’s voice trailed off as realization dawned, though she could scarcely believe it.

Caesar, however, leaned back with a wolfish grin.”Now this,” he said under his breath, “will be interesting.”At last, he would see Septimius fight—not from rumor or reputation, but with his own eyes.

Nathan’s boots carried him down into the dim, stifling corridors beneath the arena, where the smell of sweat, metal, and stale blood clung to the air. The passage widened into the gladiators’ preparation hall, where men of all shapes and statures readied themselves for the next match. The atmosphere was thick with tension—some paced like caged animals, muttering prayers to gods who no longer listened, while others sharpened their blades with obsessive care. A few sat rigidly still, eyes closed, as if savoring their last moments of calm.

And then, among the restless bodies, Nathan appeared.

His footsteps were unhurried, deliberate, echoing faintly on the stone. The flickering torchlight painted sharp shadows over his form. He wore a simple sleeveless cuirass, the bronze catching the light, and a crested helmet that hid his expression. His bare arms were well-toned, though compared to the hulking masses around him, they looked almost slender. His skin was pale, unscarred—so clean it was almost unnatural. That very flawlessness seemed to offend the men who had earned every mark on their flesh.

A towering brute, easily a head taller and twice as broad, sneered as Nathan passed.”Chicks don’t belong here,” the man rumbled, his voice dripping with scorn. Laughter erupted from the nearby gladiators, rough and mocking.

Nathan didn’t even glance at them at first. He tightened the leather straps of his bracers, then finally lifted his gaze. His crimson eyes met the giant’s, cold and unblinking. The effect was immediate—the man’s mocking grin faltered, his chest stiffened, and a shadow of unease flickered across his face.

“Where do I get a sword?” Nathan asked, his voice calm but edged with something that made the air feel heavier.

The brute said nothing, still caught in the momentary paralysis of that gaze.

“If you’re looking for weapons… it’s here.”The voice came from Nathan’s left. He turned to see another gladiator, fully helmed, leaning casually against a weapon rack. His blue eyes, visible through the visor, regarded Nathan with quiet interest. Unlike the others, this man’s presence was steady—calm, measured, deliberate.

Nathan studied him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. There was something… different about him. Not danger exactly, but a quiet weight that made him take note.

“Thanks,” Nathan said simply, before walking toward the rack the man had indicated.

For this tournament, there would be no hidden advantages. Every participant, from seasoned killers to trembling first-timers, had to select their weapon from the same battered bucket—a crude display of “fairness” in the eyes of the organizers. Rows of spears, swords, tridents, and battered shields leaned together in a chaotic heap, smelling faintly of oil, rust, and dried blood.

Nathan stood before the pile for only a moment, his gloved hand hovering lazily over the choices. He had no intention of using his black Demonic Sword, nor the blade recently gifted to him by Cleopatra before he left—the legendary sword of Alexander. Those weapons were far too significant for something as trivial as this spectacle. This was not a real war. This was theater.

His fingers closed around a Roman gladius, its leather grip worn smooth from countless hands. The blade was plain—double-edged, no engravings, no magic, no soul—just steel meant to kill quickly and without poetry. He tilted it slightly, letting the torchlight run along its edge, checking for chips or warping. The metal was serviceable. That was enough.

“That’s a simple choice,” a voice said suddenly.

Nathan looked up to see the blue-eyed man approaching—the same one who had pointed him to the weapons earlier. His calm, measured stride set him apart from the other gladiators, who either strutted like peacocks or paced like wolves.

“Do you want something?” Nathan asked flatly, not slowing in his inspection of the sword.

“No,” the man replied, his tone light. “I just find you… impressive.”

“You don’t even know me,” Nathan said without looking at him.

“Yes,” the man admitted, “but I can feel it. You’re the famous Septimius, aren’t you?”

Nathan’s crimson gaze flicked toward him.

The man chuckled softly. “Not everyone has white hair and red eyes. And you’re quite famous in Rome—more than you might think.”

“We’ll be enemies once we step out there,” Nathan replied, his tone flat as stone. He still couldn’t fathom why this man was starting a conversation moments before a battle where one of them might have to kill the other.

“Well,” the man said, the hint of a grin in his voice, “I’m sure we’ll both be among the survivors at least.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and melted back into the crowd.

It didn’t take long for the call to come.

A muffled roar from the arena filtered down through the stone, the vibrations of the crowd’s excitement echoing along the walls. The gladiators began to move toward the gate in loose clusters, some jostling each other for position, others walking side by side like comrades heading to war. Nathan hung back, letting them pass. He wasn’t avoiding the fight—this delay was deliberate, though not his own idea.

Caesar had requested, almost insistently, that Nathan enter last for “better publicity” and “greater spectacle.” Nathan suspected it was just another attempt to manipulate the crowd, to feed them suspense before the final reveal. He couldn’t care less, but he complied. If Caesar wanted a show, Caesar would get one.

The truth, Nathan thought, was that Caesar was underestimating the danger of giving him such a spotlight. That sort of pampering had a way of backfiring in fact…

One by one, the gladiators filed out into the glaring sunlight. The cheer of the crowd swelled and broke like waves on rock. Then, when only Nathan remained in the shadow of the gate, a voice boomed across the entire arena.

It was the Roman soldier serving as announcer, his words projected by a strange magical device so that even the furthest spectator could hear.”For this last group,” the man cried, “we have… astonishing news! A last-minute gladiator has joined our ranks!”

The initial reaction was confusion. Heads turned, whispers buzzed. Most dismissed it as another gimmick to stir excitement—until the announcer continued.

“You all know this man!” the voice thundered. “A great mercenary from Alexandria! The man who slew Ptolemy, the previous Pharaoh, and swore allegiance to our Emperor—Julius Caesar himself!”

The energy in the arena shifted instantly. Conversations halted. Breath caught in thousands of throats. The name alone was enough to stir the memory of those bloody, whispered stories. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation, eyes fixed on the darkened gate.

Nathan stepped out at last, the moonlight spilling across his form. His white hair caught the glare, his crimson eyes scanning the sea of faces without a flicker of emotion. In that moment, the arena erupted into a deafening roar.

“LUCIUS SEPTIMIUS!!!”