The gate slammed open with a groan that seemed to shake the bones of the colosseum itself.
From the shadows emerged a giant.
His skin was dark as midnight, muscles chiseled like marble, glistening with oil and sweat. A jagged scar ran across his chest like a lightning bolt, and in his hands he carried an iklwa spear—short, broad-bladed, perfect for piercing and gutting. A curved wooden shield was strapped to his other arm, already marked by the past lives it had deflected.
They called him Mavuso, the Black Lion of Numidia.
Ikaris had heard the stories. No man had survived three minutes against him.
Today, Ikaris had to.
The crowd was already chanting. "Blood! Blood! Blood!" The chant rolled like thunder, rising and crashing against the arena walls.
Mavuso didn't roar. He didn't smile. He just stalked forward like death in motion.
Ikaris gritted his teeth and crouched low. His trident gleamed in the sun. He remembered Mary's voice:
"Time your slashes."
"Aim for the joints."
"The jugular, if you can."
The bell rang.
And the sand turned red.
Mavuso charged like a stampeding bull, spear stabbing forward in a blur.
Ikaris barely twisted aside. The blade kissed his ribs—just a graze, but enough to sting. He retaliated with a jab of the trident, but Mavuso blocked it effortlessly with his shield, then swept low with a spinning kick.
Ikaris crashed to the sand, wind knocked from his lungs.
He rolled just as the iklwa stabbed down, the blade sinking into where his heart had just been.
He had to be faster.
Ikaris scrambled up, blood trickling down his side. He spun the trident and swung low, aiming for Mavuso's knee. The tip scraped armor but didn't pierce. Mavuso growled and rammed forward with his shield, slamming Ikaris against the colosseum wall.
Pain bloomed across his back. The trident clattered from his hands.
Mavuso didn't wait.
He stabbed.
Ikaris ducked. The iklwa buried itself in the stone wall behind him.
Seizing the chance, Ikaris drove his fist into Mavuso's throat.
The warrior staggered, coughing. Ikaris dove, grabbing his trident, spinning it up into a defensive stance. He backed into the open sand, breathing heavy.
The crowd roared. They loved it.
Mavuso turned, eyes burning now.
No more toying. Now it was war.
Their weapons clashed again.
Spear against trident, shield against strike.
Mavuso lunged with a vicious diagonal slash. Ikaris parried, the blades sparking. He twisted the trident and hooked it behind Mavuso's shield, yanking it down.
Then, he stabbed forward.
The trident pierced flesh.
One prong sank into Mavuso's thigh. Blood spurted. The man bellowed and hammered his shield across Ikaris's face, snapping his head sideways.
Ikaris flew into the sand, dazed. Blood pooled in his mouth.
Mavuso limped forward, wounded but deadly, dragging his leg. He ripped the trident from his thigh and tossed it aside with a snarl.
Then he raised the iklwa high.
This was it.
Instinct screamed in Ikaris's gut. He grabbed a handful of sand and threw it into Mavuso's eyes.
The warrior shrieked and stumbled back, blinded.
Ikaris lunged—not for his trident, but for Mavuso's shield.
He yanked it off the man's arm with a furious pull and bashed him with it. Once. Twice. Again. The rim cracked Mavuso's nose. Blood exploded from his face.
Disoriented, Mavuso slashed blindly.
Ikaris ducked under the arc, snatched the fallen iklwa, and drove it up—
Straight into Mavuso's armpit.
The blade pierced deep, slicing nerves and arteries.
Mavuso gasped.
And Ikaris whispered, "This is for my parents."
He twisted the blade and pulled it out sideways.
Mavuso collapsed to his knees, eyes wide, blood gushing like a broken dam. He looked up at Ikaris—no anger, just quiet respect—and then crumpled face-first into the sand.
Dead.
The crowd went silent.
For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved.
Then came the deafening roar.
Ikaris stood over the body, soaked in blood and sand, chest heaving. The sun bore down on him, but he didn't feel its heat anymore.
He turned to the royal box.
King Alexander leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
But it was Mary's face that mattered. Her hand was over her mouth, eyes shining—not with fear now, but with awe.
He had done it.
He had killed the Lion.
The gates opened behind him. Two guards marched forward.
But Ikaris didn't drop the spear.
He turned fully to the king, lifted the bloodied weapon high—and for a heartbeat, even Alexander blinked.
The message was clear.
I am not your slave.
I am your reckoning.