The dim torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls of the underground arena, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts of fallen warriors. The air was thick with the mingled scent of iron, sweat, and sand — the scent of men who had fought, bled, and died beneath this very roof.
In the center of the preparation chamber stood Spartacus, alone.
The muffled roar of the crowd above seeped through the cracks in the ceiling, a distant storm of voices impatient for blood. Yet, here below, silence reigned — heavy and suffocating. The only sounds were the slow, deliberate movements of a man preparing for war.
He reached for his armor — a battered chestplate bearing faint scratches from countless battles. His fingers traced the worn edges as if touching an old scar. He chose not to wear the heavier plating. He needed speed, not protection. His body was his true armor now — tempered by pain, hardened by betrayal, and sharpened by years of struggle.
