Nicolas was a man in his early fifties, albeit one who was still in his prime. After all, he was a towering presence, standing a full head taller than most while sporting a physique that hadn't diminished with age. His broad shoulders, muscled arms and thick legs bore witness to the many years he had spent in the trade, supervising and helping with his merchandise's movement. His face, a landscape of time and experience, sported a thick, silver mane that cascaded past his shoulders, often tied back in a loose ponytail that accentuated his sharp jawline. The wrinkles lining his face were not of age but of wisdom, each telling a tale of a deal made, a rival bested, or a storm weathered. His piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of the deep seas, had an uncanny ability to see through deception, many faltering under their gaze. Clothed in the finest silks from all over Arcadia, his attire was a tapestry of rich browns and golds. The robes he wore flowed with grace and were adorned with intricate patterns of carriages and local monsters, symbolizing his conquest of the Gruzian market. Around his neck was also a heavy gold chain that signified his wealth and stature, with a pendant of their family's crest attached to it.
But it wasn't just his appearance that made him a force to be reckoned with. Instead, it was his aura, the one that made him feel like he always calculating and on the hunt. People felt it when he entered a room, with the air growing heavy and the chatter, dimming. He had a presence that demanded respect and instilled a mix of fear and admiration, something the aide was currently experiencing herself. Based on a few stories she had heard, many had tried to cross Nicolas in the past, only for them all to deeply regret it, for beneath the veneer of a successful merchant lay the heart of a warrior, the cunning of a fox, and the ambition of a dragon. In the bustling Megapolis of Gruzia, where fortunes were made and lost every day, Nicolas Wixton was a legend, a titan amongst men.
But despite how grand his existence was, he was not the reason why she had lost her tongue. No, this honor belonged to the man next to him, the one whose reputation resounded throughout Arcadia. It was, of course, Emperor Marcus the Forth.
Now in his late forties, the exceptional man bore a statuesque physique, chiseled from rigorous training and countless battles, each scar on his body a testament to a foe vanquished, a rebellion quelled or a traitor slain. His face was a masterpiece of stoicism, carved with sharp features and a square jaw, with skin that was weathered and tanned from the countless hours spent overseeing his empire and ensuring its growth and stability. A neatly trimmed jet-black beard, speckled with gray, framed his often-taut lips, which rarely broke into a smile but were always ready to issue a command. But despite these catching features, his eyes remained the centerpiece. Deep-set and coal-black, they gleamed with an intelligence and intensity that could unsettle the bravest of soldiers. Even when gazing upon his subjects, it felt as though he could peer into the depths of their souls. Draped in armor even in times of peace, his attire was as much a symbol of his might as it was a protective shell. Its dark metal bore the sigil of the Gruzian Hammer, a symbol of the nation's heritage, clashing against a blade, a stark reminder of their tumultuous history. A dark crimson gradient cape, representing his long and prosperous bloodline, also hung behind him, casting an imposing shadow that mirrored his influence. But just like Nicolas, his looks were but a mere fraction of the power he truly projected, as his aura was a mix of both dread and reverence, his strategies in war and governance also unparalleled. His voice, deep and resonant, could soothe an ally or terrify an enemy. When he spoke, Gruzia listened, and when he commanded, the people obeyed. There were various rumors whispered in hushed tones, some that even spoke of the dark arts he had mastered or of the pacts that he had brokered with ancient deities, granting him his formidable power. But whether these tales were true or mere legends, one thing was for certain: Emperor Marcus the Forth was a force that could make all tremble. Under his reign, Gruzia hadn't just prospered; it had dominated, its influence gradually expanding throughout the continent.
Of course, the aide had seen him from afar before, but never this close, and the experience was proving more overwhelming than anything she had ever imagined.
When he noticed her expression, Nicolas didn't wait before introducing them.
"Oh. I suppose you weren't told. Please pay respects to his Majesty, Emperor Marcus."
Immediately, she bowed and implored forgiveness.
"I've been insolent!"
Her voice trembled, still clearly in shock about whom she had just disturbed. She simply couldn't believe that Michael hadn't told her about whom she was truly meeting…
Wait…
This was something even he would never omit, especially considering the significance of his Majesty's presence. Was this actually an impromptu visit?!
Meanwhile, Marcus sighed in response before waiving it off.
"It's fine, it's fine… Why did you disturb us?"
She instantly straightened and, without wasting another breath, delivered her message.
"Merchant Lloyd has agreed to wager his bodyguard."
But instead of Nicolas responding, it was Marcus.
"Hmmm. It seems the plan has worked. Very good."
"Indeed, but I still can't believe that one of my useless heirs made you rush your plans… I'm sorry."
"Don't mind it, old friend. The end result will be the same anyway."
But despite the Emperor's reassurance, the Wixton Patriarch was still clearly annoyed, making him promptly dismiss the aide without fanfare. All the tension in her body seem to disappear at that moment, as she couldn't wait to escape their presence.
Once they were alone again, Nicolas continued.
"But I have to ask, is that bodyguard really worth the trouble?"
The Emperor then took a sip of his wine, deciding to enjoy the news.
"A spy of mine believes that his talent may rival that of our Five Greats."
This revelation made the merchant straighten in his chair, his curiosity greatly piqued.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I was skeptical at first, but he's been monitored ever since, and the reports have been quite encouraging."
"Then he's definitely an asset worth securing. However, how sure are you that you can bring him over to our side?"
"He doesn't seem particularly attached to his boss, whose name's Lloyd I believe."
"So, this was who Thomas antagonized… What a headache."
It was Nicolas' turn to drink, subsequently making the glass twirl between his fingers, now deep in thought.
"If I had known that this meant so much, I'd have secured this myself. I've heard that my son's hired Rudy to fight. Do you think he'll be enough?"
Marcus, who was now watching the conclusion of the preliminaries, took a second to answer.
"Frankly, I'd be quite surprised if he didn't win. After all, he's one of the top mercenaries roaming around, although a few steps behind the five Greats. But if… If for some reason the bodyguard were to win, this'd be an even greater victory for us. Just offering whatever he asked would be worth it."
The Wixton Patriarch then also turned his attention to the bloody scene below, silently agreeing with his Ruler's assessment. No matter which scenario prevailed, the Emperor was sure to come out on top.
"Let's hope they give us a great show."
On that note, they both finished their drinks before leaving the suite, as the roars of the crowd drowned the victor in praise.
⁂
Yelinda seemed to regret revealing that last detail, as she had been explicitly told to only serve as their guide. Unveiling such a key detail, especially with the order coming from way above, was a massive blunder. However, her worry became so apparent that the engineer felt the need to reassure her.
"Thanks, and don't worry about it. It'll just be between us."
Following this, both him and Alexander shared a discreet, but very showing nod, which instantly calmed her. But right after this, a loud ring suddenly resounded in the room, one that was quickly followed by a crystal-clear voice announcing the event's beginning.
"Fighters of the Gladiators' Showdown, please make way to the Arena! I repeat, please make way to the Arena. If you're new, please follow the instructions of your assigned guide. This'll be the only announcement, and anyone who doesn't show up will be considered a forfeit, thus losing their wager."
The voice caught Lloyd by surprise, as it came from every direction instead of a single point like a speaker. But before he could investigate it any further, Yelinda hurriedly spoke.
"We have to leave right away. They didn't mention it in the message, but even being late will result in a disqualification. Please follow me."
And just like when they had arrived, they once again delved into the arena's bowels, taking corridor after corridor in the hopes of reaching its center. On the way, they also met with other participants, slowly creating a group where tensions became quite palpable. Some appeared completely unbothered and chatted, while others were dead serious, as if already calculating the gains they'd bring back home. A few curious expressions were also thrown their way, which wasn't surprising after the registration's episode. After all, it was extremely rare for the chairman to make such unreasonable demands, but even more so to see him get unceremoniously dismissed. Of course, very few were privy to their short but marking history at the United, making this even more baffling.
As the group steadily progressed, the distant roar of the crowd became ever so present, a persistent and growing drumbeat that hinted at the fervor beyond. Magical lights flickered beside them, casting a dance of shadows upon the cold stone, as they all prepared to make their entrance. A strong smell of blood, sweat, and iron then began to fill the air, a heady mixture both exciting and worrying. The previous chatter had died down, instead replaced by an eeriness that represented the brutality of such an event. And then, as the first ones stepped from the shadows into the full embrace of the suns, the muted hum exploded into an earth-shattering cacophony. The arena, packed to its limits with a sea of humanity, seemed to come alive, its very foundation quaking under the weight of the collective anticipation and passion.
The fighters, emerging one after the other from the bowels of the Sanguis, were met with a wall of sound that washed over them like a tidal wave. The cheers, screams, and shouts of thousands upon thousands coalesced into a force that was almost tangible. It was as if the very air was charged with electricity, every hair standing on end, every nerve tingling with the raw power of the moment.
For Lloyd, this was unlike anything he had ever experienced, his emotions so strong they completely overwhelmed him, causing his mind to temporarily blank. This sense of grandeur truly hadn't been conveyed properly when he saw the stage earlier. But for Alexander, the former Macedonian King and greatest War General, such a feeling brought back memories of glory, memories of when he was at his peak, admired and worshiped by all. For him, this was everything he could ask for.
As they walked onto the baked and bloodied sand, the fighters' armors and weapons gleamed with a deadly luster, the representatives next to them appearing like brokers of death. No longer mere men, they became symbols of honor, strength and sacrifice. The weight of this event upon them, they moved with purpose, each step a dance of pride and defiance.
High above, the aristocracy of Gruzia watched from their gilded suites, their silken robes lusciously blending with their seats. Their expressions, meanwhile, became a mixture of amusement, fascination and disdain, as if they were observing a grand play rather than the brutal realities of combat.
"SILEEEEEEEEEEEEEENCE!"
Out of nowhere, a voice came crashing down, completely silencing the crowd and even jolting the stunned Lloyd. But instead of frightening the masses, it instead made everyone turn their sights toward a platform located at the highest, most visible point of the stadium, as if waiting for someone's entrance.
"PLEASE WELCOME YOUR RULER, YOUR SOVEREIGN AND THE EMPEROR OF GRUZIAAAAAAAAAA, MARCUS THE FORTH!!!"