Darius stood tall in the center of the arena, blood crusting at the corner of his mouth, chest rising with calm, controlled breaths. His knuckles ached, his ribs were tight, but his body was far from failing. If anything, it was more alive than ever.
All around him, Sparta screamed.
The amphitheatre was nearly full now. People chanted his name without knowing it. Others simply shouted, clapped, or threw their arms in the air with disbelief. Every eye was fixed on the boy who had just choked a giant unconscious in front of an entire city.
Up in the higher tiers, Dion watched with his usual cold gaze. Behind him, Drakos remained composed, though his arms were crossed and his smile was wide for all to see.Just a few rows up sat Thaleia, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on Darius with something unreadable — part fascination, part something else.To her left stood her father, a pillar of silence.
And not far off, another man watched from the shadows — a rival of Drakos, his face twisted in bitterness. All of his cadets had fallen, each defeated or humiliated by Darius. The boy wasn't just an opponent anymore. He was a threat.
On the arena floor, the silence returned only when Dion raised his hand.
"The trials continue," he announced.
Before anyone could volunteer, a voice snarled through the air.
"I'll go."
Lysandros.
His eyes burned as he stepped forward, his face twisted in barely controlled rage. The bruises on his jaw had healed poorly. His brother's defeat still clung to him like a stain.
"I should've been the one to fight first," he growled, approaching Darius with slow, deliberate steps. "You humiliated my blood. Hurt my twin. Now I will show you my might."
Darius was smiling from ear to ear, this guy was too funny, he was a full blown little kid, a kid that needed some disipline. He reached for the only thing he needed — his shield.
"No sword?" Lysandros mocked.Darius didn't answer.
The fight began with a scream.
Lysandros charged in, teeth bared, his movements fuelled by fury rather than form. Darius side-stepped, pivoted, and slammed the edge of his shield straight into Lysandros' ribs. The sound echoed — a hollow crack followed by a wheeze of pain.
The twin barely had time to react before Darius stepped in again. Shield bash to the chest. Then to the face. Then a sweeping strike to the legs.Lysandros fell.
Darius didn't stop.
He dropped his shield, grabbed the boy by the ankle, and — with a roar — swung him overhead like a sack of grain.
Once.A sickening slam against the ground.Twice.Dust flew. A bone cracked.And a third time.The body flopped like a rag doll, unmoving.
The audience wasn´t cheering anymore, they were too astounded by the brutality of this fight. Could they actually call this a fight?
Darius dropped him. This guy was perfect for the show, if he had to fight several matches in a row, psychological warfare was a blade that he had to use to survive and to win. This fight would certainly give his opponents something to think about before coming out and fight.
Gasps filled the air.
He hadn't needed a blade.Only his strength.And it had been more than enough.
Lysandros was out cold.
Dion gave the signal.Lysandros was dragged off the field.
For a moment, no one moved. Not even Dion.
Then, finally, the Éphor raised his voice once more.
"Next."
Silence.
Darius could feel it — the shift. The crowd, once roaring, now held its breath. The cadets on the sidelines exchanged glances. Doubts crept into their faces. Some stared at Darius like he wasn't a boy anymore… but a beast. Others looked to Dion, hoping he'd change the rules. He didn't.
"Anyone?" Dion repeated, this time with a sharper tone.
Still nothing.
Then, without warning, Naraka stepped forward.
Slender, calm-eyed, shoulders relaxed.He walked with his usual lazy precision until he reached the edge of the arena.And stopped.
"I surrender," he said plainly, arms at his sides.
Murmurs erupted instantly from the crowd. Even Dion's brows twitched slightly.
Naraka didn't flinch.
"There's no point. I have no chance against him," he said, gesturing at Darius. "And if someone does beat him, I'll have even less chance against that monster."
Then he bowed slightly, turned around, and walked back to the waiting area without a second glance.
Darius blinked. That… was unexpected.
Dion gave a barely perceptible nod. "Accepted."
Then, without prompt, another figure stepped forward.This one was more deliberate. More disciplined.
Acastus, brother of Cleon.
He wore the crest of the Europontidai proudly. His spear rested in one hand, his other arm folded behind his back as he approached.
"No dramatic speeches," he said flatly. "I came to fight."
Darius stared at the spear for a moment. Then, with a faint smile, walked toward the weapons rack and grabbed a long doru of his own.
"If we're going to do this, let's do it right," he muttered.
They faced each other.Spear to spear.Stance to stance.
Acastus struck first — sharp, clean and precise.
Darius parried.Stepped aside.Countered.
The clash was fast, a whirlwind of wood and footwork. Acastus was good — better than most. His angles were crisp. His guard tight. He kept distance with perfect discipline.
But Darius adapted quickly.
He mirrored Acastus' strikes, matched his pace, and then — as if flicking a switch — accelerated.
A faint inside feint. A twist of the shaft.Darius hooked Acastus' spear and wrenched it downward.With a brutal step forward, he shoulder-checked him off balance, then swept his legs in a smooth circular motion, dropping the noble flat on his back.
Darius pinned him with the tip of his spear hovering at his throat.
Acastus froze.
"I yield," he said, breathless.
Darius lowered the weapon and stepped back without a word.
The audience erupted once more. Three down. And the storm hadn't passed.
A superb black horse was toppling the young nobles of Sparta he just needed to win three more fights.
Acastus was dragged out of the arena, defeated but not humiliated. He had fought with grace and skill — but it hadn't been enough.
Darius exhaled slowly and stood alone once more in the center of the sand. His chest rose and fell harder now. He could move and fight. But the toll was undeniable.
Above him, the crowd was shifting — in mood, in noise, in conviction.
Bets were being placed.
"Fifty on Argos!""Sixty on Cleon! He hasn't even fought yet!""Who's backing that no-name kid? He's running out of gas.""I don't care how strong he looks. He can't beat all of them in one day.""He won't survive the next match."
But not everyone agreed.
In a shaded corner of the upper levels, Thaleia leaned forward, fingers steepled under her chin.
"I bet on him," she murmured.
Her father glanced sideways at her, then slowly nodded."So do I. Let's see what happens when you corner a wolf."
Elsewhere, Drakos spoke to no one in particular."He's certainly amazing. I hope he is watching him."
"I'll bet three silver drachmas on the boy with the fists," said Ganesha, the mercenary captain, her rough arms folded as she watched from the edge of the stands.She was flanked by two other caravan guards, both speechless.
One leaned over to her. "Is that the same kid who rode with us to Limnai?"
Ganesha didn't take her eyes off the arena."HAHAHA. Can you believe it?" she muttered. "That kid has grown so much."
The bookmakers scribbled. Names shifted on the boards. Darius' odds were still long — but they were rising.
And below, the warrior himself adjusted his stance.Blood dried on his cheek. Sweat soaked his tunic.But his eyes were focused.
Three remained and they were the best of the best.
Tap-tap-tap. A few steps could be heard reaching the edge of the arena.
Cleon.
He moved calmly, his posture controlled, his gaze steady. There was no arrogance in his eyes. Only determination.
He stopped a few feet from Darius.
"No weapons," he said, raising his fists.
Darius arched a brow. "You want to go barehanded?"
Cleon nodded once.No explanation. No justification.
But Darius understood. This friend of his, he had an amazing control with every weapon, if he fought with one it would most certain than not be his loss.
He raised his own hands. "Alright."
They began to circle each other, measuring themselves and their opponent.
The clash was immediate — and razor sharp.
Cleon had studied him. Every grip, every angle, every technique Darius had used in past matches and he mirrored them perfectly.Takedowns. Elbow locks. Transitions from grappling to striking.He had learned everything.
And he had learned it well.
But Darius had something Cleon didn't: another lifetime a past that gave him ample experience.
Inches made the difference. Timing carved the line between counter and collapse.
Twice, Cleon brought Darius to the ground.Twice, Darius reversed it.
The crowd was silent — breath held.
In a flash, Darius shifted his weight, twisted under Cleon's arm, and executed a final throw that brought his friend crashing down.
He mounted him, breathing hard, arm raised to lock a choke.
Cleon didn't fight it.
"I surrender," he whispered.
Darius released him and dropped to the ground beside him, both staring at the open sky.
Their chests rose in rhythm.Their shoulders touched.
Cleon chuckled weakly."You're insane."
Darius smirked."HAHA, yo too."