The semi-finals of the grand gladiator tournament had finally arrived — and never before had the coliseum witnessed such an ocean of humanity. Every tier of marble and stone overflowed with bodies; every archway and stairwell echoed with the feverish hum of excitement. The air itself trembled with anticipation.

It was said that over a hundred thousand souls had gathered inside the arena that day. The stands were so packed that many spectators were forced to share their seats — women sitting on their husbands' laps, children perched on shoulders, strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder, their breath mingling in the heat of the Roman sun. Yet no one complained. Comfort was a luxury; today was about spectacle, and nothing else.

The crowd's restless murmur rolled like thunder, echoing through the colossal stone amphitheater. All eyes were fixed on the sands below, where the last matches of the semi-finals were about to begin.

Once the initial duels had ended, the victors stepped forward — four men whose very names had become legend among the masses.

Septimius. Spartacus. Isak. Urdox.

But in truth, only two names mattered. The moment Septimius and Spartacus appeared, the roar of the crowd grew deafening — a living wave of sound that shook the pillars of the coliseum.

Spartacus, the rebel slave who once defied Rome itself, was a figure of awe and controversy. Many admired his courage, yet a part of the Roman populace could never fully embrace him. The shadow of rebellion still clung to his name like a curse.

Septimius, however — he was Rome's darling. A foreign mercenary from Alexandria who rose to glory in the arena, he had captivated the entire city. His white hair, crimson eyes, and the aura of calm danger he carried had turned him into something more than human in their eyes — a myth made flesh.

For men, he was an ideal — the embodiment of strength, composure, and will. For women, he was an obsession. Their shrill voices echoed his name again and again, a chant of devotion that drowned out everything else. Flowers were hurled toward the stage, petals scattering like crimson rain.

High above the chaos, in the marble balcony reserved for the elite, Caesar sat with his daughter Julia and his trusted heir, Octavius. Draped in a regal purple toga, Caesar leaned forward, his sharp gaze drifting toward the roaring masses before turning back toward the senators seated behind him.

Something felt… off.

Normally, the rows behind him would be packed with senators — clinging to his presence like moths to flame. Even those who despised him made a show of loyalty, fearing his wrath more than the gods themselves. For years, none had dared to cross him. Caesar's ruthlessness was legend; his enemies vanished as if swallowed by the earth.

Yet today, the seats behind him were sparse.

The air felt thinner. The usual hum of political sycophancy — the empty praises, the forced laughter — was gone.

"Strange," Caesar murmured under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Have I lost my shadow of fear already?"

Was it his imagination, or had the senators' cowardice begun to fade?

Octavius leaned closer, voice low. "Do you think it's because Marcus Antonius is gone?"

Caesar's gaze hardened. The name cut through the air like a blade."Perhaps," he said. "Even the dullest fool in the Senate must have realized it by now — Antonius is dead. And with him, half the army's loyalty went to the grave."

He paused, his fingers drumming the armrest. "That would explain the shift in their courage… but still, something feels unnatural."

Octavius frowned. "Unnatural how?"

"It feels like someone is stirring the waters," Caesar said slowly. His eyes glinted beneath the sunlight. "Someone is influencing them."

His mind drifted for a moment — toward whispers and absences. "That bastard Fulvius," he muttered. "I haven't seen him for some time now."

Octavius tilted his head. "You think he has something to do with the Senate's sudden defiance?"

"Johanna didn't mention him," Caesar replied. His tone was cold, calculating. "In the visions she had seen from that bastard's memories, Fulvius never appeared."

Octavius hesitated. "But she did see something, didn't she?"

"Yes," Caesar said, his voice laced with disdain. "She saw that bastard sleeping with Fulvia."

Octavius's expression darkened, though he said nothing.

Fulvia — once the wife-to-be of Marcus Antonius — had long since earned Rome's scorn. After her betrothal was broken, she had descended into scandal and frivolity. To hear that she had taken another man to her bed couldn't be shocking actually.

"Well, that doesn't matter," Caesar said at last, his voice smooth but carrying a faint, venomous amusement. "It was meant to happen this way. The Pope disappears, Crassus vanishes, and of course—" he chuckled, a low sound like a blade being drawn from its sheath, "—all suspicions fall on me. Every senator in that pit of cowards must think I've already slit their throats in secret."

Octavius didn't answer, but the tension around him spoke volumes. The young man's eyes flicked toward the ranks of senators seated below, their faces pale and stiff, their laughter forced whenever Caesar's gaze passed over them.

Indeed, the Senate's fear had reached its peak. In their eyes, Julius Caesar was no longer the brilliant general or visionary reformer who had once lifted Rome to greatness — he was a tyrant crowned in shadow, a man whose ambition devoured all who stood near him.

And now, with the disappearance of Crassus and the Pope of Athena's Church, there was no one left powerful enough to challenge him directly. Yet their absence also cast an invisible weight upon Caesar's shoulders — the unspoken accusation that he had orchestrated their fates.

He leaned back in his seat, the gold of his laurel wreath glinting under the sun. "Once I take the throne," he growled, his tone sharp and heavy, "once Rome kneels and every vestige of power is mine… I'll deal with that snake Fulvius first."

His fingers tightened on the armrest until his knuckles whitened. "That old viper has been gnawing at my side for far too long. I've tolerated him because his name carries too much weight, because his house is old and his allies too many. If I move against him now, his claws will drag me down in death — he's prepared for that, I know it."

For years, Caesar had played the long game, letting Fulvius whisper and weave behind the scenes while he built his own empire in the open. But the time for patience was nearly over.

"After tomorrow," he murmured, a cruel smirk curling across his lips, "the waiting ends."

The thought pleased him. For a moment, a flicker of triumph shone in his eyes. But then — it vanished.

A sudden roar erupted from the coliseum below, a tidal wave of sound that shook the air itself.

"SEPTIMIUS!"

"SEPTIMIUS!!"

"SEPTIMIUS!! SEPTIMIUS!! SEPTIMIUS!!"

The name thundered across the arena, a chant so powerful it drowned out even the pounding of the war drums. Caesar's smirk faded into a grimace. His jaw tightened as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in fury.

The first match of the semifinals had begun — Septimius versus Isak, the Hero of Amun-Ra.

And yet, to Caesar's disgust, the crowd's devotion was not for the Amun Ra hero, but for that damned white-haired foreigner he hated more than any man alive.

Septimius.

He walked across the sands of the arena as though he were born to rule them. Every step radiated unshakable confidence, his movements effortless, precise — the posture of a man untouched by fear or doubt. When he raised his hand to the roaring masses, the cheers swelled to a fever pitch, the entire coliseum trembling beneath their voices.

Caesar's eyes darkened.

"Caesar…" Octavius muttered under his breath, sensing the storm in his tone.

"I know," Caesar replied quietly, though his voice trembled with restrained rage.

He was too dangerous.

Not merely because of his strength — Caesar could stomach strong men. He had slain many. But fame… fame was something else. The kind of wild, worshipful adoration that Nathan commanded among Romans was a power far more potent than swords or gold.

It was unnatural.

No one should be able to enthrall a crowd like that. No man, not even Caesar himself, had ever drawn such devotion merely by existing.

And yet Nathan did.

Of course, Caesar couldn't possibly know the truth — that Aphrodite's passive charm coursed through Nathan's veins, amplifying his natural magnetism until it transcended reason. His luck stats, too, only heightened it further, weaving coincidence and fate into the illusion of perfection.

In short — Nathan was unbeatable, not only in strength but in presence.

And sitting behind Caesar, flushed and trembling, was living proof of that curse.

Julia.

Caesar's daughter leaned forward over the balcony rail, her fists clenched tightly, her eyes wide with admiration. Her blond hair shimmered in the sunlight, her lips parted in a breathless smile.

"Septimius…" she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement.

Her cheeks were pink, her eyes glowed, her whole being seemed pulled toward him.

She had never looked at Marcus Antonius that way — not even when he was alive, not even when his charms were at their height. Antonius had been handsome, yes, but vain, flippant, and unfaithful. Caesar had always known his daughter's heart was never truly his.

But now… watching her gaze down at Nathan, Caesar's blood boiled.

The man he hated most in the world had somehow conquered even his daughter's heart.

Below, on the sands, Isak, the Hero of Amun-Ra, stood opposite Nathan — his muscles tense, his expression dark with humiliation.

The Roman arbiter called his name, but his voice was instantly swallowed by the sea of screams.

Only one name existed in the arena that day.

"SEPTIMIUS!"

Isak's jaw tightened until the muscles twitched. Beneath the painted helmet, his eyes burned with a furious, private oath. I will crush that trash and show these bastards who is truly worthy of worship, he told himself, teeth clenched so hard the taste of metal filled his mouth. Around him the sand glittered with the blood and sweat of earlier fights, but his focus narrowed to a single white-haired figure across the arena.

Nathan, however, did not return Isak's hostility. He moved as if he occupied a different layer of the world, his mind drifting upward even as his feet stood on the hemorrhaged sand. His pupils tracked something else — something everyone else in the coliseum could only sense as a presiding chill in the air.

Above the arena, like patrons at a play, the gods had already taken their places. The crowd could see only a few — the grand silhouettes gracing the sky on levitating thrones: Dionysus, half-smiling, haloed by wine-dark laughter; Athena calm; and Pandora, wrapped in that slender, infuriating veil. Behind them Hermes hovered with the faint, irreverent grin of a god who enjoys trouble. Their presence turned the midday sun into something ceremonial; shadows pooled and leapt with unnatural intention.

Nathan purposely kept his face from Pandora's. He didn't need the veil lifted to know the truth. He knew her like he knew the cut of his own hand — as sure as the rhythm of his breath. Anger seethed behind the fabric; it licked at the edges of visible composure and threatened to boil over. He felt it as a pressure, a tightening in the air that made the hair on his arms rise.

She had every right to be furious. He hadn't been to Demeter's garden in two days — two days since the last of their secret meetings — and Athena had lied for him, painting the absence as his refusal. Nathan imagined Pandora's emotions as a coiled spring: humiliation, betrayal, an ember of jealous pain. If she chose to strike with the Box's power, it could be a catastrophe. Yet, frustratingly, she had restrained herself.

"As expected," Nathan thought, a small, almost private smirk tugging at his lips. Her restraint proved something useful: whatever tangled web of fury and hurt she felt was focused on him alone. That concentration meant she hadn't unleashed it — yet. It meant there was a bar still keeping that storm at bay. And that bar could likely be prodded.

Isak's voice cut through Nathan's attention — a raw, venomous shout meant to peel the gods' eyes away from him and back toward the duel. "I will beat you, trash—" he began, but Nathan treated him like wind on his skin: noticeable, but meaningless.

Silence rippled outward as the impossible happened. Without breaking his calm, Nathan drifted off the sand as if some invisible hand had lifted him. The crowd inhaled as one. A thousand throats, a thousand hearts, and a hundred thousand pairs of eyes watched the foreign gladiator rise.

He floated toward the VIP balcony.

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