Chapter 72: A Single Scratch
Chapter 72: A Single Scratch
The Numidian moved first.
He came forward with the measured, economical steps of a man who had learned that survival was not about glory. It was about efficiency.
His gladius came in low—a probing thrust, testing, calculating—and Alex deflected it with a sharp ring of steel that echoed across the water.
The crowd roared. They had been waiting for this fight since the games began, and now the two greatest champions in the empire were finally crossing blades. But Alex didn’t hear them. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him. The scarred chest. The missing ear. The calm, knowing smile that never quite reached his eyes.
The Numidian pressed forward. His blade came in a tight, vicious arc aimed at Alex’s ribs. Alex sidestepped, parried, and countered with a thrust of his own. The Numidian twisted aside, the gladius missing his chest by a hair’s breadth, and his smile widened.
"You’re fast," he said. His voice was low and rough, the voice of a man who had spent years in cages and cells and had learned to speak softly so the guards wouldn’t hear. "But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re holding back."
Alex didn’t answer. He lunged. The Numidian parried, their blades locking for a brief, straining moment. The scarred face was inches from his own. He could smell the sweat, the old blood, the faint metallic tang of whatever poison was still on the dagger tucked in his belt.
"I’ve fought a lot of men," the Numidian said, his voice barely a whisper. "You move differently. Like you’re seeing things before they happen." He shoved Alex back, and they circled each other on the narrow bridge, the crocodiles thrashing in the water below. "Like there’s something inside you, waiting to come out."
"You talk too much."
The Numidian grinned. "Maybe. But I’m also right."
He attacked again. The gladius came in a flurry; high, low, thrust, slash. Each strike faster than the last, each one aimed at a vital point. Alex deflected them all, but the Numidian was relentless. He wasn’t tiring. He wasn’t slowing down. He was just... pressing. Testing. Looking for the opening that would let him end this fight with a single, poisoned strike.
The platform creaked beneath their feet as the water churned. The crowd was a distant roar, a wall of sound that pressed against the edges of Alex’s consciousness but never quite broke through. He was focused. He was cold. The rage that had been simmering since Gaius’s memory was stolen was still there, but it was controlled. He had learned to keep it cold. Cold rage was useful. Hot rage got you killed.
The Numidian disengaged. He stepped back, his gladius held loose in his grip, his scarred chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths. He wasn’t winded, nor was he desperate. He was just... studying.
His dark eyes traced the lines of Alex’s body, the way he held his blade, the way his feet were positioned on the blood-slicked wood.
"You’re better than I thought," he said. "You really are something else." He tilted his head slightly. "And it seems like you’ve got more up your sleeves."
Alex felt his jaw tighten. The cold rage flickered, just for a moment, and he forced it back down. "Just come at me. Let’s fucking get this over with."
The Numidian’s grin widened. "How exciting."
He lunged.
The gladius came in a wide, horizontal arc—a strike that Alex had seen a hundred times, a strike that was easy to deflect, almost too easy.
He raised his blade to parry, his body already moving into the counter-attack, and that’s when he saw it. The Numidian’s free hand, slipping into his belt, emerging with the dagger. The same dagger from the armory. The same blade that had caught the light with that faint green shimmer.
Alex tried to pull back. He twisted his body, throwing himself sideways, but the Numidian was too fast. The dagger caught him on the forearm—just a glancing blow, a thin red line that welled up with blood almost immediately. It was barely a scratch. The kind of wound a gladiator wouldn’t even notice in the heat of combat.
The Numidian’s grin widened.
He pressed the attack. His blows became relentless—a storm of steel and fury, the gladius in one hand and the dagger in the other, driving Alex backward across the narrow bridge.
Alex parried each strike, but the wound on his arm was beginning to burn. Not the sharp pain of a cut. Something deeper. Something spreading.
His heart was beating faster. Too fast. He could feel it hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal, each beat sending a pulse of heat through his body. His temperature was rising. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and when he blinked it away, his vision was starting to blur at the edges.
The Numidian saw it. Of course he saw it. He had been waiting for this moment since the fight began.
"There it is," he said, his voice almost gentle.
Alex tried to answer. His throat was dry. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. The world was starting to tilt, the bridge swaying beneath his feet, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum.
Something warm and wet trickled from his nose. He touched his face, and his fingers came away red.
Blood.
Dark and thick, welling up from somewhere inside him, spilling over his lips and running down his chin in thin, steady rivulets. Then his ears started to bleed. Then his eyes, red tears streaked down his cheeks, and he stared at the Numidian through a haze of crimson.
The poison was spreading. Just like the Syrian. He was bleeding from every orifice, his body betraying him from the inside, his strength draining away with every heartbeat.
The gladius slipped from his fingers. It clattered onto the blood-slicked wood, and he dropped to one knee. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. The crowd was screaming, but their voices were muffled, distant, like they were coming from the bottom of a well.
The crocodiles were circling below, their massive bodies gliding through the dark water, waiting for the feast they knew was coming.
The Numidian stood over him. His scarred chest heaved with exertion, but his smile was still there. The smile of a man who had poisoned his way to the finals and was about to become the champion of the empire.
"You’re wide open!"
He leaped into the air. Both hands on the gladius. The blade raised above his head. The killing blow, aimed at Alex’s skull.