With war paint marking my face and determination steeling my heart, I stood and faced the direction of the impending battle, the gladius firm in my grasp. Today, I would not falter. For Olivia, for Luna, for Rosie—I would conquer time itself.
The leather straps bit into my flesh as the priest wound them tightly around my wrists and forearms. I flexed against the binding, finding comfort in the added support. Yet, when I sought assurance in the priest’s eyes, there was none—only the ghost of a smirk and a subtle shake of his head that chilled me more than any omen. A silent verdict resonated with grim finality—no one survived the Executioner.
I turned away from the priest’s foreboding gaze, focusing on the arena’s entrance. There, silhouetted against the harsh light, stood my adversary—a hulking figure cloaked in garments that concealed all but the feverish glint of his eyes.
He moved into the arena with an unnatural gait, every step pulsing with barely contained ferocity. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes burned—not with calm precision, but with unbridled madness. They roamed the coliseum, unfocused and wild, painting the portrait of a man who had long severed ties with reason. His whites gleamed unnaturally, like moonlight skimming the blade’s edge, while his pupils dilated with a hunger that promised destruction.
My attire was scant, just as it would have been in the days of the Roman Coliseum. A short tunic barely reaching mid-thigh clung to my body, exposing my muscular arms. On my feet were simple leather sandals, offering little protection from the jagged sand or the sharp edges of my opponent’s blades.
Despite the simplicity of my garb, I felt a primal strength coursing through me, as if the weight of the past—the countless battles and bloodshed of gladiators before me—had settled into my bones. My eyes locked onto my opponents as we awaited the call to battle, a silent exchange of challenge and resolve.
The horn’s blast shattered the silence, signaling the beginning of the fight. I lunged forward instinctively, prepared to meet brutality with equal ferocity. But then I stopped, my momentum halting as the Executioner began his strange and unnerving dance.
His body convulsed, spasms rippling through muscle and sinew with a grotesque rhythm. He paced erratically, each step etching an unhinged pattern into the sand. His lips moved, muttering incoherent words, fragments of thoughts carried away by the wind. Then, as if possessed, he arched his neck back and let loose a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the arena. It wasn’t the battle cry of a man but the guttural scream of something primal, something not entirely human. It clawed at my senses, a sound that bridged the void between beast and warrior.
The roar was followed by a dissonant symphony of screams and growls, noises that should not have existed together. The Executioner tore at his flesh, leaving crimson streaks across his chest and arms. The sharp, rhythmic slapping of his fists against his skin echoed through the coliseum, a horrifying display of pain disregarded as if his body were merely a vessel for chaos.
Chaos—he was its embodiment, a living storm whose presence threatened to unravel the fragile order of the world. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my gladius, the leather biting into my palm as I steeled myself against the tempest before me.
The Executioner stilled momentarily, his head snapping forward, eyes wide and unseeing. He pointed into space, his finger tracing lines that only he could perceive.
“You, there!” he shouted, his voice cracking and descending into fearful whimpers. “No, no, no…”
And then, as if the fear had transformed, his expression contorted into twisted glee. A grin stretched across his face, grotesque and unnatural.
His laughter erupted like a rupture in the earth, spilling forth a cacophony of cackles, sobs, and guttural screams that grated against the ancient stones of the arena. The sound ricocheted through the space, amplifying its madness until it felt alive, creeping through the air and seeping into my skin. It crawled into my ears, twisting into a discordant melody that threatened to linger long after this nightmare ended.
“Focus,” I whispered, forcing air into my lungs despite the weight of dread pressing down on me. The leather straps binding my wrists felt more like chains, tethering me to a grim destiny I had no choice but to face.
With a snarl that cut through his deranged laughter, the Executioner spun suddenly, his massive blade cleaving through the air. The weapon met nothing but shadows, yet the sheer force of his swings screamed unrestrained violence. Each motion was wild and erratic, a tempest given human form, leaving no room for prediction or strategy.
Adrenaline surged, sharpening my senses as I prepared for the inevitable onslaught. But to my astonishment, the Executioner’s rage was not directed at me. Instead, he charged toward the arena’s edge, his guttural roar echoing like thunder. The spectators recoiled in collective fear as his weapon crashed into the wooden barrier separating them from the pit below. The barricade splintered beneath his fury, sending shards of wood flying into the crowd like shrapnel. Cries of alarm rang out, but he paid them no mind, his maddened eyes shimmering with sadistic delight.
“By Mars…what have I stepped into?” I muttered under my breath, gripping the hilt of my gladius until my knuckles turned white. I had never faced an opponent so utterly consumed by chaos. He was a storm, an unrelenting force of destruction, and I was standing in its path.
The Executioner’s eyes—two dark stones burning with an unholy fire—fixed on me. In their depths, I saw death reflected, multiplied a hundredfold.
“Olivia,” I murmured, my wife’s name a prayer, a talisman against the madness I faced. The thought of her, of Luna and Rosie, anchored me. It reminded me why I had to survive, why I couldn’t falter now.
The Executioner began to circle me, a predator stalking its prey. His mutterings transformed into low, guttural growls, each rumble resonating like a dark hymn. His massive frame coiled with tension, muscles twitching as though barely containing the storm of violence within. Every movement was deliberate yet unpredictable, the calculated chaos of a killer who lived for the dance of blood and sand.
Then, with a deafening roar, he brought his weapon—a monstrous, lethal scythe—crashing into the ground. The impact sent a tremor through the arena, dust billowing around us like a rising shroud. Shards of stone pelted my skin, sharp and relentless, like arrows fired from the earth. He clawed at his skull with clenched fists as though trying to douse the blazing fires of insanity that burned behind his eyes.
A hush fell over the arena, suffocating and unnatural. The warriors clad in black stood statue-like, their collective breaths held in anticipation. The silence was more chilling than the chaos that had preceded it. All eyes were fixed on the Executioner, a man untethered from reality, a raw spectacle of fragility and fury laid bare.
“Strength,” I whispered, invoking Mars, though the god felt leagues away in this moment of terror. “Let me be strength.”
As the dust began to settle, the Executioner raised his head. His primal gaze found mine, locking on with a ferocity that sent an icy shiver down my spine. His expression twisted into one of singular focus—an insatiable bloodlust, a hunger for pain and suffering that knew no bounds. He embodied war in its most brutal and unrelenting form, and I, Roman, the supposed Timehunter, was the only thing standing between him and his chaotic craving for destruction.
“Protect them,” I thought, my mind filled with the images of Luna and Rosie. Their innocence and faith in me were an unwavering contrast to the brutality unfolding before me. Their trust was my fuel, their love my armor.
This battle was more than physical. It was a fight for sanity, for family, for my very soul—a soul that threatened to be consumed by the shadow of the man who raged before me.
The air thrummed with a tension so thick it felt alive. I watched, breath locked in my chest, as the Executioner unleashed a roar that shattered the silence of the coliseum like a thunderclap. He surged forward, less a man and a living storm of fury. His essence seemed distilled into raw, unrelenting chaos, as though he had abandoned his humanity to become a vessel for the ancient, dark spirits of war that had haunted our ancestors.
I braced myself, gladius raised, ready for the inevitable clash. This was no ordinary duel—a trial by fire against madness incarnate. The familiar weight of my weapon was a promise, a silent oath that I was not yet defeated.
The ground trembled under the berserker’s charge, his spiked mace swinging in wide, deadly arcs. Its pendulum-like movements were as erratic as they were devastating, the wind from each swing biting at my skin. My instincts screamed for action. With a swift sidestep, I narrowly avoided the first strike, the mace slamming into the sand with enough force to send dust into the air.
