Chapter 514: Gladiator Tournant Third Round: Spartacus’s Strength
The instant the Roman arbiter’s voice thundered across the arena, the air seed to crackle.
The gladiators stiffened as one, their muscles coiling, breaths sharpening, eyes narrowing. They knew the storm was about to break.
On the opposite side, forty Roman soldiers advanced in perfect formation, shields raised and weapons gleaming. Their discipline was matched only by their arrogance—snickers and sneers escaping their lips as they closed in on the so-called slaves who dared stand against them.
“Stay sharp. Stay together,” Spartacus commanded, his voice low but carrying the iron of authority. He stepped to the fore, his presence as unyielding as the walls of the Colosseum itself.
Behind him, the gladiators obeyed without hesitation, splitting into compact groups of five, moving with the instinct of n who had bled together. Their formation was loose, but purposeful, a living reflection of their hard-earned unity.
The first soldier broke from his line, charging forward with blind fury.
“You’ve gone too far, Spartacus! In Caesar’s na, I’ll cut you down today!”
He bared his teeth and swung his sword in a vicious arc aid for Spartacus’s head.
But Spartacus was already moving.
He ducked beneath the strike, his body flowing like water, and lashed out with a sharp kick. The soldier twisted aside, narrowly avoiding it—yet that had never been Spartacus’s true intent. In the sa breath, Spartacus surged forward, his hand snapping out like a viper. His fist crashed into the man’s elbow with bone-shattering force.
“CRACK!”
The soldier’s scream tore through the air, raw and guttural. His sword clattered from his grip, useless, as his arm bent at an unnatural angle.
Without hesitation, Spartacus seized the fallen weapon, his movents efficient and rciless.
The amphitheater erupted. A torrent of cheers rolled through the stands, spectators roaring his na in frenzied excitent. Spartacus! Spartacus! The cry of the people thundered above, louder than steel on steel.
Spartacus spared only a glance at the writhing soldier at his feet before dragging him up by his collar and hurling him backward, straight into the waiting hands of the gladiators behind.
The soldier’s eyes went wide with terror. He knew, in that instant, what awaited him.
Their stares were rciless. Cold. Unforgiving.
And then they descended. Fists and feet, raw strength and rage, hamring him into the sands until his cries dissolved into wet silence. Blood spattered across their arms, across the ground, soaking into the dust.
Spartacus neither flinched nor interfered. He let them have their vengeance. His gaze was already fixed forward, toward the advancing line of soldiers whose expressions had darkened with hatred.
Among them, one figure stood out—their leader, by stance and by presence. His voice cut through the din like a blade.
“Do not falter as he did. Ten of you—deal with the armored man and the Hero. The rest—co with . We’ll crush Spartacus and his dogs here and now!”
The soldiers obeyed, splitting swiftly, their discipline stark against the chaos of the gladiators’ fury.
The leader’s eyes locked on Spartacus, brimming with venom.
“I won’t be as rciful as Lord Octavius, you wretched slave.”
And then he lunged.
His speed belied the weight of his armor, his charge ripping across the sands like a thunderbolt. Dust flew up in his wake, the glint of his blade catching the sunlight as it arced toward Spartacus with lethal intent.
The soldier-leader’s charge was fast, vicious, but Spartacus t it without fear.
Their blades clashed with a ringing shriek of steel, sparks bursting into the air. The leader pressed forward with practiced strikes, each swing sharp and precise, the weight of Roman training behind him. But Spartacus absorbed the blows with raw strength, parrying with the stolen sword before shoving the man back with sheer brute force.
The leader snarled, lunging again—only to find Spartacus waiting.
The gladiator slipped past his guard like a shadow and slamd his fist into the man’s side. The impact echoed, a dull thud that made the leader stagger, gasping. Another strike followed, this ti to the soldier’s jaw, rattling his helt askew.
The crowd roared, voices spilling over one another in waves of feverish excitent.
“Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!”
The na thundered louder with every exchange. The civilians, who once cheered Ro’s legions with blind devotion, were now rising to their feet for the slaves. Perhaps it was the second round—the sight of gladiators standing together against beasts, shoulder to shoulder like brothers—that had shifted sothing in the hearts of the people. Now, their loyalty wavered. Their voices no longer called for Caesar’s soldiers, but for the n who fought with their bare hands for survival.
Spartacus did not waste ti on glory. He fought with ruthless efficiency.
Another soldier rushed in from the flank, sword raised. Spartacus caught him by the throat, lifted him effortlessly from the ground, and hurled him backward into the waiting arms of his brothers-in-chains. The gladiators tore into him, stripping him of his weapon even as they smashed him down into the dirt, the stolen blade gleaming in their bloodied hands.
One after another, Spartacus seized soldiers mid-strike, disard them, and threw them behind, where the gladiators fell upon them with rciless hunger. Each kill brought another weapon into their hands, another chance at survival. Their ranks grew stronger with every heartbeat, until the sand rang with the clash of reclaid steel.
The cheers swelled louder still.
Amid the chaos, Benjamin moved like a shadow of death itself.
Silent. Unyielding. Towering over the battlefield in his armor, his sheer bulk dwarfed the soldiers who ca against him. Their eyes widened with terror as they realized just how massive he was—more beast than man. They muttered frantically, their voices cracking with disbelief.
“Is he even human…?”
Benjamin gave them no answer. Not a word, not even the smallest grunt. His silence was worse than threats. With each step, his presence alone crushed their morale.
He smashed one soldier to the ground with a single backhand, armor clattering uselessly against the sand. Another tried to flank him, only to be seized by the chest and slamd down so hard the earth itself seed to shudder. His helm remained forward, expression hidden, as if nothing touched him—not pain, not exhaustion, not even the exhilaration of battle. He was an unfeeling giant, a nightmare in steel.
And then there was Isak.
The so-called Hero fought with all the arrogance that dripped from his every word. His sword cut through Roman armor, his strikes sharp and decisive, but his eyes burned not with focus, but with envy.
Every cheer for Spartacus was a wound to his pride. Every chant of the gladiator’s na fanned his irritation. He was the Hero. He had the weapon. He had been trained for this. Yet it was Spartacus who drew the light, Spartacus whose na rolled through the arena like thunder.
“Damn him…” Isak muttered between gritted teeth as he hacked down another soldier, glaring toward Spartacus with barely-concealed resentnt. “It should be !”
The battle surged, brutal and relentless. The sand grew slick with blood, bodies piling at the edges of the arena. And through it all, Spartacus carved a path, his gaze fixed ever on the leader who still stood defiant, though battered.
At last, the two t once more.
The leader panted heavily, armor dented, sweat streaking down his face beneath the helm. His eyes still burned with pride, with fury at the thought of falling to a slave.
“You will never—!”
The words never finished.
Spartacus’s fist clenched, and the very air seed to warp around it. His unique power rippled outward, invisible yet undeniable—a crushing force that bent reality itself. Anything he struck, no matter how strong, would break.
He drove his fist forward.
The blow crashed into the leader’s chestplate with a sound like shattering stone. The tal split instantly, fracturing into jagged shards. Beneath it, ribs crumbled like brittle twigs. The man’s scream was cut short as his body lifted from the ground, hurled across the arena like a broken doll. He slamd against the far wall with bone-cracking finality, collapsing in a heap that did not rise again.
The amphitheater erupted into a frenzy of sound. The cheers shook the marble foundations, a chorus for the fallen and the risen.
The remaining Roman soldiers faltered. Fear spread like wildfire. A few dropped their weapons outright, stumbling backward.
“Enough! Please—we yield! End this!” they cried, their voices breaking with desperation.
All eyes turned to Caesar.
He sat unmoving, his expression carved in cold marble, offering no rcy, no reprieve. His gaze swept the field like a predator, and in his silence lay his judgnt.
The gladiators understood.
One by one, they advanced. The last of the Roman soldiers scread, tried to flee, begged for the arbiter’s call. But no salvation ca. The sand drank their blood, and when the arena fell silent once more, only the gladiators stood victorious—breathing, bloodstained, and stronger than before.
Nathan watched from the balcony, arms resting lightly on the railing, a faint smile curving his lips.
Half an hour had passed, and the sand-streaked arena still throbbed with the echoes of battle. Every cheer, every clash of steel, every desperate cry had been etched into his mind.
Spartacus.
That man was… different. Unique.. A force that seed to draw both n and fate into his orbit.
Spartacus’s gaze swept over the battlefield once more—but it did not linger on Nathan. No, it burned cold and sharp toward another figure: Octavius, seated as always in the sa place, his posture rigid, his eyes glinting with familiar malice.
The man who had murdered his wife. The man who had taken everything from Spartacus—everything that had mattered.
Octavius t that gaze without flinching. A small, mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle but venomous, as if to ask, What are you going to do?
Nathan’s eyes followed Spartacus’s, taking in the unspoken tension. He knew the truth of the mont: Spartacus could strike anyone in that arena, crush them like a blade through flesh… but not Octavius. Not while the slave seal remained branded upon him. The laws of the arena, the bindings of Caesar’s cruel edict, made him untouchable.
For a heartbeat, Spartacus’s fury seed to waver, restrained not by fear but by circumstance.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicked toward Nathan.
Octavius noticed imdiately. His eyes narrowed, a shadow of suspicion passing over his features, yet Nathan remained still, his expression disinterested, detached, almost serene as always…
Was that glance… a coincidence?
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