Chapter 7, The Trials of Flesh and Glory, part 1.
Panathenaic Stadium – Early AfternoonApril 6th, 1896
The officials hadn't yet finished marking the spot where the javelin had landed—still stumbling over each other, tape measures unspooled and bent—when the judges for the next event began huddling under a linen-shaded pavilion, scrolls clutched like shields, their voices clipped, sharp, and anxious.
Sweat beaded beneath powdered wigs and behind stiff collars.
The chaos hadn't subsided—it had mutated into something heavier.
A different kind of tension now ruled the air. Not excitement. Not protocol.
Anticipation.
"He's registered for discus as well."
The man who spoke didn't raise his voice, but everyone around him turned.
"Let him," another replied, adjusting his sash nervously. "What choice do we have?"
A third leaned forward, whispering over the rim of a silver teacup.
"The crowd expects it now."
And then—one voice, spoken low, almost guilty:
"This time he'll falter. He has to."
But even as it was said, no one—not even the speaker—believed it.
The Setup
The ring had already been drawn—a chalked circle perfectly inscribed into the flat stone surface at the center of the field. The lines had been redone three times that morning alone, such was the reverence placed on discipline and form.
The sunlight beat down on the stone, making it glow pale gold beneath the noon sky.
To its side, set precisely atop a lacquered oak stand, lay the discus rack:Eight matched projectiles, polished to a sheen. Each one identical in length and weight. Ashwood polished smooth, centers carefully filled with dense lead. Wrapped with tight leather at the grip for control and spin.
To the trained competitor, they were sacred instruments of balance.To the crowd, they were tools of beauty.To Arthas… they were objects of curiosity.
One by one, the competitors emerged.
Greeks. Frenchmen. A Belgian. Two Italians. One stiff-backed American.
Each man had his routine—stretching arms, rotating shoulders, tapping the soles of specially designed shoes against the marble.
They moved in rhythm, but their rhythm faltered.
Because every few seconds—they glanced sideways.
At him.
Arthas.
Still barefoot.
Still shirtless.
The cloak tied around his hips fluttered in the breeze like a ragged war banner, its edge stained from grass and dust. The sunlight traced the ridges of his torso, highlighting muscles too dense, too still, too calm for the arena of sport.
His skin bore the shimmer of sweat—but not exhaustion.
He was not panting.
He was not pacing.
He was simply there.
Standing like a monument the world had built without realizing it.
Unmoving.
Unapologetic.
He began to walk—toward the ring, toward the rack, toward the center of the moment.
Not like a man approaching competition.
But like a creature the world had tried to forget, now stepping back into its domain.
And the crowd… the crowd leaned forward.
Because deep down, no matter what came next—
They knew they would not forget what they were about to see.
---
The Doubts in the Air
Panathenaic Stadium – Early AfternoonDiscus Competition Begins
Discus was different.
It wasn't like javelin—wild and linear, the violent poetry of a weapon in flight. Discus was about control, about form, about the invisible balance between muscle and geometry. A spin too tight and the disc would wobble. Too wide and it would fly flat, powerless. Every centimeter mattered.
And so, as the competitors moved into position, their minds turned to calculations, breath work, pacing.
But even then…
The whispers started again.
This time more careful. More hushed. Not mocking, not yet—but hopeful, like men watching a lion and convincing themselves it might still trip over its own feet.
"He won the javelin, yes. But discus is finesse."
"Let him try. Let him twirl like the rest of us. He's too dense for the turn."
"That size… it'll work against him now."
"Strength isn't everything."
A Greek judge at the measuring line shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his sash as he leaned toward his colleague.
"He threw the javelin like it weighed nothing. But this? This takes elegance."
A Belgian athlete muttered as he rotated his shoulders:
"He's top-heavy. No shoes, no grip. Watch—he'll slip in the ring."
Some of them wanted him to fail—because the alternative was too much.
Because if he could master this too… then he was no longer just a competitor. He was something else.
Something that didn't play by the rules of the world they trained in.
Still, even as their mouths moved and their words tried to summon weakness into him…
Their eyes kept drifting his way.
And none of them—not one—believed what they were saying.
Not really.
Because deep down, they felt it—
This was not a man preparing to test himself.This was a myth adjusting to a new shape.
---
The Preparation
Panathenaic Stadium – Early AfternoonDiscus Ring – Minutes Before the Throw
The judges finished scribbling down the last entry.
The names of competitors had been logged. The rules repeated. The boundaries confirmed. But none of that truly mattered anymore.
Because now—he stepped forward.
Arthas.
The crowd quieted again, not because they were told to, but because something about him demanded it.
There were no trumpets. No music. No announcement. He didn't need one. His walk—slow, certain, deliberate—was all the fanfare required.
The competitors had already taken up positions behind the line. One rolled his shoulders nervously. Another tapped the inside of his foot against the ground, a superstition against slipping.
But he didn't do any of it.
Arthas walked barefoot across the field as though it belonged to him, the stone beneath his feet cool, firm, familiar—even though he had never touched this world until today.
He moved with the grace of someone who didn't need to prepare his body.
It was already ready.
He reached the discus rack.
Eight polished weapons—each one balanced to perfection. He paused in front of them, not like a man choosing a tool, but like a warrior recognizing something long lost.
A Greek official extended one toward him carefully, both hands cupped beneath it like an offering at an altar.
"Standard issue. Balanced center. Tested."
Arthas took it with one hand.
The judge blinked.
It looked smaller in his grasp—not ridiculous, but wrong somehow. Like something ancient being forced into something modern.
He turned the discus slowly.
The grip was wrapped in tight leather—firm, clean, oiled. The edges perfectly smooth. He bounced it in his palm once, gauging the weight.
Too light for a shield. Too round for war. But it wants to fly.Yes. I remember this shape—not here. Not exactly. But I remember what it's meant to do.
He stepped to the ring.
Not to the outer line, not behind it—into it.
The competitors watched. The crowd leaned forward. Even the judges quieted.
The air shifted.
Arthas stood in the center like he had always been meant to stand there. His shoulders rolled once, the motion rippling through his entire back like a living sculpture awakening beneath skin. His hand closed tighter around the disc.
He closed his eyes—just for a breath.
Not to focus.
To listen.
To the wind. The stone. The waiting.
Then he opened them.
And he turned.
Not quickly. Not with hesitation.But with the smooth, spiraling flow of a force already set in motion before he ever arrived in this world.
His left foot anchored. His right traced the edge of the ring. His arms moved as counterweights—wide, stable, flowing like wings in orbit.
The crowd fell to silence again.
Even the other competitors paused their routines, half-crouched, half-twisted, watching him move like something ancient waking from slumber.
The discus spun in his palm with each rotation—seamlessly controlled, as if it were alive and knew it would not be dropped.
The rope around his waist lifted as he spun, fluttering like a banner in a rising storm.
His muscles tensed—not in brute strain, but like bowstrings drawn to a perfect edge.
His jaw clenched. His chest rose with one final breath.
And then—
Release.
The discus left his hand with no sound.
There was no grunt. No flare of motion. No trembling.
Just stillness at the center of action.
The disc soared.
It sliced through the air not like a stone, but like a message written in a divine language—one only gravity could read.
Its arc was unnatural.
Too clean. Too steady. No wobble. No drift.
It didn't rise—it climbed.It didn't curve—it ascended.It seemed to hang for a heartbeat at its apex, as if the sky itself was hesitating to return it to earth.
And when it fell—
It slammed into the turf with a low, solid thud, so far beyond the final flag that it landed in unmarked earth.
The officials stared.
The crowd held its breath.
One of the Greek marshals turned to the head judge, voice cracking.
"We don't have a marker for that."
The judge whispered back:
"Mark it anyway."
For a moment, there was only the sound of wind and shifting feet.
The crowd was stunned—again.Twice now.
And this time—the silence lingered longer.
Until finally—
"Measure it!" a child cried out, and laughter broke the stillness like sunlight through cloud.
Then came the applause.
First scattered. Then rising. Then unstoppable.
But Arthas?
He didn't move.
He stood at the edge of the ring, back straight, gaze fixed not on the field—
But on her.
Xania – The Woman Behind the Miracle
She forgot to breathe.
Even as the crowd erupted around her, even as flags waved and voices shouted praise in a dozen languages, Xania stood still—as if her body feared that any movement might undo the moment.
The roar reached her ears like ocean surf, distant and thunderous. Reporters scribbled furiously. Nobles fanned themselves, half from heat, half from disbelief. Men who had spent their lives commanding armies, managing empires, now stared at the field like schoolboys witnessing the birth of a new war god.
But Xania?
She saw him.
Just him.
Arthas hadn't raised his arms. Hadn't smiled. Hadn't even acknowledged the stadium. He simply stood, facing the end of the field where the discus had buried itself in the grass like a blade driven into the heart of reality.
And then, slowly, he turned his head.
His eyes scanned the sea of faces—
And found hers.
Her breath caught.Her stomach flipped.And something in her—something deeply, dangerously private—melted.
She should've been pleased. Proud. Triumphant.
But what she felt now was something deeper. Something that pressed behind her ribs and made her chest ache.
Because now, they weren't just witnessing him.
They were claiming him.
The man she had discovered, kissed, defended, and lied for—now belonged to the world.
And still… he looked only at her.
He didn't smile.
But the way his head tilted—just slightly, just enough—was a message written in silence.
Did I do well?
Her hand drifted to her chest.
And she nodded.
Once.
The faintest motion.
But to him—it was everything.
---
The Witnesses
Panathenaic Stadium – April 6th, 1896 – After the Discus Throw
The Greek Judge – Andrianakis
Petros Andrianakis, head of field events, stood with his arms behind his back, fingers curled tightly into his own wrists. His mouth was a tight line, his breath shallow.
He had seen great throws in his lifetime. He had officiated national champions, had watched modern sports science refine men into engines of balance and precision.
But what he had just witnessed?
That was not science.
"How… did he spin like that?" he whispered to no one. "A man that large shouldn't move like that."
He looked down at the parchment on his judging clipboard.
He had written the distance.
But now, staring at the number, it looked less like a statistic and more like a prophecy.
The French Reporter – Lucien Vallon
Lucien Vallon nearly dropped his fountain pen.
Ink splattered across his coat as he pressed a hand to his chest and tried to calm his racing heart. He looked down at the mess of half-finished notes he'd scribbled:
"Romanov champion… javelin god… discus miracle… full silence…"
He looked up at Arthas again, who stood like a silent obelisk against the summer sun.
"If he wins again… if he does it a third time…"
Lucien realized something horrible.
"We'll have to believe in him."
Not as a man.
But as something greater.
The British Envoy
Colonel Thomas Warwick adjusted his monocle and muttered under his breath.
"This is no ordinary strongman. No farm brute or Cossack brawler."
He turned to the prince seated beside him.
"Mark my words, Your Grace—he's not just competing. He's staking territory."
"He's what?" the prince asked.
"He's declaring himself."
The Ottoman Princess
She had fanned herself steadily for the past ten minutes, but her hands now trembled so violently that the fan had gone still.
"His back… it didn't even ripple when he threw," she whispered. "He moved like... like silk."
The nobleman beside her made a quiet scoffing sound. "He's a novelty. A stunt."
But she shook her head, eyes fixed on the man in the ring.
"He's a revolution in a Roman cloak."
The Russian Envoy
Prince Alexei Petrov sat stone-faced, knuckles white on the armrest of his diplomatic seat.
His niece—Xania—stood mere feet from the arena barrier, staring openly, blushing. She hadn't moved since the throw.
"This is not a flirtation anymore," he muttered. "This is an uprising."
He reached for a pen and scrawled a note onto a folded piece of paper, sealing it with a wax signet on the edge of his ring.
To Saint Petersburg.
She's chosen him.We must act.
The Crowd – Unified Murmur
The voices blurred into a storm of awe, gossip, disbelief, and rising hunger:
"What's his name again?""Is he going to do everything?""He's already broken two records—who is this man?""He doesn't even talk…""I heard she found him naked in an alley.""And now he's breaking the Olympics."
Back in the Ring – Arthas
Still, he didn't move.
His eyes remained on Xania. His chest rose, steady and unshaken.
But in his blood, the system hummed.
[SYSTEM] XP GAINED: 450Level 3 ConfirmedStat Progression: STR +3 | SPD +2 | REF +1Aura-Influence Radius Expanded.Notice: "All eyes are now upon you."
And they were.