Gregorian Empire, Province of Numidia — City of Cartag. 7:00 A.M.
With dawn, the ports stirred to life. The soft lapping of waves against the docks hinted the tide had been gentle through the night. Slaves began their frantic day at the harbor, while innkeepers and merchants were already shifting prices at their stalls.
Traffic at the Teleportation Station was expected to surge today. The Portal Gates glimmered as the first ships crossed through.
Provincial Amphitheater, 7:05 A.M.
The sun barely crept over the black stone walls of the coliseum, but already the stands trembled with shouts, wagers, and the smell of roasted meat mixed with sweat and cheap wine. Streets leading to the gates swarmed with vendors peddling wooden knives for children, beast-shaped masks, even little figurines of gladiators that split apart when slammed against the ground.
For the free folk, the preliminaries were a festival—a violent breakfast whetting their appetite for the banquet of blood in tomorrow's grand tournament.For the condemned, waiting in the gloom of the cells, this was the antechamber of hell.
In one of the underground cells, a group listened to the distant growls of the beasts and monsters they would soon face:
—"Damn it… I don't belong here! I came on business—they robbed me of 300 silver, I swear! M-my family… they're still waiting for me in Ataxia!"
A weathered gladiator smashed his fist into the young merchant's face.
—"Shut up. Morale's already low enough. Nobody gives a damn about your whining!"
A woman knelt, whispering prayers to the gods of her pantheon:
—"Oh great gods of Olympus, Protectors of Thonteon, grant me your benevolence. Guard my life in this cause, and may my soul not be tortured on the banks of the River Styx."
A boy no older than sixteen sneered at her and shouted:
—"Your prayers are useless, woman! Gods don't care for slaves—no god favors us!"
Then a bronze horn sounded, low and deep. The iron gates screeched as they opened.Men and women shuffled out of the darkness into the arena floor. Some wore shackles on their ankles, others clutched nothing but a rusted knife. Their faces were a mixture of panic and resignation.
The crowd began to hurl insults:
—"Sewer rats!—Die quick!—Give us a show, slave trash!"
By spell, the voice of the organizer boomed across the coliseum:
Organizer: —"What a beautiful Sadurt morning, ladies and gentlemen, nobles and plebeians, boys and girls… our first batch of wretches will face the beasts brought from the dark lands of the Kingdom of Britain… behold, the Hellhounds!"
Across the arena, cages rose and opened, unleashing a pack of hellhounds—hairless, massive, ribs jutting, eyes glowing like embers. Even chained, they strained to attack.
The slaves tried to rally. A scarred man barked out:
—"Together! Don't spread out!"
But the moment the chains fell, the first hound lunged. It clamped onto the young merchant's throat, slamming him to the ground. His scream lasted barely a second before teeth shredded flesh. Blood sprayed the others, and the crowd roared with delight.The "festival" had begun.
The pack tore into them. One hound seized the praying woman by the leg, dragging her into the shadows. Her screams whipped the audience into ecstasy.
Another barreled through, flattening two at once.The arena filled with human shrieks and animal snarls until only silence and corpses remained.The hounds' dark hides dripped crimson, their tongues still savoring blood.
A scribe in the stands etched notes onto his tablet.From a nearby balcony, Galio nodded with a dry smile.
Galio:—"Not bad… a fine start, —he muttered.
***
The Second Round
By 7:30, a new batch of prisoners was shoved into the arena. Fifteen this time, including a few seasoned gladiators who had survived past games.Unlike the first group, they carried short spears, worn shields, and stiffened leather armor. Still, fear clouded their eyes.
Organizer: —"It's time for the second round, ladies and gentlemen… this lot is better prepared. Will they survive? They'll face one of the most fearsome beasts from the southern valleys. Brought from the province of Dalmatia—behold, the Leopard Bears!"
Their leader turned to them, voice booming with forced confidence:
—"Stay in formation, boys! Together we'll show those beasts who rules!"
They gripped their weapons tighter and shouted in unison:
—"Fuck the crowd, fuck the beasts, fuck the Empire!"
The crowd murmured, intrigued.The eastern gate crashed open. Three leopard bears thundered out, starving—hulking bodies mottled with spotted fur, claws long as daggers. Their presence alone drove the men back toward the center.
The clash was brutal.One gladiator rammed his spear into an eye, making the beast bellow before toppling. The crowd erupted in cheers.The triumph lasted seconds: another bear ripped through two men with one swipe, their blood spraying like crimson rain.
The stands rose to their feet, wild with joy. Win or massacre—it didn't matter. All they wanted was motion, blood, and death.
After twenty minutes, the last gladiators were smashed into the ground. The lone survivor, a gaunt man with a scraggly beard, was surrounded. He spat a final curse before being torn in half beneath the beast's weight.
The crowd's roar shook the coliseum.
***
The Third Round
8:00 A.M.Heat pressed down. The arena floor was no longer sand—it was a bog of blood and entrails, a crimson mire reeking of iron. Slaves still in the cells could smell it from below.
This time, twenty prisoners were dragged out, chained in pairs. They were tossed chipped short swords.
The crowd clamored for something different—and Galio obliged.
He ordered the release of the province's central terror: Terror Birds. Nearly three meters tall, axe-shaped hooked beaks, stubby wings kicking up dust. Creatures infamous for ferocity, speed, and endless hunger.
The birds lunged.Two prisoners tried to run, but chained together, they stumbled. One bird bit down, crushing a skull instantly. With its hooked beak locked in, it dragged the rest like rag dolls.
The chained men hacked desperately, some throwing blades to wound it. They scored a hit, but their bodies were shredded, smeared with dark mud—uncertain if it was their blood or the ground's.
One fighter stabbed deep into a bird's neck, halting it for a heartbeat before it shredded him apart.The stands went wild—shouting, betting, flinging coins and fruit into the pit.
A skilled gladiator dodged several strikes, then with a swift cut severed a leg, toppling the beast. The crowd thundered, demanding more.
But as he raised his sword in triumph, another bird darted in and bit his head clean off. The crowd's frenzy became deafening.
Closing the First Phase
By 8:30, the amphitheater bells tolled, signaling the end of the first block of preliminaries.Viscera and remains the beasts hadn't devoured were dragged out, though the floor remained soaked and stinking of blood.
The crowd laughed, drank, bet. For them, this was only warm-up. Scribes recorded outcomes. Galio watched calmly, though his thoughts strayed to his son, Gat.
Galio:—"Damn slaves," —he muttered under his breath.
In the cells below, the prisoners waiting for the next phase grew more resigned. They'd heard the screams, felt the ceiling shudder, the ground tremble. They knew their turn was coming.
And up in the stands, a plebeian boy asked his father:
—"Father, why are slaves so weak? Why do they die so fast?"
The man answered with a swig of cheap wine and a laugh:
—"Because they're trash, son. And trash is made to burn."
The coliseum was still hungry.And this was only the first part.