"Difficulties are things that show what men are."

 — Epictetus, Discourses (Book III, Chapter 24)

"Thrust!" A deep, booming voice commands from behind me. Twisting my waist, I lance my spear forward, the tip whistling through the air. Snapping it back into place, I raise my shield high. 'We've been at this all day.' I glance up; the sun is well beyond its zenith, unforgiving in its intensity, casting harsh shadows across the sprawling training yard. The walls of the Ludus stand tall, marred by scars and pockmarks from years of brutal training and abuse.

"Advance!" comes the next order. I lean into my shield, kicking off the ground with my back leg. My body catapults forward. A cloud of dust billows in my wake.

"Thrust!" follows while I'm still airborne. I stomp my lead foot down, pivoting to thrust my spear, using the momentum of the lunge to propel it forward. My chest heaves, lungs are overworked bellows. A stitch grips my side. I can feel my strength waning; each breath scrapes at my raw throat like shards of glass. 'Is he going to keep at it 'til one of us breaks?' My jaw clenches in defiance. 'Well, it won't be me. I have plenty more to give!' The echo of my father's voice urges me on, 'Pahahaha! Boy, you have your mother's strength!' Memories of all I've lost drive me on.

"Sweep!" is barked out. I lower my stance and swing my arm in a rapid arc. My spear becomes a scythe, ready to reap a bloody harvest. My arm burns with fatigue.

"Retreat!" the voice calmly commands. I sigh in relief, shuffling backward, muscles cramping. My bronzed back burdened by blazing beams of Helios. My mind drifts. 'Maybe now we can rest...'

"ENDURE!" roars the voice. 'What?!' I peer over the rim of my shield. A giant shadow looms. My gaze rises, halting upon a colossal eye. Our Gigante, a Cyclops of titanic stature, towers above with thick limbs built like twisted tree trunks, pinches a boulder between his giant thumb and forefinger. 'Gods, he makes that look like a pebble.' I grimace; my palms slick with sweat. He tilts his head, a grin splitting his face. Childlike glee shines in his eye as he cocks back his arm, as if this were all just a game of catch.

"Gods damn it!" I swear, hurriedly ducking my head and bracing myself.

GONG! My shield quakes. My arm grows numb. I grit my teeth, planting my legs for another—

GONG! My bones rattle; legs grow unsteady. Peeking over my shield again, I see that damned eye staring right back. 'Ugh, this misbegotten oaf!' I curse under my breath, clenching my jaw, the lines sharp with defiance. He beams, his eye crinkling and a gap-toothed smile revealed. I scowl, bracing once again.

GONG! I can't feel my fingers. Tremors run up my arm. The world spins.

GONG! A thunderbolt crashes into my guard, driving me to one knee. My ears ring even as blood pulses through them, my heart pounding like a thundering chariot. Amidst the onslaught, I seize a fleeting breath, muscles tense. A lone bead of sweat trails down my brow, dripping into an eye. It stings. My thin, wiry body strains like a battered spring, struggling to absorb the unending blows. For a heartbeat, my mind drifts—to the life that I was taken from; that was taken from me.

GONG! To my right, I see the boy beside me crater the ground like a fallen star. A ring of dust explodes outward. A fierce gust of wind buffets me. My midnight hair comes alive, whipping wildly, whirling in a frenzied dance like shadowy tendrils. As the dust settles, I see his spear and shield lying uselessly to either side of his prone form. He's not moving to get back in position. His breath comes in ragged bursts. His chest moves like a banner flapping in the wind. 'At least he's out of this hell,' I think grimly.

"GURAHAHAHA!" the cyclops' booming laughter batters like boulders, his eye glints in mischief, pleased by the chaos. I quickly push myself back to my feet, wary of more missiles, muttering, 'He's really getting his rocks off to this...' A toothy grin breaks through despite myself, stretching wide with defiance

"Hold!" The yard falls still. Muscles taut I hesitate to lower my guard. 'Surely this is enough.' Looking around, we stand like wilted reeds, sagging and lifeless. Then, the steady, reverberating thump of heavy footfalls beats a rhythm into the silence. The Doctore steps forward, as solid and unyielding as the stone walls around us, his tall, lean frame etched with powerful muscle. Polished obsidian skin gleams under the midday sun as his flint-sharp gaze sweeps over us. Our gutted, greedy gasps and ragged, reedy rasps form a strained chorus to his measured march.

"At ease!" I struggle to my full height, tension draining from my limbs as I rest the butt of my spear on the ground.

"Someone get that boy to the Medicus," the Doctore commands, nodding toward one of the Tirones, who quickly drag him away.

The Doctore's gaze sweeps over us, his eyes hard and assessing. He pauses, his stare skewering me in place. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sweltering heat. 'First the cyclops and now the Doctore. Could it be… I'm too handsome?' I wonder, resisting the urge to blush and avert my eyes.

"Some of you may think today was hard," he begins, his voice cutting through the stifling silence like a blade. "But this was merely the first strike of the hammer."

He paces before us, footsteps echoing like a steady drumbeat.

"In the Ludus, your past means nothing. Here, you are all Novicii—nothing more. You are raw and unrefined ore."

He stops, the weight of his words settling over us like iron. I swallow hard.

"It is my duty to hone you into the sharpest of blades. This training ground is my forge, and I am the smith. The heat of the sun, the weight of your weapons, the pain in your muscles—these are the flames of the crucible that will purify you."

He gestures toward the cyclops.

"The Gigante is my hammer, striking you relentlessly, shaping you, folding you, testing your limits on the unyielding anvil of this arena. Some of you will crack under the blows. So be it, an unproven weapon is worthless. Only the strongest iron can endure the process and be forged into a deadly blade."

He nods toward the fallen novice being carried away.

"Weakness and indiscipline will earn you a fate worse than his. In the arena, failure will forfeit your fate to the hands of a capricious crowd, howling like beasts, baying for blood—or worse, to mercurial nobles just as pleased to toss you their trimmings as to put you down."

A suffocating shroud of silence settles upon us. Like Atlas, the enormity of this new reality bears down on me, heavy as the heavens. I swallow, my throat a desert, my chest in a vice. 'The nobles—the Donquixote family razed my world to ruins and then salted the earth.' Around me, a few Novicii shift uneasily, their own reality sinking in.

"The arena does not suffer the weak of will or frail of body," he continues. "You are arms yet to be shaped in sweat and blood, gladius yet to be honed in conflict and violence. Embrace this transformation, and you may live to taste glory."

His gaze locks onto me, piercing.

"Some of you have caught the Gigante's eye—a rare feat," he says, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Consider it a sign that you may one day prove worthy of representing this Ludus in the Corrida Coliseum.

Your former lives are no more, like ash carried off by the wind," he finishes, his voice hardening like steel quenched in ice. "Only through enduring this crucible can you be tempered and wrought into something of worth. Fail to do so, and you'll be left shattered on the ground of the Coliseum."

He turns sharply on his heel, marching away with that same measured stride. The Gigante lingers a moment longer, his single eye gleaming with amusement. He waves, offering me a guileless, gap-toothed grin that sends a chill through my weary bones, before lumbering after the Doctore.

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Around me, the other Novicii begin to disperse—some heading toward the barracks, others collapsing where they stand.

'No matter how hard they push us, I won't break,' I vow silently, planting my feet as if anchoring myself to the earth. 'I will endure.'

◦ — ◦ ——— ◦ —————— ✵ —————— ◦ ——— ◦ — ◦

The sun bowed low, casting a molten, mellow glow over the Ludus as the day's heat waned. The metallic din of combat had stilled, replaced by the murmured conversations of weary warriors and the gentle rustle of leaves caught in the breeze. The garden stood as an odd, tender relic in a place built by blood as much as brick.

I stepped out of the cafeteria, the taste of barley bread and a hint of bitter greens still lingering on my tongue. Meat—true meat—was rare, reserved only for those who had claimed a beast's strength in the arena. For most of us, that day had not come. My stomach was full, but my thoughts gnawed at me, refusing to be sated. The path to the barracks curved through a secluded garden, an oasis of wildflowers and ancient olive trees, their knotted branches reaching out like wizened hands.

The sky above darkened into an endless stretch, stars blinked awake, shyly at first, before settling into a familiar canvas. 'These same stars watched over me back home,' I thought, the memory cutting through me like the edge of a cold blade.

Visions swept over me unbidden: my father's calloused hands guiding my own as we repaired nets by the shore, the tang of salt in the air, the laughter that would bubble up between us. Then the fire, sudden and searing, painting the night a hellish red. Shades moving with deadly purpose, their eyes as cold as the iron chains they wielded.

I exhaled sharply, my jaw tightening as I pressed my fingers into my palm until the skin blanched. 'I should have been stronger.' Now, I was no longer a son or a brother. We were playthings, meant to bleed, to break, to be battered, to be brutalized, and to be discarded when our amusement waned. Toys for gods with callous hands and capricious hearts.

"Lost in thought, are we?" The voice cut through the silence, lilting and amused.

I spun on my heel, eyes narrowing at the figure lounging on a bench, half-shrouded in shadow. "Who're you, old man?" The words tumbled out, sharp and defensive.

The man chuckled, a sound that seemed to play with the air itself. "Ah, straight to the point. But where are your manners, lad? Isn't it customary to offer your name first?"

Caught off guard, the tension in my shoulders loosened under the weight of his unexpected ease. "Oh, right. I'm He—"

"Ah! I am Epictetus!" he announced, cutting me off with a grand gesture that bordered on the absurd. "Born where the sea softly sings to the shore. A keeper of simple things—the first rays of sunrise, the hum of a lyre, and mulled wine that bites just right when the nights grow chill." He flashed me a grin, eyes alight with the kind of mischief that teetered on the edge of annoying.

I blinked, stunned into silence. The audacity was almost laughable. "That… didn't really answer my question," I muttered, the beginnings of a tick mark forming on my brow.

"Ah, did I overstep? You wound me, Hector," he said, clutching a hand to his narrow chest in mock injury, his wiry arms adding a touch of theater. His eyes, dark and lively, held a glint of amusement as he watched my reaction, enjoying every moment of his absurd performance.

A reluctant grin broke through my irritation, stretching from cheek to cheek. "So, you know my name already."

"Details, details," Epictetus said with a wave of his hand. "What matters is that you've caught Eugene's eye today. Few ever do, and none on their first day."

"Eugene?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," he replied with a playful glint. "Our Cyclopean friend with a penchant for pitching projectiles and pummeling probationary personnel." He glanced upward, eyes tracing the stars. "He has an eye for potential, pun very much intended."

I snorted despite myself. "Potential? He hammered me like he was driving a stake into the ground!"

"And yet, here you are, a sturdy stake standing strong," Epictetus noted, leaning back and stretching out his legs. "Tell me, what does that make you?"

I exhaled slowly, feeling the bitterness start to stir in my chest. "Just a stake, here to take a beating."

Epictetus's eyes glimmered with an amused intensity as he leaned forward, the playful air giving way to something more profound. "Just a stake, here to take a beating?" he echoed, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Hector, do you know the purpose of a stake? It does not exist simply to be driven into the ground or to bear the blows. It's worth is that, once set firm, it stands unmoved. Anchoring what's around it, defying storms and tempests, not by choice but by nature."

He paused, letting the words settle, the garden hushed around them as though listening. "True resilience, Hector, isn't about simply enduring pain; it's knowing that each time you refuse to yield, you grow stronger. It's a choice, a practice. The world may push, pull, and pound, but with each blow, your spirit is given the opportunity to stand unyielding. That, my young friend, is the essence of true inner strength. A will that no force, no matter how relentless, can move or bend."

Above, the stars seemed to shimmer as he spoke, as if bearing witness to a truth as old as time. "So, if you see yourself as just a stake, consider this: a stake that takes root and holds firm becomes the foundation, the cornerstone upon which the greatest of wonders may be built."

His words pulled at something deep inside, and for a moment, the bitter taste of helplessness lessened. I traced a crack in the stone path with my boot, feeling the day's aches settle like old friends. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

Epictetus nodded sagely, a playful glint still dancing in his eye. "Few see beyond their pain to the resolve that trials can harden within."

The silence that fell between us was not empty but filled with understanding. The distant murmur of the Ludus, the creak of branches, and the whisper of stars above seemed to fold into that quiet.

"You know," I said after a beat, my voice lower, "you never let me finish my introduction."

His eyes widened in mock surprise. "So I didn't! Terribly rude of me. And your name is?"

"Hector, the strongest stake this Ludus has ever seen," I replied, my spirit beginning to return.

"Is that so? Perhaps someone should let Eugene know he'll need a bigger hammer," Epictetus mused, tapping his chin with a mischevious lilt in his voice. "Well then, Hector, perhaps we shall cross paths again. I am often here in the evenings, watching and wondering."

"Maybe I'll join you," I said, surprising even myself.

He stood with a slow groan, stretching his arms above his head. "Did I mention I have a fondness for figs freshly foraged at first light? Fabulous fruit!" He added, eyes sparkling with that signature blend of earnestness and absurdity.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "You didn't, but I doubt I'll forget."

"Good," he said, turning to walk away. "You never know when such a trivial detail might prove… fruitful." He winked, his figure fading into the deepening night, a tune humming from his lips, light and teasing.

I sat for a moment longer, the cool breeze tracing the sweat on my neck and the stars overhead, watching with a kind of quiet patience. The garden, with its stubborn sprigs and starlit silence, felt more alive.

'Tomorrow would come with its trials, but tonight, for the first time in a long while, I felt a spark. A tiny ember, but one that promised more.'