Chapter 18: Red Dawn

Author's thoughts:"There might be a bit of chaos in the chapter's flow; I haven't had time to check it."

Dawn on the plains came not with warmth, but with a bone-chilling cold and a pale light that slowly crept over the sea of humanity. Ulixes stood silently in the front rank, flanked by the soldiers of Cohors Prima. Behind him stretched the full might of Crassus's legion. Forty thousand soldiers, a forest of bronze helmet crests and faintly gleaming spear tips, stood in disciplined silence. The only sounds were the whistling of the wind through the silver eagle standards and the restless whinnying of horses from the cavalry wings.

Across the vast plain lay their enemy. Fifty thousand rebels. From this distance, they looked like an angry swarm of ants, a dark, chaotic mass, in stark contrast to the precise lines of the Roman legion. Yet, Ulixes knew the danger within that chaos. It was the chaos of desperation. The chaos of people who had nothing to lose but their chains.

A sharp trumpet blast sounded. The senior officers were summoned to gather around Crassus, who sat astride his large black horse.

Crassus did not look at his troops. His eyes were fixed on the enemy lines in the distance. His face was calm, like an architect about to demolish an old building.

"Look at them," he said, his voice calm yet audible to all his officers. "They shout and beat their shields. They make noise to cover the fear in their hearts."

He turned, his cold eyes sweeping over Caesar, Ulixes, and the other commanders. "We will not give them the battle they want. No heroic duels. No individual glory. There is only this machine." He gestured towards the legion behind them. "Today, this machine will grind them to dust. Carry out your orders. Hold the line. Crush their flanks. Give them no room to breathe. Show no mercy."

He paused for a moment. "For Rome."

The officers slammed their fists against their chests. "For Rome!"

As Ulixes returned to his position at the head of Cohors Prima, he heard a different sound coming from across the plain. A single voice, amplified by lung power and fury. Spartacus. He was delivering his speech.

Ulixes couldn't hear his words, but he could see their impact. He saw the previously restless sea of rebels grow still. He saw bowed heads now lift. He saw tens of thousands of men and women clench their varied weapons, their gazes now filled with a renewed fire of defiance.

Then, Spartacus raised his sword, and fifty thousand voices exploded in a single roar so powerful it seemed to shake the sky itself. FREEDOM!

The roar was a shockwave, a declaration that challenged the steel discipline of Rome. The young soldiers in Ulixes's line wavered slightly, their eyes showing hesitation for the first time.

"Look straight ahead!" Ulixes snapped, his voice cutting through their doubt. "Their roar cannot pierce your shields!"

The war trumpets from both sides finally sounded in unison, a declaration that the time for talk was over.

"Archers!" a Roman Centurion bellowed. "Draw!"

Thousands of bows were drawn simultaneously.

"Fire!"

The sky darkened. A black cloud of thousands of arrows shot upward, hissing like a deadly downpour. A moment later, the cloud plunged down into the front ranks of the rebel army. The first screams erupted, dozens, then hundreds of rebels fell, their bodies pierced by wood and iron.

The rebels retaliated with volleys of stones from their slingers and their own arrows, but less coordinated and less deadly.

"Legions!" Crassus's voice thundered from behind. "Advance!"

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

A single collective sound of forty thousand pairs of sandals hitting the ground. The unbroken shield wall began to move forward, a slow-creeping glacier of steel destined to swallow everything.

Ulixes took a deep breath, feeling the [Achilles Template] pulsing within him, sharpening his every sense, preparing his every muscle. He raised his gladius.

Across the way, the sea of rebels did not wait. With a final desperate roar, they charged forward, a human tidal wave about to crash against the rock of Rome.

Ulixes watched them grow closer. Twenty paces.

Ten paces.

The world for Ulixes now narrowed to the confined space between his shield and the approaching enemy shield wall. He could see the details of the faces across the way now. Eyes wide, teeth bared in a snarl that was part rage, part terror. Yellowed teeth in silent screams. Braided beards with small bone fragments. He could smell them, a sour scent of days-old sweat and cheap wine drunk to dull the senses before the charge.

Five paces.

He planted his feet firmer on the ground, feeling the tremor of tens of thousands of steps shaking the earth. He could see the rusted tips of their spears, ready to pierce through any tiny gap.

One pace.

He took a deep breath.

CRASH!

The impact was not a sound. It was a sensation. A seismic force that slammed into his shield, coursed through his arm, and shook every bone in his body. The world became an explosion of splintering wood, clashing metal, and the first choked screams of the soldiers in the front rank, crushed by the momentum of the collision.

Ulixes pushed back with all his might, his shoulder pressing against the inside of his large shield. Beside him, a Cohors Prima soldier groaned as an axe embedded itself in the top of his shield, nearly splitting the wood. On his other side, a rebel tried to grab the edge of a shield with his bare hand, only to be met by a swift, brutal gladius thrust from the second Roman rank, pinning his hand to his own shield.

This was no longer a battle. This was a meat grinder.

Their shield wall pushed forward, then back, like clashing waves. Every inch of ground was contested with blood. Ulixes moved with cold efficiency amidst the chaos. He saw an unprotected leg beneath an enemy shield; he thrust his sword downwards, feeling the brief resistance of flesh and bone before pulling it back.

He slammed the prominent front of his shield into the face of a man trying to peer over his shield, breaking his nose with a wet crunch. He didn't have time to see the man fall. His attention had already shifted to the next threat.

However, in the midst of that primal killing instinct, his brain continued to work. He wasn't just fighting. He was analyzing. He ignored the random chaos and looked for a pattern. He scanned the rebel line before him, segment by segment. Most of them were just holding, pushing desperately.

But then he saw it. Slightly to his left. A segment led by a giant man with a helmet adorned with goat horns. The man and his followers fought with incredible ferocity. They were constantly pushing forward, creating a small "bulge" in the rebel defensive line.

Their strength was their pride. And Ulixes saw it as their fatal weakness.

Because they were too focused on advancing, the side of their formation was slightly exposed. There was a gap, a slightly loose "seam" between the horned unit and the more defensive unit next to it. The gap was narrow, perhaps only enough for one or two men. But it was more than enough.

Ulixes had found his weak point.

He shifted slightly, parrying another attack from a rebel, then shouted to Centurion Flamma, who was fighting not far from him, his voice barely audible amidst the din.

"Flamma!"

The old soldier turned, his face streaked with sweat and blood.

"To the left! The mark of the horned man!" Ulixes shouted. "Prepare the wedge! On my command!"

Flamma looked in the direction Ulixes pointed. He saw the bulge in the enemy line. He saw the gap beside it. His experienced eyes immediately understood. He nodded firmly, then began barking orders to the soldiers around him.

Ulixes refocused forward. He raised his shield to block another slash. He took a deep breath, feeling his muscles tense with anticipation. He had found the crack in the storm wall. Now, it was time to be the lightning that would shatter it.

Ulixes took a deep breath. He saw Flamma signal that the surrounding soldiers were ready. Before him, the rebel shield wall still pushed with desperate force. To his left, the horned unit continued to press, creating the bulge that was his focal point.

He didn't give a shouted signal. He just looked at his two nearest soldiers, giving a brief, sharp nod. They understood.

"NOW!" he roared.

At the same instant, he and the two soldiers slammed their shields into a single point, right beside the horned unit. Three men pushed as one. The rebel shield wall faltered under the sudden, focused pressure.

That's when Ulixes unleashed the true power of the [Achilles Template].

He pushed his shield forward with a final burst of strength, creating a shoulder-width gap. Then, he leaped.

His movement was an explosion of muscle and intent. He didn't leap upwards, but forwards, his body low and swift like a panther. He used his opponent's wavering shield as a momentary foothold, then propelled himself past the front rank, landing lightly on the empty ground behind them.

The rebels in the first rank gaped, their minds unable to process the maneuver. They had never seen such a move.

Before they could even turn, Ulixes was at work. He was now behind them, between the first and second ranks. He was a wolf in a sheepfold. His sword moved with blurred speed. A thrust to the back of a man's neck. A slash to another man's hamstrings. He twisted his body, his shield slamming into a rebel's back, sending him falling forward, onto the spear of his own comrade.

At the front, Flamma and his men capitalized on the chaos. They surged into the gap Ulixes had created. Their wedge formation began to take shape, brutally cleaving the enemy lines.

Ulixes didn't wait for them. He continued to push forward alone, a spearhead detached from its shaft. He saw a group of rebel archers trying to shoot at him. He ran in a zig-zag, his new speed making their arrows only hit the ground around him. He reached them before they could draw their bows again. The fight was short and bloody.

He was now deep within the enemy formation. He could feel pressure from all directions. He fought on pure instinct. He felt a threat from his left; he spun and parried an axe swing. He felt a movement on his right; he pushed with his shield without looking. His [360-degree awareness] talent sang in his mind, a symphony of threats and opportunities.

He saw Cohors Prima struggling fiercely behind him, their wedge slowly eroding under the overwhelming enemy numbers. He knew he had to do something to break that pressure.

He saw his target. A large banner with a boar symbol, surrounded by burly Gallic warriors. One of their field commanders.

Ulixes roared, a sound that was no longer the voice of a commander, but the roar of a mythological hero. He charged towards the banner.

The Gallic warriors formed a shield wall to protect their commander. Ulixes did not slow down. He leaped once more, this time using a corpse as a foothold, and landed directly in their midst.

He was a steel storm. His sword slashed, thrust, and ripped. He no longer fought with tactics. He fought with pure power and speed. He shattered their defenses from within, every movement a deadly blow.

Finally, he faced the Gallic commander. The man was a giant, but a flicker in his eyes betrayed the terror he felt. He swung his large sword. Ulixes parried it with ease, then with one final movement, he plunged his sword into the man's heart.

He pulled out his sword, grabbed the boar banner, and threw it to the ground, stomping on it with his boot.

Seeing their banner fall and trampled by a single man, the morale of the surrounding Gallic warriors shattered. They began to retreat.

The collapse spread like a disease.

Ulixes stood. He had succeeded. He and Cohors Prima had broken through the enemy's front line. They were now in the open ground behind him, a gaping wound in the rebel army's formation. He turned back and saw the main Roman legion beginning to exploit the gap they had created, pushing forward with unstoppable force.

But as he looked forward, he saw the fresh second line of rebels, and in front of them, the elite guards. They were no longer focused on the main legion. They now stared at him, their eyes burning with pure hatred. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of enemy soldiers now turned to face the island of steel that had suddenly appeared in their midst.

Their mission was successful. But their own battle had just begun.

Centurion Flamma, his stern face streaked with blood, shouted beside him, trying to make his voice heard above the din of battle. "Praefectus! We must fall back! Rejoin the main line while the gap is still open! Orders accomplished!"

Ulixes looked into the old soldier's eyes. He saw the logic of an experienced Roman soldier. The logic of survival. But in Ulixes's blood, the echo of the mythological hero whispered of something else. Not of survival. Of total domination.

He shook his head. "Fall back?" he said, his voice strangely calm amidst the hell. "Flamma, we just plunged the knife into this beast's gut. You want me to pull it out?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He raised his blood-dripping gladius, pointing not back towards the safety of the Roman legion, but sideways, towards a large group of rebel reserve units who were gathering in confusion.

"We do not retreat," Ulixes commanded, his voice now thundering with undeniable authority. "We twist the knife."

He turned to his exhausted, battered men of Cohors Prima. "Wedge formation! Follow me! We will sweep them from the flank! Crush them before they know what hit them!"

For a moment, even the most loyal Cohors Prima soldiers hesitated. The order was insane. It was a suicide mission.

But then they saw their commander's eyes. Eyes that showed no madness or despair. Only cold, absolute conviction. And they remembered how he had single-handedly broken through the shield wall. They no longer hesitated.

With a united roar, they reformed their deadly wedge formation and followed Ulixes as he ran along the enemy's rear line.

Their attack hit the rebel reserve units like an avalanche of rock and steel. The rebels were completely unprepared. They were waiting for orders, observing the battle ahead, when death came from their side.

Ulixes was the first to arrive. He slammed into their disorganized ranks, his sword moving in an efficient dance of death. He was no longer just killing. He was slaughtering. He slashed a man's leg, making him fall, then stabbed the neck of the man behind him. He twisted his body, his shield hitting two men at once, then his sword moved twice swiftly, leaving two more corpses behind him.

Behind him, Cohors Prima followed, their tight shield wall pushing and crushing everything in their path. They were no longer just a unit. They were a grinding machine, moving with unstoppable momentum.

Ulixes felt the power of the Achilles Template flowing ceaselessly. He felt no fatigue. He felt no pain from the minor wounds on his body. He only felt an extraordinary clarity, every enemy before him a problem to be solved in the fastest, most efficient way.

A large man with two axes tried to stop him. Ulixes did not parry his attacks. He slid beneath the first axe swing, and as the second axe descended, he was already within the man's defensive reach, his gladius thrusting straight into the unprotected belly. He pulled out his sword as the man fell to his knees, his eyes wide with shock.

He kept moving. He leaped over a comrade's corpse to attack an archer. He kicked shields to break stances. He used enemies as shields. He became the embodiment of controlled violence.

In a few minutes that felt like forever, the entire enemy reserve unit of several hundred men was annihilated. They lay in towering piles of corpses.

Ulixes stood. He looked around. His men stared at him with almost worshipful awe. He turned and saw the impact of his actions. His brutal flank attack had created a spreading panic throughout the entire rebel rear line.

"Praefectus!" Flamma shouted, his voice strained as he pointed towards two large groups of rebels who were now changing direction and running towards them. "They're coming from left and right! We'll be surrounded!"

Ulixes looked at the approaching waves of enemies. He saw no threat. He saw an opportunity. An army running in anger was an army no longer thinking.

"Good," Ulixes said, his voice cold and calm. He turned to the exhausted remnants of Cohors Prima. "Listen! We will not hold them here! We will keep moving! We will be the poison in their veins!"

He pointed towards the rear of the battlefield, to where thin smoke wafted from dozens of small campfires and simpler canvas tents. Their resting and medical area. Their most vulnerable logistical heart.

"Our target is there!" he shouted. "Shatter their hope! Destroy their ability to continue the war! Follow me!"

He didn't wait for an answer. He ran again, not towards the safety of the Roman lines, but deeper into the belly of the enemy. Cohors Prima, with a blind trust now forged in blood, followed him without hesitation.

They hit that rear area like a plague. The rebels here were not front-line soldiers. They were healers, cooks, and severely wounded soldiers resting. When they saw the blood-soaked Roman unit appear out of nowhere, their faces changed from weariness to pure terror.

This was no longer a battle. This was a feast for wolves.

Ulixes moved among the canvas tents with inhuman speed. A man with a bandaged arm tried to stop him with a dagger. Ulixes didn't even slow down. He slammed his shield sideways, breaking the man's other arm, then his sword slashed the man's neck in one fluid motion.

He kicked over a wooden table full of clean bandages and medical herbs, sending everything spilling onto the dirty ground. He saw a woman trying to help a wounded soldier. He passed them, his eyes focused only on the men who still held weapons.

He was the embodiment of cruel efficiency. He wasted no time on torture. There was only quick, merciless death. He stabbed a man in a medical tent. He cleaved the head of a cook who tried to fight him with a butcher knife. He leaped onto a cart filled with water and slashed two men who tried to organize a defense.

Around him, Cohors Prima did the same. They killed those who resisted, and destroyed all others. They overturned water barrels, burned food supplies, and tore down tents. They were not just killing fighters; they were killing the rebel army's ability to wage war.

The number of corpses increased rapidly. A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. He no longer counted. He just moved, killed, and kept moving. He became a terrifying legend, born from the panicked whispers of fleeing rebels. They no longer called him a Roman. They called him the Masked God of Death.

News of the brutality in the rear spread faster than fire. The rebel units that had been moving to encircle Cohors Prima now hesitated. They heard screams from behind, from where their families and wounded comrades were supposed to be safe. They had to choose: continue fighting the main legion at the front, or turn back to save what was left in the rear.

That hesitation was poison. And Ulixes was the one who injected it.

Ulixes stood on an overturned cart, his eyes scanning the battlefield. Around him, the exhausted remnants of his cohort had formed a tight defensive circle in the midst of a sea of corpses. They had killed relentlessly. Their numbers now far exceeded a thousand. Perhaps close to two thousand. They had gone beyond orders. They had become a terrifying legend.

But the price paid was heavy. Of the six hundred who started, perhaps only half remained. Their armor was dented and cracked. Their shields were shattered. Their faces were masks of extreme fatigue. Yet, in their eyes, there was a new fire. They had been through hell with their commander, and they emerged on the other side as something more than mere soldiers.

On the other side of the battlefield, Gannicus plunged his two swords into the chest of a Roman Centurion. He pulled them out with a twisting motion and kicked the corpse away. He was panting, but his eyes, usually full of a drunkard's smile, were now sharp and filled with concern. He could feel something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

He heard screams from behind. Not battle cries, but screams of terror. He saw their reserve lines breaking, fighters running in the wrong direction. He saw smoke wafting from what should have been their medical post. The flow of battle had been disrupted. A wolf had entered their sheepfold.

He leaped onto a pile of broken shields to get a better view. And he saw him. In the heart of the chaos. A single Roman cohort, isolated, but not defending. They were attacking. And at their head, a single figure moved with unreasonable speed and ferocity. That figure was the center of all the destruction.

That devil, Gannicus thought. He had to stop him.

He leaped down. He no longer cared about the legionaries before him. His objective was now clear. He began to move through the battle, his twin swords dancing, clearing a path towards the source of the sickness that was poisoning their army.

Back at Ulixes's position, he saw the hesitation among the attacking rebels. They were afraid. His reputation was now a weapon, as sharp as his sword. He raised his blood-stained gladius, ready to lead a final charge to rejoin Crassus's main line.

But then, he felt it. A shift in the battlefield. His [360-degree awareness] talent sensed an approaching presence. Not a panicked horde. This was a single individual. A predator.

He turned. His eyes swept through the chaos and stopped on a single figure moving with deadly purpose towards him. A man with two swords, dancing through the battle as if it were his home.

Ulixes wiped blood from his sword on the cloth of a dead rebel's tunic. He watched the figure approach, unstoppable. He knew who it was. He knew what was coming.

Gannicus was a small storm within the larger tempest, his twin swords dancing, clearing a path through the legionaries who tried to stop him. He was no longer fighting for survival; he was fighting to reach a single objective.

"Hold position!" Ulixes commanded, his voice sharp, directed at Flamma and the Cohors Prima soldiers who began to move to protect him. "Form a defensive wall! Meet their charge! He's mine!"

Flamma, after a moment's pause, bellowed the order. The battered Cohors Prima, with discipline now ingrained, formed a tight steel bastion around Ulixes. They did not retreat. They became a rock.

On the other other side, the rebels near Gannicus, inspired by their champion's bravery, formed their own attacking wave, slamming into Cohors Prima's shield wall with renewed force.

In the midst of tens of thousands of people killing each other, a strange, small island of concentrated tension began to form. Around them, the main battle still raged with deafening roars. But in this sector, the fight became more personal. This was a battle between Gannicus's personal guard and Ulixes's elite unit.

Between these two clashing walls, a no-man's land twenty paces wide was created. And in that empty space, Gannicus finally stopped.

He stood there, his breath slightly ragged, his twin swords dripping Roman blood. He stared at Ulixes, ignoring the fierce fighting around them.

Ulixes stepped forward from the safety of his shield wall, entering that no-man's land to meet him. He could feel the pressure of the battle, the tremor of thousands of feet and the clash of thousands of shields. He could hear the screams of his men and the enemy. The battlefield did not stop for them. The battlefield merely gave them a bloody stage.

Ulixes's mind drifted back to the hot sands of the arena in Capua. He had heard of this man, his unpredictable fighting style, his ability to turn defense into attack in the blink of an eye.

He took a quick inventory of himself. He felt the power of the [Achilles Template] pulsing in his muscles. He felt his sharpened senses. But he also felt the emptiness where there should have been reserves of energy for a burst of speed or minor healing. His system was still dormant. He was alone with his steel and flesh.

He knew he couldn't fight Gannicus with raw strength. He had to use his brain. He had to let Gannicus, the showman, make the first move.

Finally, they stood facing each other, just five paces apart. Close enough for Ulixes to see the faint smile on Gannicus's lips, a smile that did not reach his eyes, now focused and missing no detail. His eyes were filled with a mixture of disappointment and something resembling pity.

He looked Ulixes up and down, at his expensive armor, at his torn red cloak, at his standard but deadly gladius.

They stood there in relative silence for what felt like an eternity, two champions from the same arena, now separated by a chasm of ideology. Around them, the battle between their men raged, creating a circle of violence that isolated them. A storm within a storm.

Gannicus was the first to break it, his voice hoarse, yet clear amidst the din.

"I see a champion of Capua in you," he said, his eyes sharply fixed on Ulixes. "A brother who breathed the same sand and blood. Who understood the roar of the crowd."

He paused for a moment, the faint smile on his lips now twisting into a bitter sneer. "But now... I only see Crassus's lapdog in good armor."

Ulixes did not react to the insult. His face remained calm. He knew Gannicus's words were not an attack, but a question. A final attempt to understand the choice he had made.

"The freedom you seek is an illusion that ends in death in the mud, Gannicus," Ulixes replied, his voice cold and measured. "You fight for a moment. I chose to build a foundation. I chose to win."

Gannicus chuckled, a laugh full of sadness. "Win? By becoming another richer man's slave? Your chains might be gold now, but they are still chains."

"We are all slaves to something," Ulixes countered. "You are a slave to the memory of the arena. Spartacus is a slave to his rage. I choose to be a slave to ambition. It is the most honest master, for it never lies about the price to be paid."

A faint respect showed in Gannicus's eyes. He understood the logic, even if he hated it. "Then let's see if your ambition can save you from my swords," he said.

He no longer smiled. He raised both his swords, taking his loose, unpredictable fighting stance. One sword forward to attack, one slightly behind to defend, always ready to move in his famous dance of death.

Ulixes raised his gladius and shield in return. He did not adopt a rigid Roman stance. He adopted a lower, more balanced stance, a stance born from the Achilles Template, ready to explode in any direction.

Gannicus laughed. It wasn't a loud laugh, but a soft one filled with strange appreciation for the absurdity of the situation. "Look at us," he said, his voice carrying over the rumble of battle in the distance. "Two champions of Capua, destined to dance on the grandest stage of all."

He didn't wait for a reply. He attacked.

His movement was a deadly beauty. He did not charge straight forward like a legionary. He flowed, his body twisting in a single fluid motion, both swords becoming extensions of his arms. The sword in his right hand slashed towards Ulixes's neck, while the sword in his left thrust low towards his stomach. A double attack designed to confuse and kill.

Ulixes did not move back. He planted his feet. He raised his shield, not to block the upper attack, but to deflect it.

CLANG!

Gannicus's right sword struck the edge of Ulixes's shield, small sparks momentarily illuminating the air. At the same time, Ulixes twisted his hip, allowing Gannicus's left sword thrust to merely graze the air beside him.

Gannicus did not stop. He used the momentum of his failed attack to spin again, his left sword now slashing towards Ulixes's leg, while his right sword was ready for the next attack.

Ulixes leaped back, dodging the low slash, then immediately advanced again, slamming the prominent front of his large shield towards Gannicus. Gannicus, with the agility of a cat, leaped aside, letting Ulixes's shield hit only empty air.

They now circled each other, a brief pause in their dance.

"You're faster than I heard," Gannicus said, a faint smile now playing on his lips. "Crassus's armor seems to suit you."

He attacked again. This time, his assault was an uninterrupted flurry of slashes and thrusts. CRACK! CLANG! THWACK! The sound of his twin swords hitting Ulixes's shield was like a blacksmith's hammer at work. Ulixes was forced to remain on the defensive, each impact sending dull vibrations up his arm.

He felt the power behind each of Gannicus's attacks. But he also felt something else. A rhythm. A pattern. Between every three or four rapid attacks, there would be a split-second pause as Gannicus shifted his weight or twisted his wrist to change the angle of attack. There was a slight showmanship in his movements, an arena legacy he couldn't shake.

Ulixes continued to defend, his shield becoming the center of his narrow world. He let Gannicus expend his energy. He let Gannicus show all his tricks. He kept learning. Kept analyzing.

After a flurry of attacks that felt like an eternity, Gannicus leaped back, taking a breath. He didn't look tired, but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes. Ulixes's shield wall felt impenetrable.

"Are you just going to hide behind your turtle shell, Roman dog?" he taunted.

"I'm admiring your dance," Ulixes replied, his voice calm. "But every dance has an end."

As Gannicus was about to attack again, Ulixes moved first. Not to attack. He slammed his shield hard into the ground, sending a cloud of dust and gravel towards Gannicus.

Gannicus instinctively raised his arms to shield his eyes.

A small mistake. But it was enough.

Ulixes did not attack with his sword. He used force. He charged forward and slammed his shoulder, directly into Gannicus's midsection. It wasn't a soldier's attack. It was the collision of a bull.

Gannicus was thrown back several paces, the air knocked from his lungs by the unexpected impact. His smile vanished. His eyes were now filled with shock. He had just felt the true power of the man before him.

Gannicus grinned, though there was now a slight strain at the corner of his lips. He wiped dust from his chest. "The strength of a bull," he said, his voice slightly breathless. "But a clumsy, slow bull. You'll need more than that."

His slightly wavering confidence returned with full force, fueled by the insult of being pushed back. He attacked again, but this time, his dance was faster, more ferocious. He was no longer just attacking. He overwhelmed Ulixes's defense with a relentless barrage of attacks from all directions, his twin swords creating an impossible web of steel.

Ulixes returned to a defensive stance, his shield moving up and down, left and right, parrying every blow. CLANG! THWACK! CRACK! He could feel the power behind each strike, power born of Gannicus's frustration. He knew Gannicus was trying to draw him out, to force him into a mistake.

Then, Gannicus made it.

After one attack that Ulixes parried with difficulty, Gannicus did not retreat. He used the momentum to spin in place, both swords becoming a menacing steel vortex, a theatrical move that would have made the arena crowd roar. The move was designed to show off, to display his superiority, and also to end the fight with a single powerful slash as he completed his spin.

But to Ulixes, with senses sharpened by the Achilles Template, the move was slow. He saw it not as a confusing attack, but as an invitation. He saw Gannicus's exposed back for a split second as he spun. He saw Gannicus's pivot foot momentarily unbalanced. He saw the arrogance of a man accustomed to being the best.

As Gannicus completed his spin, ready to unleash his final slash, Ulixes was no longer there.

He exploded forward.

His movement was a brutal, efficient burst of speed. He did not try to dodge the spinning swords. He moved into them. He slammed the top of his shield into Gannicus's left sword arm, deflecting the attack and sending it into empty air.

At the same time, the gladius in his right hand moved.

SLICE!

The sound of steel tearing flesh and muscle was clear, even amidst the din of the battlefield. It wasn't a loud clash, but a wet, deadly sound.

Gannicus froze.

He stopped mid-movement, his eyes wide with shock. He slowly looked down, to the side of his body. A deep red line was now etched along his ribs, beneath his arm, precisely in the gap where his light leather armor did not protect him. Blood began to seep out, soaking his tunic, a dark, viscous red.

He gasped, staggering back a few steps, one hand instinctively pressing his wound. A sharp, burning pain shot through his entire side. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at the blood on his hand, then at Ulixes.

His smile had completely vanished. His arrogant confidence was shattered. His eyes no longer showed the joy of a fighter, but the shock of a god who had just realized he could bleed.

The pain in his side seemed to fuel the fire within Gannicus. The shock in his eyes vanished, replaced by the pure rage of a warrior whose pride had been wounded. He no longer smiled. He no longer danced. He roared, a sound filled with the promise of death, and lunged forward.

If before he was a sword artist, now he was a storm of steel. His movements no longer had elegance, only desperate ferocity. Both his swords slashed and thrust with blind speed, every attack aimed at ending the fight as quickly as possible before he bled out.

Ulixes was now fully on the defensive. He felt a clear difference. Every impact from Gannicus's swords now felt heavier, driven by the force of his rage. CLANG! CLANG! CRACK! His shield vibrated violently under the onslaught. One slash managed to graze his arm guard, leaving a deep mark. Another slash narrowly missed his face.

He continued to retreat, step by step, giving ground, letting the storm rage. He knew that a warrior fighting with anger was a warrior who would make mistakes. He just needed to survive long enough to see it. He endured the pain in his muscles, his breathing heavy, his focus locked on his opponent's burning eyes.

And then, he saw it.

Gannicus, in his frustration, gathered his remaining strength for one final, devastating attack. He swung both his swords in a downward crossing motion, an attack designed to shatter a shield and cleave Ulixes's chest.

It was a fatal mistake. A move too wide, too committed.

For Ulixes, time seemed to stop. Amidst the roar of battle, he could only hear his own heartbeat. He saw the descending sword swing like a slow motion. He saw Gannicus's defense completely open in his upper body.

He did not dodge to the side. He did not retreat. He executed his ultimate move.

He lowered his body, bent his knees, then exploded upwards in a Death Leap. His body shot into the air, passing beneath the crossing swords. For a moment, he seemed to hang in the air, directly above the surprised Gannicus.

Gannicus's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw Ulixes's figure above him.

Ulixes did not hesitate. He plunged his gladius downward with all his strength and body weight.

There was no sound of clashing steel. Only a dull, horrific CRUNCH as the tip of his sword pierced Gannicus's collarbone, embedding itself deep into his chest.

All strength seemed to drain from Gannicus's body. Both his swords fell from his grasp, clanging loudly on the bloody ground. He choked, blood flowing from his mouth. He stared at Ulixes, his eyes, once full of rage, now filled with confusion and the end of everything.

He crumpled to his knees, before finally falling to his side with a heavy thud, no longer moving.

Silence.

In their small circle, the silence was deafening. Ulixes landed lightly, then slowly straightened himself. He stood panting, his sword still plunged into Gannicus's chest. He pulled it out with a single motion.

He stared at the corpse at his feet. The Champion of Capua. His brother from the arena.

The battle around them ceased. The rebels who saw their champion fall froze in shock and horror. The Cohors Prima soldiers, seeing their commander stand victorious, also fell silent in overwhelming awe.

For a moment, in the midst of a battlefield filled with tens of thousands, there was only one point of silence. The point where Ulixes stood alone over the corpse of a legend.