Chapter 18: New Blood

Days after his training bout with Spartacus, Batiatus returned to the ludus with an announcement. He didn't bring wine or silk. He brought human flesh.

Six men were dragged into the center of the training yard. They were different from other slaves Ulysses had seen. Their bodies were maps of brutal lives. Covered in thick, rough scars, not clean sword cuts, but tearing wounds from no-rules brawls. Their eyes were wild, like cornered wolves, radiating pure desperation and ferocity.

Batiatus stood before his assembled gladiators, his arms spread wide as if he were a god bestowing grace.

"My sons!" he boomed theatrically. "True strength is not born of training, but of desperation! From the fighting pits where every day is a struggle for a crust of bread!"

He pointed to the six trembling men. "I have brought the finest steel from that hell. But there is only one place among you. That place must be seized with blood!"

The guards threw several rusted weapons onto the ground among the six men. A blunt axe, a few serrated daggers, a large nail.

"Only the strongest will stand!" Batiatus roared. "Only the victor will eat tonight! Begin!"

For a moment, no one moved. Then, chaos erupted.

The six men lunged forward, shoving and stabbing each other to grab weapons. It wasn't a fight. It was a chaotic massacre. A skinny man was stabbed in the back. Another man's head was repeatedly slammed into the ground until his brains splattered on the sand.

Ulysses watched from the sidelines with the other gladiators. He didn't feel the horror he once did. His Basic Psychology worked, analyzing the scene before him with cold calm. He saw the man driven by pure fear, who only screamed and swung aimlessly. He saw the man driven by greed, who tried to grab two weapons at once and ultimately died for it.

His attention then focused on one person. A giant with a bald head and a thick, dirty beard. The man was not in a hurry. He let the others kill each other. He snatched the blunt axe and with one efficient swing, he split the skull of his nearest opponent.

One by one, the fighters fell, until only the giant and one other man, smaller but cunning, remained. Their fight was brief. The smaller man tried to stab from the side. The giant did not dodge. He allowed the dagger to graze his ribs, then with his bare hand he gripped the man's neck and lifted him off the ground.

There was the sound of bones breaking. The small body went limp.

The giant stood in the center of the corpses, panting, his chest smeared with the blood of others. He raised his axe and roared to the sky, a primal, terrifying roar of victory.

The other gladiators murmured with a mix of fear and admiration. But Ulysses saw more. He noticed how during the fight, the giant never turned his head. His eyes were always locked straight ahead. He reacted to threats in front of him with immense power, but he seemed to have blind spots on his left and right sides. He was a giant hammer, powerful and deadly, but could only strike in one direction.

Batiatus laughed heartily, his eyes gleaming at his new beast. "Magnificent!" he exclaimed. "This is true strength!"

He looked at his new pit champion, then his gaze shifted, searching for someone among his gladiators. His eyes stopped and met Ulysses's. A cunning, calculating smile formed on Batiatus's face.

A few days after that training bout, a drum was beaten in the yard, a call that halted all activity. Doctore, with his stone face, ordered all gladiators to assemble. From the lowest recruit to Spartacus himself, they formed ranks under the scorching sun.

Batiatus and Lucretia appeared on the villa balcony, looking down at the sea of sweating bodies that constituted their wealth.

"My sons!" Batiatus's voice echoed with the enthusiasm of a market vendor. "The gods once again smile upon the House of Batiatus! An honorable Legatus will visit Capua, and in his honor, the grandest games will be held! And the champions of this house shall provide the blood and glory!"

A murmur of excitement spread among the gladiators. Games meant a chance for glory, and more importantly, coins.

Batiatus raised his hand. "For the opening bout, to warm the audience's blood, we will present a man who fights for his family's honor! Varro!"

Ulysses turned to his friend. He saw Varro flinch in surprise, his eyes widening for a moment, before his jaw hardened into an expression of nervous determination. Ulysses gave him a small, imperceptible nod.

"Next!" Batiatus roared. "A display of strength and ferocity! I pair our mighty veteran with fiery new blood! Welcome... Barca and Agron!"

A low growl of approval escaped Barca's throat. Beside him, Agron the German merely stared straight ahead, but his hands unconsciously squeezed the hilt of his wooden sword. The unexpected pairing made the other gladiators whisper.

Batiatus waited for the whispers to subside, his smile widening. He pointed to a corner of the yard, towards the giant from The Pit who stood alone, his gaze vacant and savage.

"And for the main event!" his voice reached a climax. "A fight that will be talked about throughout Capua! A battle between Muscle and Mind! The invincible beast from the pits... against the tactician who has brought down two champions... Our very own Champion of The Pit... ULYSSES!"

All eyes were now on Ulysses. He could feel the weight of their gaze. He saw doubt on some faces as they compared his stature to the giant's. He saw a flicker of hatred in Gnaeus's eyes. He saw cold respect in Spartacus's eyes.

Ulysses simply stood still, his face calm, showing nothing.

After the announcement, the yard buzzed with preparation activity again. Ulysses found Varro pacing anxiously.

"A gladiator from another ludus," Varro said, his voice tense. "They say he fights with two daggers. I never..."

Ulysses placed a hand on Varro's shoulder. He looked into his friend's eyes. "He's fast," Ulysses said, his voice calm. "But fast men don't like to get hit. Don't let him dance. Keep advancing. Press him. Don't give him room to think."

His Basic Psychology told him that what Varro needed wasn't sympathy, but strategy. Varro stopped pacing, a new understanding visible on his face. He nodded. "Keep advancing. I understand."

Ulysses left him and his own eyes now turned to his opponent. The giant from the pit was training the only way he knew how: smashing a thick wooden post into splinters with his blunt axe. Immense power. Straightforward movements. Mindless rage.

The day of the games, the tunnels beneath the arena felt cold and damp. The roar of tens of thousands of spectators above sounded like the heartbeat of a giant monster, making the stones around Ulysses seem to vibrate. He could smell wet sand, stale sweat, and thick fear.

Nearby, Varro paced, his hand unconsciously clenching a small wooden locket hanging around his neck. On the other side, Barca stood still like a granite statue, while Agron beside him stomped his foot, his eyes gleaming wildly with anticipation.

A trumpet blared, its sound shrill and piercing. A loud announcer proclaimed the first fight.

"VARRO OF HOUSE BATIATUS!"

Varro stopped pacing. He looked at Ulysses, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and burning determination. Ulysses simply nodded firmly. Keep advancing.

Varro took a deep breath and stepped out of the darkness into the blinding light.

From a crack in the gate, Ulysses watched the fight. He saw Varro facing his opponent, an agile Thracian with two daggers, exactly as they had discussed. Varro gave him no room. He kept advancing, his shield raised, fending off his opponent's rapid flurry of attacks.

CLANG! CLANG!

The daggers danced like silver snakes, leaving scratches on Varro's shield and arm. Blood began to trickle, but Varro did not retreat. He kept pressing, forcing the agile fighter to remain defensive, giving him no chance to build rhythm.

The crowd jeered at the seemingly stagnant fight, but Ulysses knew Varro was doing the right thing.

Finally, the Thracian made a mistake. He attempted an overly fancy spinning move. His foot stumbled for a moment. Varro didn't waste the opportunity. With a roar fueled by the image of his wife and child, he slammed his shield into his opponent's body, then plunged his sword deep.

A genuine roar of victory escaped Varro's throat as his opponent collapsed. The crowd cheered. Ulysses felt a weight lift from his shoulders. His friend was safe.

The second fight was announced. "BARCA AND AGRON OF HOUSE BATIATUS!"

Both stepped into the arena with a completely different aura. This was not a struggle for survival. This was a display of power.

Their fight was brief, brutal, and efficient. Barca acted as a fortress, holding off their opponents' attacks with his massive shield. Behind that protection, Agron moved like a wolf, slashing and tearing with the ferocity of a German warrior.

One opponent fell with a shattered knee. The second tried to flee, but Barca tripped him. Agron ended his resistance with a single slash that nearly decapitated him.

Blood splattered onto the sand. The crowd erupted in a frenzied cheer. They had gotten what they wanted. Barca and Agron raised their weapons, accepting the crowd's praise.

They returned to the tunnels, their bodies covered in their enemies' blood. The atmosphere among the gladiators was now tense with anticipation.

The announcer's voice boomed again, louder than before. "AND NOW! FOR THE MAIN EVENT! A BATTLE BETWEEN STRENGTH AND CUNNING!"

Ulysses saw the Pit Champion being pushed out of another gate. The giant roared, pounding his chest, inciting the crowd's fury.

"THE BEAST FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE PIT... AGAINST THE TACTICIAN... OUR VERY OWN NEW CHAMPION OF THE PIT... ULYSSES!"

His new name echoed throughout the arena. Ulysses took a deep breath, feeling the roar of the crowd in his chest. He gripped the cold, familiar hilt of his sword.

The time had come. He stepped out of the shadows, towards the light and the sea of sound.

The roar of the crowd was a wall of sound. Before him, the Pit Champion returned the roar, raising his massive blunt axe into the air. He was the embodiment of raw power, a mountain of flesh and rage ready to crush anything in his path.

The fight bell rang.

The giant did not run. He walked forward, his steps heavy and steady, each footfall seemingly shaking the sand. He swung his axe in a wide, terrifying horizontal arc.

Ulysses did not try to block it. He leapt backward, letting the axe hit the air with a deadly whooshing sound. The crowd jeered at his seemingly cowardly movement.

The giant continued forward, swinging his weapon again and again. Every swing was powerful, but also slow and predictable. Ulysses kept dodging, moving in circles, maintaining his distance. He was a small wave dancing around a sturdy rock cliff. His mind worked, analyzing. He saw what he had noticed before: his opponent's eyes were locked straight ahead. He never glanced to the sides. His world was a narrow, straight tunnel.

"Fight him, coward!" a spectator shouted.

Ulysses ignored it. He had weathered the initial attack. Now it was time to test his theory.

As the giant swung his axe again, Ulysses did not dodge backward. He dodged sideways, into his opponent's blind spot. Before the giant could turn, Ulysses lunged forward and slashed his sword hard across the back of his opponent's thigh.

SLICE!

A deep gash appeared, followed by a spurt of blood.

The giant roared, more from shock than pain. He turned awkwardly, his axe sweeping wildly, trying to hit the target that was now behind him.

The crowd's jeers turned into confused murmurs.

Ulysses gave him no time. He attacked again from the other side, landing another blow on his opponent's arm. He never stopped moving, constantly circling the giant, forcing him to keep turning, making him dizzy and enraged. He was a mosquito bothering a bull, landing small, painful stings.

Rage began to consume the giant. His logic disappeared, replaced by a pure desire to destroy. With a final, deafening roar, he charged straight forward, ignoring all defenses, raising his axe for one last blow that would end everything.

Ulysses saw it coming. He saw the blind rage. And he saw his path to victory.

He stood still until the very last moment. Just as the axe was about to descend, he didn't dodge. He dropped to the sand and rolled sideways.

The giant, who had put all his momentum into advancing, could not stop. He lunged past where Ulysses had stood moments ago and crashed hard into the arena wall.

CRASH!

The wooden wall shook. The giant stumbled backward, his head dizzy from the impact.

Ulysses was already on his feet. He lunged forward. His sword wasn't aimed at the head or chest. He plunged it with precision into the back of his opponent's knee, right at the nerve point he had learned.

There was no tearing sound of flesh. Only a dull "thwack."

The giant's leg immediately went limp. His entire massive weight was now supported by one dysfunctional leg. His wild eyes stared at Ulysses in shock and incomprehension. He lost his balance, and with a shaking thud, the mountain crumbled.

He lay on the sand, unable to rise, roaring in frustration and pain.

Ulysses stood over him, panting, his chest heaving rapidly.

Complete silence fell over the arena. Then, one person began to clap. Then ten. Then a thousand. In seconds, the entire arena erupted in cheers louder than ever before. They weren't cheering for bloodshed. They were cheering for intelligence. They were cheering for an impossible victory.

He raised his sword into the air. The echo of thousands of people shouting his new name felt like a wave of real power.

"ULYSSES! ULYSSES! ULYSSES!"

He had done it. He had defeated the beast. He had proven that in the arena of life or death, brains would always be sharper than brawn.

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{Name: Ulysses (Thomas Vance)}

{Title: Champion of The Pit}

{Stored Essence: 33}

{Active Legacies: [Talent] Rapid Adaptation, [Knowledge] Basic Psychology (Tier 1)}