Brisena's thoughts drifted far beyond the roaring crowd of the arena. Her eyes locked on the man standing at the center of the honor podium—upright posture, commanding gaze—the one who had just ignited hope in the hearts of the enslaved. There was something deeply familiar about him.
"Damma Lorexius…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You're alive…?"
That figure—Lord Rius—not only resembled him. The way he spoke, his gestures… it was all too familiar. Just like the young Damma who had always stood beside her, her childhood friend… her guardian who had vanished years ago. Now, he stood before her once again under a new name, leading a cause for the oppressed. A brilliant idea. A fight that had become something greater than spectacle—it was justice itself.
In the noble stands, tension suddenly grew thick.
"This arena... has crossed the line," muttered Lord Meruz coldly. "He—Lord Rius, or whoever he truly is—has stirred something far beyond mere combat."
Lord Kohali nodded, uncertainty clouding his features.
"I know that face. He was once mine… Damerius. Before I sold him to Nicolo. But how can a common slave rise to this… to become the master of an arena?"
Meruz's stare sharpened.
"Didn't I warn you not to sell that clever boy? You chose Nicolo's gold over a mind that could have changed empires."
Kohali lowered his voice.
"And what if he wasn't a common slave? What if… Damerius is the son of Prince Xaverius?"
"What did you say?" Meruz's brows furrowed.
"Listen. His mother once lived in my household. A woman shrouded in mystery, never named. Prince Xaverius, the First Prince, forbade anyone from questioning her origins. Damerius grew quickly. Too quickly. Too intelligent for any ordinary child."
Meruz stared blankly toward the arena.
"If that's true... if Damerius carries imperial blood—then everything we're seeing might have been orchestrated from the shadows by Xaverius himself."
Meanwhile, Damerius—known to the world as Lord Rius—stood tall in the center of the arena.
"Now..." his voice boomed across the stands. "Let us welcome those who have waited for this moment their entire lives! Ten chosen slaves… who do not fight for entertainment, but for their very survival!"
The heavy wooden gates creaked open. Ten figures emerged—worn faces, scarred bodies, bones visible beneath tired skin. Yet their eyes burned with determination. They stood in formation, exchanging glances that said: This is no longer the day of slavery—this is the day of freedom.
Then, the opposing gates opened. Twenty seasoned lutadors stepped out with confidence. Clad in hardened leather and wielding gleaming weapons, they moved like predators—sharp, focused, deadly. A hush of dread fell over the crowd.
Damerius took one step back and murmured,
"Let blood and courage decide the end."
The gong sounded.
Rogg's gaze sharpened, locked onto the arena, though he remained alert beside Magnoli, whose safety was his charge. Across the crowd, he spotted Pragyan and the freed Migase slowly gathering among the common stands.
Elsewhere, Nakhsa and Lord Balin were seated in the guest seats reserved for chosen allies. Their eyes never left the battlefield. They understood what this was—more than a tournament, it was a statement. A reckoning. A moment to prove to all watching that freedom was worth fighting for.
The lutadors from Nicolo and Tois's side surged toward the weapon racks, shoving and scrambling to seize swords, spears, maces. There was no unity—only desperation to be the first to draw blood.
Meanwhile, the ten fighters of Damerius stood still. They didn't rush. Their weapons had already been chosen—simple, but precise. They moved in tight formation, with discipline and shared purpose.
"Crush them!" someone in the crowd shouted.
But what sent chills across the arena wasn't the chaos. It was the calm. The ten stood like soldiers. Trained. Focused. They didn't flinch, even as their enemies charged with wild screams.
And when the first wave hit… they held.
Their formation remained intact. They blocked, parried, struck back with ruthless precision. Every weak point was targeted. Every opening exploited. When one lutador fell, they retreated briefly, reformed, and held the line.
"Who are they?" cried a noble from the upper seats.
"They fight like imperial soldiers!"
But not all went smoothly.
One of them—a youth of twenty with a fire in his eyes—broke formation. He fought with raw bravery, slashing one opponent, kicking another. But he was surrounded. Five enemies closed in. He pierced one, wounded another—but a sword eventually drove through his chest. He collapsed. Dead.
The others quickly sealed the gap, tightening the line. But the loss struck hard. Their resolve now burned with vengeance.
The battle grew bloodier. Two more from Damerius's side fell—one beaten down with a mace until his body no longer moved.
Eight remained.
But the enemy ranks were cracking. Their lack of coordination became their downfall. Damerius's warriors struck with precision, isolating the weaker ones and eliminating them.
One by one, they fell.
Only three remained—hulking brutes, stronger than the rest. They attacked with fury. But the disciplined fighters flanked them, splitting them apart.
Three against seven.
One was brought down through sheer force. The other two kept fighting—bleeding, gasping—until their strength failed.
And at last... all twenty opponents lay in the dust.
Silence.
Five of Damerius's fighters still stood. Their bodies were torn, bloodied beyond counting, their breaths ragged. But they were alive.
The entire arena rose to their feet.
The cheering was thunderous. Not just for the spectacle—but for the triumph of spirit. They had just witnessed history.
In the royal box, Brisena could no longer hold back her emotions. Her eyes glistened as she looked down at Damerius—whoever he truly was now.
A hero reborn.
A symbol.
A revolution.
"He's no longer just a merchant," Brisena murmured. "He's a true leader."
Magnoli glanced sideways at her and gave a sly grin.
"Are you sure all he wants is to lead an arena?"
Brisena didn't answer.
Because deep inside, she knew—this was just the beginning of something far greater. A movement born from the lower class.
The crowd erupted into a frenzy of triumph. The voices of the common folk filled the skies of Patisia, a storm of cheers that could not be silenced. They clapped, whistled, and shouted the names of the slave fighters who had just defeated twenty professional lutadors. For the first time, the so-called "lower class" felt truly alive—as if their voices had finally reached the heavens.
But in the nobles' gallery, the atmosphere had turned ice-cold. Faces once composed now grew tense—aristocrats shrouded in unease and repressed fury.
"A slave victory…" hissed one wealthy merchant, eyes narrowing toward the arena. "This wasn't just a fight. This was a message—calculated and deliberate—by Lord Rius."
"He knows exactly what he's doing," muttered another noble, his tone flat but venomous.
"This isn't about entertainment anymore. This is a spark… that could ignite rebellion."
Back at the heart of the arena, Damerius stood tall. The dust from battle had yet to settle, and blood still stained the sand. But his gaze was steady—unyielding. His eyes swept across the crowd, as if making sure they all understood the meaning behind what they had just witnessed.
"This…" he said softly, almost a whisper. Yet to those who heard, his words cut deep—not just rhetoric, but truth made flesh.
Overhead, gray clouds began to gather. The air grew cooler, tinged with unease. As if even the sky sensed it: a storm was coming.
Damerius stood in dominance. He had bested Lord Nicolo—the master of Western Patisia—and Lord Tois, whose territory was the largest in the region.
"An extraordinary victory for Lord Rius and his fighters!" cried the announcer with exuberance.
"Let the drums of triumph thunder! Shout their names—the heroes of the underclass who have restored dignity to the people today!"
Drums pounded through the arena. Musicians in the gallery struck a rousing rhythm, lifting the celebration into something majestic—proof that even the finest spectacle could belong to all.
But before the celebration reached its height, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the flow.
Heavy, proud, and far too arrogant for a sacred moment like this, a man adorned in lavish attire walked into the center of the arena. Silk draped from his shoulders shimmered in the sun. Gold and gems sparkled on his hands. He was no ordinary noble—he was one of Larfex's most powerful lords.
Lord Meruz.
Fueled by outrage and refusing to accept the outcome, he carried himself with unmistakable fury. His expression was cold, his smile thin but taunting. And then—his voice rang out through the arena:
"Why don't we see the slave leader himself enter the fight?!"
The crowd fell silent. Eyes darted around, disbelief spreading like wildfire. A noble of Meruz's stature was issuing a direct challenge?
"Is Lord Rius only brave enough to stand on the sidelines, sending others to risk their lives for him?!" Meruz continued. "If this is about honor, then face it yourself! No weapons. No intent to kill. One-on-one—until one of you can no longer rise!"
The atmosphere shifted. Tension thickened. Even the drums stopped.
All eyes turned to Lord Rius.
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he walked calmly to the center of the arena and halted. A faint smile formed—calm, cold, and cutting.
"Forgive me… who are you again?" he asked, voice low but resonant in the hush. "I've never heard your name before. But your outfit… well, it certainly blinds."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Meruz stiffened, insulted. His face flushed with anger. But before he could reply, Damerius spoke again—this time, more serious.
"This victory is not about me. It belongs to them… those who bled and died for what every human being deserves: honor. Dignity."
Roars of support erupted again. Applause. Chants. The name Rius echoed through the arena with thunderous energy.
Yet Damerius wasn't done. With steady steps, he approached Meruz, stopping just a few feet away.
"But if you—or anyone—wants to question my courage," he said, voice quiet but razor-sharp,
"then I won't step back. I will fight. Here and now. Against any man with noble blood."
Silence.
Then—an explosion of cheers. The audience rose to their feet. The name "Rius! Rius! Rius!" surged like a war chant.
In the royal tribune, the princes watched in silence.
Magnoli leaned back with a sly smirk.
Dorges clenched his fists, fury brewing beneath his skin.
And Brisena… she simply stared at Damerius, her eyes shining—caught between pride and the haunting ache of old memories.