Chapter 12
The sun rose over the Imperial Capital like a golden crown — its light spilling across the marble streets, glinting off statues of heroes long dead. But even they, immortalized in stone, paled before the living monument that stood at the heart of the city.
The Coliseum of Avalon.
Built by a hundred architects. Raised by a thousand workers. Blessed by priests and inscribed with ancient wards of protection. It was not merely an arena — it was the Emperor’s pride, a testament to the glory of mankind under Arthur’s reign.
White stone arches rose impossibly high, carved with scenes of old victories — dragons slain, armies crushed, gods driven back by mortal will. Golden banners hung from the spires, their silken threads catching in the wind like the wings of angels.
But today — it was not the architecture that drew the world’s eyes.
It was the promise of battle.
***
As the morning wore on, the empty seats of the coliseum began to fill — nobles in robes embroidered with the colors of their houses, generals in polished armor, scholars who had traveled from distant lands just to glimpse what was about to unfold.
Merchants. Soldiers. Priests. Foreign kings. Envoys from distant empires.
The low murmur of conversation echoed through the great halls — speculation, rumor, awe.
“Is it true?” one whispered. “The Emperor himself will face the Son of Zeus?”
“Hercules has never been defeated — not by man nor monster.”
Trumpets sounded — clear, sharp, cutting through the noise.
In the royal balcony, Emperor Arthur himself stepped forward — golden-clad, a living legend. His presence was like a sword drawn — impossible to look away from. Beside him, his knights stood in solemn formation — the elite Order of the Light, their armor gleaming like stars.
And beyond the gates of the arena — in the shadowed tunnel that led to the sands of battle — stood Hercules.
The demigod.
The Lion of Olympus.
Waiting.
***
The city was alive.
From the outer districts to the palace walls, every street was choked with people — pilgrims, wanderers, nobles, and commoners alike — all drawn toward a single beacon.
The Coliseum of Avalon.
Merchants had abandoned their stalls. Priests had ended their morning sermons early. Even thieves left the shadows of the alleys — for today, crime itself seemed to kneel before the glory that was promised.
This was not merely a fight.
It was history being written.
***
Inside the coliseum, the atmosphere was electric.
The seats climbed high like the cliffs of a mountain, packed with spectators draped in every color of the empire. The common folk sat in the outer rings, laughing, drinking, whispering their wildest predictions. Closer to the arena floor, the nobility sat beneath silk canopies, fanning themselves with golden-leafed fans, their eyes glittering with greed and curiosity.
Envoys from faraway lands observed in silence — kings from desert empires, warrior-chiefs from the frost-bitten north, and masked emissaries from nations that worshipped foreign gods.
And then there were the rituals.
***
Across the sands of the arena, acolytes of the Imperial Temple moved in solemn procession.
Dressed in robes of silver and white, they scattered blessed salt across the battlefield, chanting prayers to sanctify the ground. Incense burned in golden bowls, the smoke curling like serpents toward the heavens.
“The ground must be pure,” one priest intoned. “No blood shall spill here without the gaze of the divine upon it.”
As the rituals ended, the trumpets sounded once more — a long, triumphant note that silenced the thousands gathered.
All eyes turned to the Emperor’s balcony.
***
Emperor Arthur stood beneath a canopy of white silk embroidered with the symbol of the Eternal Sun — the crest of his bloodline.
He was draped in a cloak of deep crimson, clasped at the shoulder with a lion-shaped brooch. His armor, black steel trimmed with gold, seemed almost too perfect to belong to any mortal smith.
When he raised his hand — the entire coliseum fell silent.
And then he spoke.
***
“People of Avalon,” Arthur’s voice rang out — impossibly clear, carried by ancient magics woven into the stones of the arena itself. “We stand today not as rulers and servants. Not as rich and poor. But as witnesses to greatness.”
His gaze swept across them all — stern, but proud.
“For what is man, if not a challenger of fate? What is our blood, if not the fire that burns even in the shadow of gods?”
The crowd stirred — hearts pounding.
Arthur’s voice lowered — intimate, yet no less powerful.
“Today, I stand not as your Emperor — but as a warrior of this world. Against a son of Olympus. Against legend itself.”
He turned slightly — eyes narrowing toward the darkened tunnel where Hercules waited.
“And I shall show him,” Arthur said, voice sharpened to steel, “that no god, no matter how mighty, may tread upon the pride of men.”
***
The coliseum exploded in a roar of voices.
Cheers. Chants. Screamed prayers. Even tears.
The earth itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of their devotion.
And as the final horn sounded — the gates of the arena began to rise.
Hercules stepped forward — his shadow stretching long across the sand.
The battle for history had begun.