Cartag Colosseum – Underground Corridors
Slave Waiting Area
The metallic echo of the gates closing behind Sam thundered through the passageways. His dark suit was still lightly stained with the dried greenish blood of the Jundurs.
He stepped forward under the yellowish glow of the torches crackling along the stone walls. The expectant silence snapped at once: many who had seen the way Galio treated him had followed out of sheer curiosity.
They were the slaves and newly brought veteran gladiators. They surrounded him without thinking, as if an invisible force drew them toward him. A mix of fear, hope, and confusion shone in every pair of eyes fixed on him:
—"How did you do that?" asked a hunched old man, gripping his back as if pain pierced him more than curiosity.
—"Where did that strange melody from earlier come from?" said a child, clutching a spear bigger than his own body.
—"Can I fight like you?" asked an undernourished young man, his eyes burning with hunger and ambition.
—"Who are you really?" said a veteran, his voice heavy with unease.
—"Are you an apostle or some kind of god?" murmured a woman, sweat beading on her forehead.
—"What's your name?" asked a girl with a hard gaze, her eye patch making her look fiercer than fragile.
The questions fell one after another, clashing like stones in a flooded river.
Brian, hidden behind the cold display of the CI-Mask, remained still, breathing slowly. Inside the helmet, he closed his eyes for a moment. The room's murmur faded as if he had submerged his head underwater.
Then he spoke, his voice dry, firm, slicing through the air:
—First: I'm not a god. Second: I have no name. Third: you cannot fight like me… and lastly: do not place your faith or hopes in another human being. I do what I must and what I want to do.
The echo of his words slammed against the stone walls. A heavy silence cloaked the room, so dense even the crackling of a torch sounded intrusive. Expectant gazes froze—and then, from a shadowed cell, the only surviving slave from the preliminary rounds, the one who knew of his power, spoke up. His young voice trembled with contained anger:
—"Then… why did you let our people die in the preliminaries?"
Every pair of eyes turned toward him, the air itself holding its breath. Brian tilted the helmet slightly toward the slave and simply lifted his chin in the direction of the arena beyond the stone walls, answering with brutal bluntness:
—Then… look at that arena. Do you see the strong protecting the weak?
His words were blades that ripped away any illusion. Some slaves tightened their jaws; others lowered their heads as if struck.
One of the few who still wanted to believe, trembling with rage and hope, replied:
—"But we're slaves. Only together can we be strong."
Brian lowered his gaze, and for a moment the torchlight reflected dimly off the mask. He seemed to ponder, but when he straightened again, he did so firmly. His voice was merciless:
—Correct. But I learned to be strong alone… I rebuilt myself over and over. I can protect, I can destroy. Everything I do, I do my way.
The faint murmur of hope shattered like glass. The tiny spark on their faces died, replaced by resignation, fear, and a silence that stung like shared shame. No one spoke to him again.
Because the blow of those phrases crushed what little had bloomed in their hearts. What could have been hope crumbled into thick, suffocating silence.
Then Quincy appeared, projected on his floating pink screen, confronting him:
[Master, that was inhuman. Why did you have to treat them so harshly? (Ŏ_Ŏ)]
Brian tilted his head slightly, answering in a low voice, as if speaking to a ghost:
—Quincy, if I wasn't clear… they would believe a lie.
[Lie or not? What a dilemma, master! But the fact they must live without any hope is devastating. (◄╭╮►)]
His hands slowly curled into fists. After a moment, he answered with a sigh that echoed inside the mask:
—I know… it's cruel, but accurate. I'm not a guide, I'm just clear. If I let them cling to false hope, it wouldn't change the fact that they're going to die in battle; no one cares, this society doesn't care.
[But you do care… am I wrong, master? (╯.╰)]
—I care… but I don't have the resources, the infrastructure, or the capacity yet to change this shit.
[Of course you do… you're the most powerful being in this world, you have the most advanced army, and you have Artia… you have everything to do it. (◉‿◉)]
—If I act, I become a tyrant… I'm not a god, Quincy. My ego or ambitions aren't that big.
[Then why do you want to build a city, why a continental bank? (=_=)]
—Because power is a means, not an end… power is, to me, the only way to guarantee my freedom, my autonomy, my independence… because freedom is what every system, society, and philosophy seeks to deny. And denying it proves it exists.
[...]
[Alright, master, I no longer wish to speak with you. (Ǒ.Ǒ)]
Brian exhaled slowly, as if carrying an invisible weight, while the hologram's light faded and the crackle of the torches once again became the only sound in that thick silence.
The slaves who still looked at him exchanged whispers. They didn't see a savior or a monster, but a madman. What could have been their hope was, in reality, a little insane bastard.
And the few gladiators watching from the corners understood it their own way: that masked boy wasn't a savior—he was a lunatic… a dangerous bastard.
Meanwhile, beyond those damp stone walls, the arena roared: the distant echo of the announcer boomed through the corridors, opening the next battle.But in that room, the real battle had been another one: the battle of hope—and everyone had lost.