The fervor of the crowd made the air literally vibrate. It was a spectacle both grandiose and monstrous. In the stands, all social classes seemed to mix, united by a single, shared thirst for blood.
The Rohar was not just a building, it was an institution. The term referred to the sprawling network of such arenas that had developed across the continents since the Great Elevation. Strangely surviving all the internal and external conflicts that tore the world apart, this clandestine syndicate was an absolute enigma. No one knew who had founded the Rohar, nor who truly pulled its strings from the shadows. Each arena was independent, yet all remained mysteriously interconnected.
Over the past century, hundreds of thousands of people had attended these macabre spectacles where their fellow human beings slaughtered each other against their will, for the most part, simply for the pleasure of a delirious audience.
So this is what civilization looks like on the other side of hundreds of years, Atlas thought, scanning the rows above him. Different clothes, different sky and different hunger...
Yet, this butchery also offered an unexpected way out. Some of the greatest names of this new era had been born in the Rohar, forging their freedom and their glory at the edge of a sword.
In the bowels of the amphitheater, the other gladiators had gathered before the great archway. None dared take another step forward into the light. Some, who seemed to know each other, whispered nervously, while others, completely terrified, trembled in place with empty eyes. All were clustered there to watch the first bout.
Atlas stood not far behind, observing the dirty arena and the colossus who had just entered it with analytical curiosity.
Suddenly, he heard two gladiators whispering in front of him.
"Why isn't there anyone else in the arena with him?" murmured a man in his thirties, his voice cracking with nerves, clearly a newcomer against his will.
Another, his face marked by old scars, replied in a hushed tone:
"His opponent hasn't arrived yet. The host arena always sends its best fighter out first to make the crowd salivate. It's a tradition of the Rohar."
He must be an arena veteran to know that, Atlas deduced, his eyes still fixed on the immense back of the giant waiting for his opponent in the center of the pit.
The colossus was hyping up the crowd, taking malicious pleasure in this game of intimidation. Evidently, some men were born to shine in the arenas.
Suddenly, the bell rang again. Five heavy, distinct tolls this time, announcing the arrival of the second fighter.
"Where is he from?" whispered the nervous gladiator, his throat tight.
"Five tolls... He must be from an arena in the south of Odyssey," the veteran replied, his eyes locked on the silhouette emerging from the opposite archway. "It looks like old Isaac doesn't value our lives much anymore..."
For the first time, the scarred man seemed genuinely shaken.
But Atlas was no longer listening to their conversation. His mind was entirely focused on the newcomer. The man advanced bare-chested, a heavy bearskin draped over his shoulders.
He achieved the impossible feat of being even more massive than the colossus from their own stable. He was titanic, at least two meters tall, Atlas quickly estimated, towering over his opponent by a full head. Something about him made Atlas's body register the threat before his mind had finished processing the sight, a tension that spread from his jaw down through his shoulders, the kind that doesn't ask permission.
Reaching the center of the pit, the southern barbarian abruptly raised his right arm toward the gray-stained sky. He let out a blood-curdling, guttural howl, a bestial roar that made all the gladiators huddled in the shadows of the archway jump.
In response, the thousands of spectators screamed their frenzy at the top of their lungs. The bloodbath could begin.
After challenging each other with a silent, heavy glare, the two gladiators walked back toward their respective archways. It was then that Atlas noticed the heavy wooden racks leaning against the arena walls. Dozens of rusted, chipped weapons sat there, leaving each fighter to choose the shape their savagery would take.
The man from their stable, the bald colossus, grabbed a long spear. Its dark steel tip was blunted from countless impacts, and the shaft, wrapped in tattered leather strips, looked sticky with sweat and dried blood.
That weapon must have taken countless lives, Atlas thought, his gaze locked on the piece of metal. And soon I will have to add one more to that count.
He flexed his right hand slowly, then let it fall. His fingers were steady. He wasn't sure if that made things better or worse.
On the other side of the pit, the Southern titan selected his weapon. A curious choice, for a man of such disproportionate size, he opted for a classic one-handed sword. In his massive grip, the blade looked almost like a simple butcher's knife.
The two behemoths returned to the center of the wasteland. Slowly, they began to circle each other like caged beasts. Muscles tense, eyes dark, they scanned for the slightest opening. The tension was so palpable that the air between them seemed to grow heavy, charged with a damp, suffocating heat. Despite their difference in size, neither underestimated his opponent.
Suddenly, a single, deafening toll of the bell ripped through the atmosphere.
In that exact fraction of a second, a maniacal smile split the faces of both warriors, completely drunk on this bloodlust. Without an ounce of hesitation, they lunged at each other with terrifying velocity. Sand flew from beneath their feet, and a massive shower of sparks echoed through the amphitheater as the heavy sword crashed savagely against the shaft of the spear.
The initial clash made the packed dirt tremble. The Southern titan brought his sword down with the force of a cataclysm, hoping to cleave his opponent in two in the very first seconds. But Atlas's stablemate did not step back. He parried the blow using the spear shaft with both hands, deflecting the barbarian's raw energy with disconcerting ease.
Worse still, he started putting on a show.
Instead of counterattacking immediately, he let the enemy blade slide off, twirled his spear above his head with insolent dexterity, and stepped back with an almost mocking dance step. He sought the crowd's gaze, his wide, yellow-toothed smile stretching from ear to ear.
This flippancy drove the Southern titan mad with rage. He let out another bestial howl and charged. The two behemoths then engaged in a brutal exchange, trading blow for blow. The sword slashed the air, tearing off strips of skin, while the spear shaft left violent bruises on the bearskin-clad giant's torso. The Southerner's titanic strength crashed against his opponent's technique and arrogance in a clash of steel and flesh.
Then, the arena grew impatient. Like a single thirsty organism, the thousands of spectators began to chant, stamping the stands in a heavy, frantic rhythm:
"Blood! Blood! Blood!"
The chant rang out like a death sentence. It was the signal. The colossus's maniacal smile vanished abruptly, replaced by the cold indifference of a predator.
Despite the disproportionate size and strength of his opponent, he proved to the entire arena why he was its champion. The Southern titan raised his sword with both hands to deliver a crushing blow, exposing his guard for the span of a heartbeat.
The attack was blistering. Too fast for a man of that size, to the point that even Atlas widened his eyes from the archway. The blunted tip of the spear shot out like lightning and embedded itself with unprecedented violence directly into the barbarian's eyes.
The wet sound of the impact froze the action.
The titan dropped his weapon. He didn't even scream right away. In that fraction of a second of suspension, before the pain short-circuited his nervous system, the Southern man froze. Behind his veil of blood and darkness, he knew it was over. He saw his own death. He realized that his raw strength had been nothing but a vulgar illusion against the true nature of the Rohar's battles.
The colossus yanked his spear out with a sharp tug, tearing an agonizing scream from his blinded opponent, who fell to his knees. The bald fighter let out a heavy, gravelly laugh and turned toward the stands.
Galvanized by this absolute cruelty, the crowd screamed until their vocal cords tore, shifting their morbid chant:
"Death! Death! Death!"
Without taking his eyes off the audience, with a gesture of casual fluidity, the victor pivoted his spear and drove the shaft directly into the kneeling giant's heart. The titan collapsed face-first, kicking up a heavy cloud of reddened dust.
The victor didn't spare a single glance for the corpse. He wrenched his weapon from his victim's chest, rested it nonchalantly on his right shoulder, and began a leisurely walk back toward the archway. Toward Atlas.
Behind him, the Arena exploded. Thousands of voices united in an almost religious fervor, hammering the arena walls to hail the survivor:
"HERCLES! HERCLES! HERCLES!"