The instant the Roman arbiter's voice thundered across the arena, the air seemed to crackle.
The gladiators stiffened as one, their muscles coiling, breaths sharpening, eyes narrowing. They knew the storm was about to break.
On the opposite side, forty Roman soldiers advanced in perfect formation, shields raised and weapons gleaming. Their discipline was matched only by their arrogance—snickers and sneers escaping their lips as they closed in on the so-called slaves who dared stand against them.
"Stay sharp. Stay together," Spartacus commanded, his voice low but carrying the iron of authority. He stepped to the fore, his presence as unyielding as the walls of the Colosseum itself.
Behind him, the gladiators obeyed without hesitation, splitting into compact groups of five, moving with the instinct of men who had bled together. Their formation was loose, but purposeful, a living reflection of their hard-earned unity.
