"Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts."
— Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (Book II, Chapter 1)
◦ — ◦ ——— ◦ —————— ✵ —————— ◦ ——— ◦ — ◦
The sun crested over the walls of the Ludus, dawn's first rays illuminating the training yard. Morning air still clung to a whisper of coolness, but the heat crouched just beyond the horizon, waiting. I stood in the center of the yard, shield strapped to my left arm, every muscle taut.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Eugene hefting a boulder. His grin was far too wide for someone about to toss a horse-sized stone my way.
"Catch, kid!"
The boulder arced lazily toward me, a playful pass for him but still plenty to knock me flat. Reflex overruled hesitation, and my shield shot up. My knees bent, absorbing the impact, and I pushed the force downward. The stone smashed into the sand, stirring up a swirling storm of silt.
"Well, well, look at you!" Eugene called out, clearly impressed. "Starting to make that look easy!"
I roll my shoulder, feeling the faint echo of the impact. Pleased, I rub my nose to hide my smile, "Not too easy. Just… starting to get the hang of it."
Eugene laughed, but my attention had already shifted to Spartacus, who strode into the yard. His shadow stretched long, his voice carrying the weight of a sledge striking steel. "That resilience, Hector, is what you'll rely on today. But don't fool yourself—this is only the beginning."
My grip tightened on the shield as anticipation buzzed through me. "What's next?"
"Dynamis Antirroia," Spartacus said, his voice steady and commanding. "The counterflow. It's not just a defensive technique—it's a mastery of momentum. You take the force of their attack, channel it through yourself like Ankule, and send it back, the power magnified."
I let the words sink in, feeling the weight of them settle. "So the harder they hit, the better?" I said, a wry tone creeping into my voice.
"Exactly," he replied, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. "But don't mistake understanding for mastery." He stepped aside, gesturing toward Eugene. "Watch closely."
Eugene rolled his shoulders, his grin stretching wider. "Oh, I've been waiting for this, little man."
"Make it count," Spartacus said, raising his shield.
The punch Eugene threw could have leveled the stone wall, but Spartacus didn't meet it with brute force. He moved with it, his body flowing like water around a stone. The energy rippled through him, down to his legs, and into the ground. Dust kicked up and the yard quavered, but Spartacus didn't so much as flinch.
"That," he said, lowering his shield, "is how it's done."
How was he making it look so easy?
"It's not strength," he continued, his voice as steady as his stance. "It's control." His gaze locked onto mine. "Now you try."
I stepped forward, adjusting my shield strap. The weight of the lesson pressed on me as I took Spartacus's place. Across from me, Eugene flexed his fingers, his grin the picture of confidence.
The arena flashed in my mind. Blood in the sand. The roar of the crowd. A young fighter crumpling beneath the weight of their first mistake.
'No hesitation. No weakness.'
"I'm ready," I said, steadying my breath.
Eugene's grin didn't waver. "Don't worry—I'll go easy."
I shot him a sly smirk. "Whatever you wanna tell yourself when I'm still standing at the end."
His laugh echoed through the yard as his fist shot forward, slower than before but still carrying enough force to easily flatten me. I raised my shield, muttering, "Loosen up. Let it flow through me."
But when the punch connected, I locked up, and the force slammed into my shield, sending me careening back.
"Too stiff," Spartacus barked. "If you resist, the energy has nowhere to go but into you. Again."
I shook out my arm, frustration sparking. "I know. Let's go."
Eugene chuckled. "That's the spirit."
The process repeated—failure after failure. Each time, Spartacus corrected me. Adjust my stance. Loosen my grip. Steady my breathing. On the next try, something clicked. The energy flowed—not perfectly, but enough to disperse into the ground.
"That's it," Spartacus said, his tone edged with approval. "Now take it further. Defense isn't enough. Redirect it. Make it your own."
'Absorb. Shape. Return.'
Eugene's next punch came faster, and I moved with it. My knees bent, my body pivoted, and for the first time, I felt it: the energy, mine to shape. I redirected it upward, my spear arm extending as the force rippled outward.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Eugene whistled, clearly impressed.
Spartacus's face grew more serious. "This is just the start. You need to understand—this technique isn't just about looking good in training. It's about surviving in the arena."
I met his gaze, the weight in his voice sinking into my chest.
"Most who enter the arena don't live to see their second match. The ones who do? Half of them won't see their fifth." His voice dropped lower, colder. "I've seen fighters stronger than you cut down because they couldn't master this principle. They stood their ground when they should've flowed. They resisted when they should've redirected. And the crowd… the crowd doesn't care. They cheer for the blood, whether it's yours or your opponent's."
The air seemed heavier, the yard quieter.
Eugene's voice broke the tension. "No pressure, kid." He grinned, but his tone lacked its usual playfulness.
Spartacus stepped closer, his expression sharp. "You're not just training for glory, Hector. You're training to survive. Show me you understand that."
Eugene threw another punch, harder this time. My shield rose, my knees bent, and for the first time, I felt it fully. The energy flowed cleanly, smoothly, mine to shape. I pivoted, sending the force outward in a controlled arc.
"Better," Spartacus said, a rare note of approval in his voice. "Enough for today. You need to rest—the Purgomachus will demand everything you have."
The weight of his words settled in my chest like a stone, a heavy reminder of the bloodshed awaiting me. Gulping at the thought of my first munera—a game of survival, death, and chaos—I nodded. "Yes, I should prepare myself." The words felt thin against the enormity of what lay ahead, but they grounded me.
'Rest today. Fight tomorrow. That's all I can do.'
"Good luck, kid. You'll knock it out of the park!" Eugene clapped me on the back, his tone light and encouraging. Reflexively, I bent my knees and let the force flow through me, redirecting his enthusiasm straight into the ground.
Chabo zipped into the yard, seemingly appearing out of the aether. "You got this, Hector! Don't let those newbies make you look bad!" With that, he buzzed away, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.
I exhaled, tension and anticipation twisting in my gut. Their encouragement buoyed me, but the reality was unshakable: tomorrow, it wouldn't just be training—it would be blood, survival, and the crowd's ravenous roar.
◦ — ◦ ——— ◦ —————— ✵ —————— ◦ ——— ◦ — ◦
The sun beats down mercilessly on the sprawling arena, a vast expanse of sand and stone where survival is the only sure standard for success. Around the various archways into the circular arena, I catch the faces of dozens of Novicii, some hardened with grim determination, others hollowed by raw panic. A roar rises from the crowd, washing over us in a wave of sound as the announcer's voice booms above the chaos.
"Welcome, warriors and spectators, to the Purgomachus!" The cheer that follows shakes the air, a storm of frenzy and bloodlust. "Today, the weak will be culled, and the strong shall rise! From these contests, only a few Novicii shall attain the title of Tirones. And one—only one—shall emerge as Primoris Tirones, champion of the day, and receive the Celestial Boon!"
I tighten my grip on my spear. Around me, warriors from Ludus Rutilius mingle with others from neighboring Ludii. Each of us is an unproven novice, standing on the edge of glory—or death.
'This is it. No second chances.'
The faces in the stands blur into a single sea of screaming shapes, their cries drowning out thought. Their demands are as clear as the sun overhead: blood, pain, victory. I breathe deeply and think of my father, my brother, and the lessons I've fought to embody.
'This is my time. Fight with intent.'
The horn blasts, and chaos erupts.
Blades flash like fierce fangs as warriors collide, cursing and killing in the chaos. Blood spatters the sand, painting the arena in violent strokes of crimson. Screams rip through the air—some from fury, others from terror. I raise my shield, an aegis awaiting any attack.
A hulking figure barrels toward me, his face twisted in a rabid snarl, a cudgel in one hand and a shield in the other. He bellows, the sound guttural and raw, as the cudgel arcs toward me in a brutal swing.
I brace, raising my shield. The blow lands with a crack, reverberating down my arm. My knees bend, and I let the force flow through me, twisting my body to redirect it. The motion steadies me, sharpens my focus. My spear strikes upward, slipping beneath his ribs. He gasps, stumbling back, and collapses into the dirt, his life's essence pooling into the cracks in the stone.
Another fighter rushes me—a boy like me, with a gladius. His sword scrapes against my shield as he lunges, too fast for hesitation. I step inside his reach and drive the shield's edge into his jaw. His head snaps back, his body crumpling like a marionette who's strings have been severed.
Around me, the field thins, but the air is thick with shrieks and howls. As the song of swords continues, bodies fall like wheat at harvest, some twitching in the sand, some still. There's no rhythm here, only chaos.
Fighters move with wild desperation, swarming into brutal skirmishes. Across the sand, two Novicii stagger into my line of sight, locked in vicious combat. One swings a spiked mace; the other wields a khopesh. Their focus is entirely on each other, their movements frenzied.
I spot a pilum lying discarded nearby. Dropping my spear, I seize the heavy javelin, its weight solid in my hand. I feel the lessons of Ankule coursing through me—the practiced rhythm of motion, the flow of power from the ground to my arm.
I steady myself, exhaling as my body coils. Legs, hips, torso, arm—a single, fluid sequence. CRACK—The pilum leaves my hand like a hawk diving for prey, the weight of my intent driving it forward.
It impales both fighters in a clean line, the impact sending them crashing against the arena's stone wall. The pilum embeds itself with a thundering crack, skewering them to the wall like cubes of raw meat. The crowd falls into stunned silence, a breathless moment stretched taut. Then, as if unleashed from a cage, they erupt into a frenzy of cheers, their voices rising like beasts baying for blood, boundless in their hunger. The cries of the dying are devoured by the primal roar.
The noise is deafening, but I can only hear my own breath, heavy but controlled. My spear waits for me in the dirt, and I retrieve it, wiping the sweat from my brow.
The final round begins with an almost unnatural quiet, the crowd holding its collective breath. My opponent stands across the sand, a broad man with a battle-axe slung casually over one shoulder. His bloodstained arms gleam in the sun, and he grins down at me, a sharp, feral expression
"This is it," I murmur.
The weight of the moment bears down on me. Thousands of eyes are on us, hungry for violence. Spartacus's voice echoes in my memory, steady and certain: 'True strength is born when intent and purpose flow as one.'
The axe-man lunges with terrifying speed, bringing his weapon down in a powerful overhead strike. I step aside, raising my shield to meet the blow. The impact jars me to my core, nearly driving me to my knees, but I hold firm.
The force ripples through me like a wave.
He swings again, this time aiming for my side. The strike sparks against my shield, and I twist, feeling the energy flow through me, coiling in my chest. The shimmer of Haki flares faintly along my shield's edge, a subtle penumbra that sends murmurs through the crowd.
I channel the force outward, driving my black-tipped spear forward with a roar. The blade strikes true, punching through his abdomen and erupting from his back like a burst melon. Blood splatters the sand as his feral grin falters, replaced by shock.
He collapses, his weapon slipping from his grasp. The crowd's roar shakes the air, their applause and cheers crashing over me like a tidal wave.
◦ — ◦ ——— ◦ —————— ✵ —————— ◦ ——— ◦ — ◦
The blood-drenched arena begins to clear as the dead are dragged away. I stand before a dais where the prizes gleam under the sunlight. At the center lies the Celestial Bronze ingot, its surface glowing faintly, as if it holds its own light.
I reach for it, my hand trembling with exhaustion and triumph.
"A moment of your time, Hector."
The voice is smooth, too smooth, and I turn to see a man in rich robes, the insignia of the Donquixote family embroidered on his chest. His smile is cold and sharp, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.
"You've impressed everyone here today," he begins, his tone laced with false admiration. "Such skill... such potential. You could rise far beyond the Ludus Rutilius, you know."
I narrow my eyes, my fingers still hovering over the ingot.
"Imagine freedom, Hector," he continues, stepping closer. "A life where you're no longer bound by chains or commands."
"What are you asking?" My voice is steady, but my heart pounds.
"Spartacus is a legend," the noble says, his smile darkening like a shadow spreading across the sand. "But legends grow old. Ensure his next match ends poorly, and I will purchase your freedom. A small act, hardly worth mentioning. In return, you'll be a free man."
The word freedom pierces me like a spear. My father's dream, my brother's sacrifice—they all surge forward in my mind, shadowed by the noble's calculating gaze. But even as the word echoes, something deeper stirs within me. 'Can he truly grant me freedom? If these chains were removed, would I be free—or simply shackled by something worse?'
My grip tightens on the Celestial Bronze ingot, its weight a sharp reminder of the path I've chosen. "Freedom isn't just a release from chains," I say slowly, my voice steadying as the realization crystallizes within me. "Not if it means betraying who I am."
The noble's smile falters, twisting into a sneer. "Think carefully, boy. Rejecting me might be bad for your health."
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "And selling out my friends is bad for my soul."
His eyes flash with malice as he steps closer, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper. "You're a clever one, but don't mistake wit for invincibility. There are many ways to cripple a champion."
A chill runs down my spine, but I don't flinch. His words linger like a curse, their weight sinking into the sand beneath my feet. He straightens, smoothing his cloak with deliberate precision. "Good luck with your newfound title, little Tirones. Let's see how long you last."
He turns and strides away, his retreating figure leaving an ominous void in his wake. From the corner of my eye, I notice a shadowed figure approach him near the edge of the arena, their hushed exchange bristling with intent.
The roar of the crowd dulls as the implications settle over me. The Celestial Bronze ingot feels heavier than it should, its weight pressing into my palm.
I stare at the sand, now streaked red with blood, and let the day's events settle over me.
'Every fight, every step—it all fuels the flame I carry. Not for survival alone, but for something greater.'
◦ — ◦ ——— ◦ —————— ✵ —————— ◦ ——— ◦ — ◦
The bench is cold beneath me. The blood and sand caked to my body numb me more than the night's chill—a second skin I can't yet shed. My hands tremble, sticky with drying gore.
Somewhere in the distance, the faint clash of steel and bursts of laughter drift from the Ludus. The sounds are muffled, hollow, like echoes heard from deep underwater. The weight on my chest presses down the same way the depths of the sea squeeze everything beneath them—a relentless pressure.
The Celestial Bronze ingot rests on my lap, its once-brilliant surface streaked with grime and blood, dimmed by the day's violence. It gleams faintly under the moonlight, patches of light catching unevenly, as though it also carries the burden of the day.
"Does the weight of it surprise you?"
The voice, calm and steady, slices through my fogged thoughts like a torch flaring to life in a pitch-black cavern. I look up to see Epictetus approaching, a wooden bucket of water in one hand and a folded cloth in the other. He doesn't wait for my answer. Setting the bucket down, he kneels beside me and begins wringing the cloth with deliberate care.
"Hold out your hands," he says, the quiet authority in his tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitate but obey, extending my bloodied palms. Epictetus leans forward, his movements careful and unhurried, as though he's not just cleansing my skin but trying to scrub away something deeper. The cool water seeps into my hands as the cloth, coarse yet soothing, scrubs against my skin. Tendrils of crimson bloom in the water, spreading like ink spilled on vellum, twisting and curling until the surface clouds with blood.
"The blood of others stains you now," he says, his voice steady but searching. "Does it feel heavier than your own?"
The question digs into me, sharp and seeking. I blink, my throat tightening around words I don't know how to form. "I don't know."
Epictetus doesn't press, his focus never wavering as he moves to clean my arms. The dried blood cracks and flakes away under the cloth, revealing the raw patches of skin beneath. His movements are slow and deliberate, like an artist meticulously restoring a tarnished bronze statue.
"You fought well today," Epictetus says, his voice breaking the silence like a stone dropping into still water. "The crowd roared for you. They saw strength. They saw triumph. But what did you see?"
I exhale sharply, my shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. "I saw… faces." The words are heavy, each one dragging against my chest. "Faces the crowd will forget in their cheering, but that will haunt me."
Epictetus pauses, his hand still, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto mine. "And what does that mean to you?"
I glance at the ingot resting on my lap, its tarnished surface dull under the moonlight. "It means I took everything from them. Their lives, their futures, their families, their dreams—gone." My voice drops, hollow and bitter. "I killed them because I was strong enough to survive. But what kind of strength is that?"
The silence between us swells. The final fight flashes in my mind: the gleam of the axe in the sun, the spray of blood as my spear pierced through flesh, the feral grin twisting into shock and pain. I can still feel the unnerving ease with which the Haki-infused spear punctured him, as if his body had offered no resistance at all. The warmth of blood spattered on my arm lingers, drying into a crust that the cloth now removes in slow, deliberate streaks.
Epictetus tilts his head, his expression contemplative. "Do you believe that taking a life shapes the whole of yours, or is it only a piece of the mosaic?"
The question hits harder than I expect. I hesitate, words catching in my throat. "I... I'm not sure," I say finally, the admission raw. The faces of the dead flash in my mind—some twisted in terror, others blank, frozen in the instant of their end.
Epictetus rinses the cloth in the bucket, the water rippling as it swirls crimson. "Killing doesn't define who you are, Hector," he says, his tone even but weighted. "The arena forces your hand, but it doesn't force your heart. That choice is yours to keep."
I glance at him, my trembling hands now clean but no lighter. "Then what does define me?"
Epictetus wrings out the cloth, the water rippling with dark tendrils of blood. He meets my gaze, his voice soft but piercing. "How you carry what you've done. How you walk forward when the weight of it feels unbearable. That's where the true test lies. The arena demands strength to survive. But a life of purpose—of excellence—demands strength of will to endure and grow beyond survival."
I watch as the water in the bucket darkens, rippling with each movement of the cloth. Scarlett streaks swirl and sink like the remnants of a battle refusing to fade. "I don't want to become what they cheer for," I say, my voice quieter now. "A butcher."
Epictetus sits back on his heels, his expression steady yet thoughtful, like a sculptor examining the raw stone before him. "The people thirst for blood because they've forgotten its weight, its cost. To them, it's a spectacle, nothing more. But you, Hector—you still carry that weight. That's the difference. Your hands may be stained now, but the flame within you hasn't dimmed. The blood you bear hasn't smothered it."
His words land with an uncomfortable precision, uncovering thoughts I'd tried to bury. My voice trembles slightly as I ask, "What if I lose that flame? What if one day, killing doesn't feel heavy anymore?"
Epictetus tilts his head, his gaze steady as if weighing the question itself. "Then you fight to keep it," he replies, his tone firm but not harsh. "The torch you carry isn't just for yourself. It's for those who can no longer carry their own. Every life you end in the arena demands a choice: to let the darkness overtake you or to burn brighter because of it."
He glances at my hands, now washed clean but still raw with the memory of bloodshed. "You said you don't want to become a butcher. Then don't. Choose to be something else. A torchbearer—someone who doesn't kill for the roar of the crowd, but for the lives you'll one day be able to protect by carrying this burden."
I look at my hands, the faint traces of blood now gone but their weight still present, as if etched beneath my skin. They feel heavier than they ever have, not just from what they've done, but from what they now hold.
"The arena is nothing if not darkness," Epictetus continues, his voice soft yet resonant, like the toll of a distant bell. "And the flame burns brightest against the dark. That's the weight you've chosen. That's what it means to carry this torch."
I nod slowly, though the knot in my chest tightens further, like a cord being drawn taut.
My fingers close, curling around the memories and the pain as I let the silence settle between us. The water in the bucket ripples faintly with each small movement, the stains sinking deeper, leaving the surface dim and murky.
Epictetus shifts the cloth to my face, wiping away the sand clinging to my jaw. "The noble's offer weighed on you today."
I stiffen slightly, the memory of his sneer twisting in my mind. "He wanted me to betray Spartacus. To throw everything away for... freedom."
"And you refused."
"Because that's not freedom," I say, the words coming sharper than I expect. I pause, then add, "Not if I have to betray who I am to get it."
Epictetus nods, his movements slowing. "True freedom isn't the absence of chains. It's the strength to choose the right path, even when it's harder. And you chose. That's why you stand here, not just as a fighter, but as someone cultivating Areté."
"But what if it wasn't the right choice?" I ask, doubt creeping into my voice. "What if the noble's revenge is more than I can handle? What if the weight of all this crushes me?"
Epictetus leans back slightly, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Then you rise, Hector. Not because it's easy, but because it's necessary. A torchbearer doesn't carry the flame for comfort or safety. They carry it because it lights the way—for themselves and for others. And when the burden feels unbearable, that's when it matters most."
The bucket is nearly red now, the blood swirling in slow eddies. My skin feels cleaner, but the weight on my chest hasn't lifted entirely. I pick up the Celestial Bronze ingot, turning it in my hands. Its glow is faint but steady, like embers refusing to die.
"Every fight, every step... it all matters," I murmur, more to myself than to Epictetus.
He smiles faintly, rising to his feet. "Indeed. But it matters not just for survival. It matters for what you choose to build with each step. Areté isn't just in the fight. It's in the journey."
I nod, the words settling into me like stones dropped into deep water. The flame I carry feels fragile, but it's mine. And I'll carry it.
Epictetus takes the bucket, its contents sloshing heavily, and turns to leave. Before he goes, he looks back, his voice soft but firm.
"Rest, Hector. The path ahead is steep, but you've already begun the climb."
As he disappears into the shadows, I remain on the bench, the ingot warm in my hand. The blood is gone from my skin, but the memories remain. And so does the fire.