Chapter 13

The gates crashed open.

From the shadowed tunnel emerged Hercules — bare-chested, muscles like carved stone, skin bronzed by the sun and scarred by wars long forgotten. A lion’s pelt hung from his shoulder, trailing behind him like a banner of old. In his hand, he held a broad, brutal metal sword — stained with the memory of monsters.

The crowd fell into an awed silence. Even those who had seen war held their breath.

From the opposite gate, Emperor Arthur descended the marble stairs to the arena floor.

He walked like a king, not a gladiator — cloak billowing, eyes locked on his opponent. His armor shimmered beneath the light. And when his hand moved to his hip, the crowd rose to its feet.

The hilt hissed — and a blade of radiant red light ignited in his grip.

Not flame. Not steel. Something far more dangerous.

A weapon of the old world.

A weapon only he wielded.

For a moment, the arena was quiet.

Two warriors. A sea of witnesses. A thousand gods watching from unseen places.

Then Hercules grinned.

“I was told you were a man of words,” he said, his voice like thunder rolling off distant mountains. “But you brought a blade. Good.”

Arthur answered with silence — and motion.

He moved.

Fast.

Too fast for mortal eyes.

His red blade came down like judgment, and Hercules had to pivot hard, metal screeching as it met the energy edge. Sparks flared. The ground split beneath them.

Steel met light.

Power met precision.

Hercules swung with the force of an avalanche — wild, wide, devastating. Arthur countered with surgical strikes, feet gliding across the sand like a ghost. His blade hummed, burning through the air in crimson arcs.

The demigod laughed as they clashed again.

“You fight well… for a man.”

Arthur’s response came in the form of a crushing elbow that drove into Hercules’ jaw, followed by a boot to the chest that sent the son of Zeus skidding back across the sand.

The crowd roared.

But Hercules rose, blood on his lip, eyes shining with challenge.

He drove forward this time — sword arcing low, then high, then straight for Arthur’s throat. The Emperor dodged the first, parried the second, and met the third with a rising slash that sent a shockwave through the coliseum walls.

Stone cracked. Dust fell.

Somewhere in the stands, a noble fainted.

The pace quickened.

Now they were blurs. A red streak and a silver blur crossing and recrossing the arena. Their strikes sent ripples through the sand, their footfalls thundered like war drums.

Hercules caught Arthur’s blade with his own and twisted — throwing the Emperor off-balance. He lunged.

The metal blade came down—

And Arthur vanished.

Appeared behind him.

The laser sword sank just barely into Hercules’ side before the demigod twisted and drove his elbow into Arthur’s ribs.

Both staggered back.

Both breathing hard.

Both smiling.

The fight was far from over.

But the world had just seen something rare:

Two gods of war, worthy of each other.

The sand beneath their feet had turned to dust, scorched and torn by the fury of their clash. Sweat ran down Hercules’ face like rain off stone. Arthur’s breath came shallow but steady, his grip on the red blade never faltering.

The crowd was utterly silent now — no cheers, no whispers.

Only the sound of gods waging war.

Hercules lunged again, his sword raised high for a downward blow that could split a mountain in two.

Arthur sidestepped — barely.

The blade struck the ground behind him and shattered the marble tiles with a deafening crack. Before the dust could rise, Arthur was already moving — his red blade slashing in a low arc that cut across Hercules’ thigh, burning through skin and muscle.

The demigod roared and staggered.

Arthur pressed forward.

Slash — parry — stab — counter.

But Hercules didn’t fall. Even wounded, even bleeding, his strength was monstrous. He caught Arthur’s next strike bare-handed, the energy blade hissing against his palm. The flesh burned, but Hercules grinned through the pain.

Then he headbutted Arthur with the force of a battering ram.

The Emperor reeled back, dazed — and Hercules surged forward with a shoulder slam that sent Arthur flying across the arena floor, skidding through the sand.

The crowd gasped.

Arthur lay still for a moment.

Even the Order of the Light, watching from the royal balcony, tensed — hands hovering near their blades.

But slowly, Arthur pushed himself to his feet. Blood ran down his brow. His cloak was torn. His armor dented.

Yet his eyes — cold and sharp as ever — locked once more on the demigod.

And he did something no one expected.

He smiled.

“You're strong,” Arthur said, lifting the red blade again.

“But strength alone… is not enough.”

He raised his free hand.

Runes along his gauntlet flickered — ancient symbols glowing with light.

Hercules hesitated.

Too late.

The blade in Arthur’s hand pulsed — and for a single, blinding moment, it became something more. The light expanded, roared, became a flaming arc of raw power.

Arthur surged forward — faster than before. His sword struck down like the wrath of the sun.

Hercules blocked it — barely — but the impact launched him off his feet.

He crashed into the far wall of the arena. Stone shattered.

Silence.

Smoke.

Then—movement.

Hercules stumbled forward, sword dangling from his hand, chest rising and falling like a beast struggling to stay alive.

The crowd rose to its feet.

But Hercules raised a hand.

And dropped his blade.

“I yield,” he said.

Not broken. Not defeated. But outmatched.

The crowd erupted — a deafening, unstoppable wave of cheers.

Arthur stood in the center of the arena, blade humming softly at his side.

He looked toward Hercules.

And gave a slight nod of respect.

The son of Zeus returned it, bloodied but proud.

Two warriors. No hatred. No shame. Only truth.

As the Emperor raised his blade toward the heavens, the coliseum roared his name.

"Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!"

Above them, the sky seemed to tremble.

For today, a legend had been tested.

And the world now knew:

He was no mere man.

He was Emperor.