u/Orionjam25

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Good evening everyone!!! I hope you're all doing great :3

​I wanted to share my design for Hades for my fanfic 'The Purgatory'. I hope you like it! I actually used this drawing as the cover for one of the chapters in the story, hehe.

​The context of this drawing is when Hades first makes his appearance in Chapter 1: he’s sitting there, sleeping, until he wakes up and complains about how boring his existence is. As for the design, I chose this look because I think a Hades with black hair and dark circles under his eyes is just super sexy, haha.

​Without further ado, I hope you like the drawing! If you want to see more of the process or anything else, just let me know. See you in the next post! :3

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Hello everyone! I'm back after a month without posting :3

​I've been away because I was really busy with university, and also because I was working hard on drawing new covers for the previous chapters of my story to improve its quality! By the way, all the previous chapters are available on my profile if you want to go back and read them!

​Today, I wanted to share the new cover for Chapter 1 , featuring the fighters of this match: Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna and Flamma!!

​As a quick historical note, Kamiizumi was a legendary Japanese samurai from the Sengoku period, widely revered as the 'Sword Saint' (Kensei) and the founder of the Shinkage-ryū style. On the other side, we have Flamma, one of the most famous and dominant Roman gladiators in history, a Secutor who won his freedom multiple times but chose to keep fighting in the arena until his death.

​I have a lot of photos of the drawing process, but Reddit only allows me to upload 20, haha! I also have the other new covers I've been working on. If you guys are interested in seeing them, let me know! I can post the new covers along with their full step-by-step process, or I can just upload the finished drawings.

​I hope you like how it turned out! Thank you so much for your support :3

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Chapter 5: Devourer of Skies

The echo of Flamma's voice still vibrated against the Coliseum walls, but the silence that followed was heavier than any scream. The gladiator exhaled, and in that mist escaping his lips, the last trace of the scared boy from the Alban Hills vanished.

In front of him, the figure of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna remained like an ancient tree in the middle of a storm.

Flamma did something no one expected. He straightened his back, struck his chest once with his right fist over his heart —the salute of the legions— and then performed a deep, slow bow, heavy with solemn weight. The young man who at the beginning called him "old man" with contempt had just recognized that he was facing a mountain that could only be climbed with blood.

— Kamiizumi Ise-no-Kami... —Flamma's voice was now a tempered steel blade—. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me who I am. But my "why" does not allow me to die here.

Flamma began to retreat. One, two... five steps. The distance was unusual; for a gladius user, moving so far away was giving up the advantage. But the air around Flamma began to vibrate. Nike's drones emitted warning beeps: the atmospheric pressure in the center of the arena was collapsing.

— This technique...! —rugió Flamma, and in that moment, the audience fell silent before the Roman’s physical transformation.

His legs, forged in the Alban Hills and hardened by a thousand combats, began to increase in size, the muscles swelling until they strained the leather of his greaves to the breaking point. The veins in his thighs and neck stood out like roots of an ancient tree, pulsing with an uncontrolled fury that threatened to explode his own skin. The internal pressure was so massive that his eyes went completely white, erasing any trace of humanity to leave only the pure instinct of a predator.

— I forged it in the mud of survival and polished it in the blood of the arena! —the air around him spun in an invisible whirlpool—. This time, there will be no space in this arena that does not belong to me! There will be no place where you can hide!

Flamma crouched, becoming a spring of flesh and bone charged with seismic power.

— ¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!! —gritó, and the black marble beneath his feet did not just crack, but exploded into pieces, projecting stone shrapnel in all directions as the Lion of Rome launched into the attack at a speed that defied the laws of physics.

The sonic blast of Flamma’s start was so powerful that the spectators in the front rows felt their ears bleed. Nobutsuna had no time to retreat; the space no longer belonged to him.

First Strike: The Hammer of Rome. Flamma did not use the edge; he used the mass. He impacted with the reinforced edge of his scutum directly into Nobutsuna’s solar plexus. It wasn’t a push; it was a train wreck. The air left the samurai's lungs in a dull blast, and Nobutsuna was thrown backward, his feet dragging across the marble as he spat a mouthful of crimson blood that stained the ground in a violent trail.

Second Strike: The Tear Without letting Nobutsuna recover from the impact, Flamma rotated on his axis with superhuman strength. The gladius, imbued by the pressure of the Devourer of Skies, traced an ascending diagonal slash. The steel penetrated deeply, tearing muscle and bone. The cut was devastating, opening the samurai's chest from the hip to the opposite shoulder.

Third Strike: Taking advantage of the inertia, Flamma returned with a descending backhand sword strike, crossing the first slash to form a bloody "X" that exploded in a fountain of bright red. The residual air pressure of that last impact was so sharp that, at the end of the movement, a thread of cutting wind rose up Nobutsuna's face, opening a vertical wound on his forehead that began to bathe his eyes in blood.

The most terrifying thing was not the attack, but the samurai's reaction.

Even while receiving the cuts, while his chest was being torn apart and his forehead opened, Nobutsuna maintained a nervous tic in his left hand. His head tilted unnaturally, with rhythmic spasms, as if his body were suffering a short circuit of pure pleasure. There was no pain on his face, only that strange and disturbing "weirdness."

In the divine stands, Ares dropped his cup, letting the wine spill onto his robe without caring. His eyes shone with a maniacal admiration.

— Look at him, uncle! —gritó Ares, with his voice cracking with emotion—. That is the color! That is the glow that only humans can emit when they are about to become extinct! Flamma is not fighting a samurai, he is reclaiming his right to exist with every drop of blood he tears away! It is... it is glorious!

Hades, in silence, leaned in even further. His gaze was not on Flamma, but on Nobutsuna’s tics. He knew that something inside the samurai had broken... or perhaps, had finally awakened.

Flamma finished his execution, landing heavily. His lungs burned as if he had swallowed embers, and sweat mixed with the blood from his reopened wounds. He was exhausted but satisfied: he had made the Sword Saint bleed.

Or so he thought…..

Suddenly, the world went silent. Flamma felt an unnatural cold on the back of his neck. Without warning, his vision rotated violently. He saw the marble floor approaching at full speed... he saw his own decapitated body, standing, dripping blood like a broken fountain. His head rolled across the arena, stopping in front of a spectator's caligae. A second later, he felt his arms and legs being sliced into invisible sheets, reducing him to a trunk of inert meat on the ground.

— ¡¡GAAAAAHHHH!! —Flamma let out a harrowing scream that chilled the blood of the gods.

He brought his hands to his neck in desperation, squeezing the skin, looking for a wound that wasn't there. His fingers trembled violently, and his eyes, previously white from the technique, were now dilated by a primal terror.

— What... what the hell was that? —jadeó, with his heart hammering against his ribs as if it wanted to escape—. What... what kind of trick...?

He looked around, disoriented, until his sight locked onto Nobutsuna. The samurai was still there, with the "X" bleeding on his chest and the gash on his forehead, but his aura had changed. Flamma felt a weight in his soul that he never experienced in the Subura or the Coliseum of Rome.

— I'm dead... —susurró Flamma for himself, with his voice broken—

At that moment, the silence was broken by a loud, crazed laughter. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna began to laugh, a laugh that ascended into a scream of pure euphoria. It was a deranged grimace, wide and devoid of all sanity, showing his teeth stained red by the blood coming down from his forehead. His eyes, previously dull from the boredom of centuries, now vibrated with a sickly light, a spark of euphoria that only appears when someone finds the meaning of their existence on the edge of the abyss.

— ¡¡ Not bad… kid !! —murmuró Nobutsuna. His voice was no longer that of a peaceful old man; it sounded like

metal being sharpened against a rough stone.

—. ¡¡ IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE THE WORLD OFFERED ME THIS PAIN... THIS DELICIOUS REMINDER THAT I AM ALIVE !!

Nobutsuna brought his right hand to the hilt. For the first time in the entire round, the sound of steel sliding out of the wood resonated like thunder in the Purgatory. The blade of his katana shone with a ghostly silver glow as he pointed it directly at Flamma's face.

In the Roman's eyes, the katana disappeared. It was no longer a sword; it was the scythe of Death, a colossal shadow looming over him, ready to claim his soul. A nervous smile, almost a spasm of shared madness, took over Flamma's face.

— Be a sacrifice for me legend, Flamma-chan... —sentenció Nobutsuna with a disturbing smile that distorted his face.

The bloodlust emanating from the Sword Saint became solid, flooding every corner of the arena, suffocating even the screams of the crowd. The hunter had finally drawn his blade.

​

Chapter 5: Devourer of Skies

The echo of Flamma's voice still vibrated against the Coliseum walls, but the silence that followed was heavier than any scream. The gladiator exhaled, and in that mist escaping his lips, the last trace of the scared boy from the Alban Hills vanished.

In front of him, the figure of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna remained like an ancient tree in the middle of a storm.

Flamma did something no one expected. He straightened his back, struck his chest once with his right fist over his heart —the salute of the legions— and then performed a deep, slow bow, heavy with solemn weight. The young man who at the beginning called him "old man" with contempt had just recognized that he was facing a mountain that could only be climbed with blood.

— Kamiizumi Ise-no-Kami... —Flamma's voice was now a tempered steel blade—. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me who I am. But my "why" does not allow me to die here.

Flamma began to retreat. One, two... five steps. The distance was unusual; for a gladius user, moving so far away was giving up the advantage. But the air around Flamma began to vibrate. Nike's drones emitted warning beeps: the atmospheric pressure in the center of the arena was collapsing.

— This technique...! —rugió Flamma, and in that moment, the audience fell silent before the Roman’s physical transformation.

His legs, forged in the Alban Hills and hardened by a thousand combats, began to increase in size, the muscles swelling until they strained the leather of his greaves to the breaking point. The veins in his thighs and neck stood out like roots of an ancient tree, pulsing with an uncontrolled fury that threatened to explode his own skin. The internal pressure was so massive that his eyes went completely white, erasing any trace of humanity to leave only the pure instinct of a predator.

— I forged it in the mud of survival and polished it in the blood of the arena! —the air around him spun in an invisible whirlpool—. This time, there will be no space in this arena that does not belong to me! There will be no place where you can hide!

Flamma crouched, becoming a spring of flesh and bone charged with seismic power.

— ¡¡DEVOURER OF SKIES!! —gritó, and the black marble beneath his feet did not just crack, but exploded into pieces, projecting stone shrapnel in all directions as the Lion of Rome launched into the attack at a speed that defied the laws of physics.

The sonic blast of Flamma’s start was so powerful that the spectators in the front rows felt their ears bleed. Nobutsuna had no time to retreat; the space no longer belonged to him.

First Strike: The Hammer of Rome. Flamma did not use the edge; he used the mass. He impacted with the reinforced edge of his scutum directly into Nobutsuna’s solar plexus. It wasn’t a push; it was a train wreck. The air left the samurai's lungs in a dull blast, and Nobutsuna was thrown backward, his feet dragging across the marble as he spat a mouthful of crimson blood that stained the ground in a violent trail.

Second Strike: The Tear Without letting Nobutsuna recover from the impact, Flamma rotated on his axis with superhuman strength. The gladius, imbued by the pressure of the Devourer of Skies, traced an ascending diagonal slash. The steel penetrated deeply, tearing muscle and bone. The cut was devastating, opening the samurai's chest from the hip to the opposite shoulder.

Third Strike:  Taking advantage of the inertia, Flamma returned with a descending backhand sword strike, crossing the first slash to form a bloody "X" that exploded in a fountain of bright red. The residual air pressure of that last impact was so sharp that, at the end of the movement, a thread of cutting wind rose up Nobutsuna's face, opening a vertical wound on his forehead that began to bathe his eyes in blood.

The most terrifying thing was not the attack, but the samurai's reaction.

Even while receiving the cuts, while his chest was being torn apart and his forehead opened, Nobutsuna maintained a nervous tic in his left hand. His head tilted unnaturally, with rhythmic spasms, as if his body were suffering a short circuit of pure pleasure. There was no pain on his face, only that strange and disturbing "weirdness."

In the divine stands, Ares dropped his cup, letting the wine spill onto his robe without caring. His eyes shone with a maniacal admiration.

— Look at him, uncle! —gritó Ares, with his voice cracking with emotion—. That is the color! That is the glow that only humans can emit when they are about to become extinct! Flamma is not fighting a samurai, he is reclaiming his right to exist with every drop of blood he tears away! It is... it is glorious!

Hades, in silence, leaned in even further. His gaze was not on Flamma, but on Nobutsuna’s tics. He knew that something inside the samurai had broken... or perhaps, had finally awakened.

Flamma finished his execution, landing heavily. His lungs burned as if he had swallowed embers, and sweat mixed with the blood from his reopened wounds. He was exhausted but satisfied: he had made the Sword Saint bleed.

Or so he thought…..

Suddenly, the world went silent. Flamma felt an unnatural cold on the back of his neck. Without warning, his vision rotated violently. He saw the marble floor approaching at full speed... he saw his own decapitated body, standing, dripping blood like a broken fountain. His head rolled across the arena, stopping in front of a spectator's caligae. A second later, he felt his arms and legs being sliced into invisible sheets, reducing him to a trunk of inert meat on the ground.

— ¡¡GAAAAAHHHH!! —Flamma let out a harrowing scream that chilled the blood of the gods.

He brought his hands to his neck in desperation, squeezing the skin, looking for a wound that wasn't there. His fingers trembled violently, and his eyes, previously white from the technique, were now dilated by a primal terror.

— What... what the hell was that? —jadeó, with his heart hammering against his ribs as if it wanted to escape—. What... what kind of trick...?

He looked around, disoriented, until his sight locked onto Nobutsuna. The samurai was still there, with the "X" bleeding on his chest and the gash on his forehead, but his aura had changed. Flamma felt a weight in his soul that he never experienced in the Subura or the Coliseum of Rome.

— I'm dead... —susurró Flamma for himself, with his voice broken—

At that moment, the silence was broken by a loud, crazed laughter. Kamiizumi Nobutsuna began to laugh, a laugh that ascended into a scream of pure euphoria. It was a deranged grimace, wide and devoid of all sanity, showing his teeth stained red by the blood coming down from his forehead. His eyes, previously dull from the boredom of centuries, now vibrated with a sickly light, a spark of euphoria that only appears when someone finds the meaning of their existence on the edge of the abyss.

— ¡¡ Not bad… kid !! —murmuró Nobutsuna. His voice was no longer that of a peaceful old man; it sounded like metal being sharpened against a rough stone—. ¡¡ IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE THE WORLD OFFERED ME THIS PAIN... THIS DELICIOUS REMINDER THAT I AM ALIVE !!

Nobutsuna brought his right hand to the hilt. For the first time in the entire round, the sound of steel sliding out of the wood resonated like thunder in the Purgatory. The blade of his katana shone with a ghostly silver glow as he pointed it directly at Flamma's face.

In the Roman's eyes, the katana disappeared. It was no longer a sword; it was the scythe of Death, a colossal shadow looming over him, ready to claim his soul. A nervous smile, almost a spasm of shared madness, took over Flamma's face.

— Be a sacrifice for me legend,  Flamma-chan... —sentenció Nobutsuna with a disturbing smile that distorted his face.

The bloodlust emanating from the Sword Saint became solid, flooding every corner of the arena, suffocating even the screams of the crowd. The hunter had finally drawn his blade.

​

Chapter 4: Echoes of a Forgotten Fire

The roar of the crowd drowned in a sudden void. In the center of the black marble, Flamma shifted his center of gravity. It wasn’t an elegant movement; he hunched his shoulders, lowered his torso almost to the ground, and tilted his scutum shield in an unconventional way, leaving his right flank seemingly exposed, but with the gladius hidden behind the bronze, like a viper's fang waiting for the moment to inject its venom.

Around him, the air began to distort. Nike's drones detected an increase in atmospheric pressure within a three-meter radius around the Roman; it was as if the heat of his will was boiling the oxygen.

From Flamma's eyes, the world turned monochromatic. Everything was gray, except for the figure of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna. The old man was still there, leaning on his saya, with the sparrow back on his shoulder and that expression of peace that was almost insulting. Nobutsuna hadn't shifted his posture by a single millimeter, and that absolute stillness, that lack of "noise" in the samurai's spirit, was what made Flamma grit his teeth.

— How can he be so empty? — Flamma thought, feeling a shiver that wasn't of fear, but of an ancient familiarity —. This sensation... I’ve lived this before. In the place where steel does not forgive the weak.

And then, the glare of the sun on the black marble transformed into the suffocating light of a training yard on the outskirts of Rome.

Start of Flashback - Year 165 AD. Alban Hills, Italy.

The night refused to die, but the dawn light was already beginning to tint the hills violet. Marcus Caelius, a boy of barely seven years whose name the world would forget only to replace it with that of a flame, held a wooden gladius weighted with lead. His hands were covered in a mixture of red earth and fresh blood from blisters that had burst hours ago. Marcus didn't remember the last time his lungs hadn't burned. He had been hitting the oak post since the moon was at its zenith. His knees were buckling, covered by the cold mud of the early morning, and his vision was blurring from extreme exhaustion.

Beside the boy, the figure of Lucius stood like a bronze statue. He was a man who had survived a hundred deaths in the Colosseum before receiving the wooden *rudis* that granted him his freedom, and now, as a Centurion of the Legio II Italica, his presence was even more terrifying. Lucius didn't just supervise; he trained as well. His movements with his service sword were slow, heavy, and perfect, cutting through the air with a force that made the leaves of nearby trees tremble.

— Your fingers are numb, Marcus — Lucius said without looking at him, his voice a deep growl that cut through the silence of the forest —. The cold is stealing your strength. But on the battlefield, the cold is your only faithful companion. Strike again!

The boy let out a groan that he tried to turn into a war cry. His palms, sticky with blood and wood sap, clung to the handle of the gladius. The oak post, driven deep into the virgin earth, seemed to mock him.

— I can't... feel my arms! — Marcus managed to articulate, falling to his knees for a second before Lucius 's steel gaze forced him to stand up.

— Then strike with your soul — Lucius stopped and stood in front of the boy, his shadow covering him completely —. Why do you fight, boy? Why are you still here when any other child would be sleeping under the warmth of their mother? What is your purpose in wielding iron in this field forgotten by the gods?

Marcus Caelius looked up. His eyes, framed by the soot of torches that had gone out hours ago, shone with a manic light.

— To be stronger! — he shouted, delivering a downward slash that, for the first time all night, managed to tear a deep splinter from the oak —. So that fear never finds a place to hide within me!

Marcus continued to breathe erratically, his chest rising and falling like a broken bellows. The oak splinter he had torn away lay on the ground, a small testimony to his will.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by a sound Marcus had never heard: a raspy, deep laugh. Lucius was laughing. The centurion approached and gave him a firm slap with his palm on the back, a gesture of camaraderie that almost made the boy lose his balance.

— Only worry the moment you no longer feel fear, child — Lucius said, and for the first time, his smile was not a combat grimace, but an expression of rugged pride —. Fear is what keeps you alert, what makes you fast. It is the fuel that prevents you from becoming a corpse. The day you stop feeling it... that day you will die.

Lucius sheathed his own sword and looked at the sky, where the sun was already beginning to warm the earth.

— Go on, gather your things — he added in a softer tone —. Even a future Lion needs fuel. Let's find something to eat; I know you have no one waiting for you in the city, so today you will eat with me.

- MEMORY MONTAGE -

From that moment, Flamma's vision became a succession of rapid scenes, fragments of a life that no longer existed:

• A Dinner: Lucius and Marcus sitting by a small campfire. The centurion hands him a piece of hard bread and jerky, while telling him stories of the campaigns in Germania, making exaggerated gestures with his hands that made the boy laugh.

• Training : Marcus trying to imitate a complex movement of Lucius and ending up tangled in his own tunic, falling face-first into the mud. Lucius shaking his head while hiding a smile behind his hand.

• Healing: Lucius carefully bandaging Marcus's bloody hands, his giant hands moving with unexpected delicacy.

As these images passed, the voice of the adult Flamma, deep and heavy with nostalgia, resonated over the memories:

"In a world where status was everything, where everyone sought my blood or my money... that man was more than a master. He was my wall against the world. He was the only family I ever had."

TIME SKIP: Year 173 AD. Subura, the heart of Rome.

The sun was setting over the Subura, casting long, distorted shadows on the brick walls. Flamma walked alone, hands in his tunic pockets and a small bag of denarii hitting rhythmically against his thigh. As he turned into a narrow alley that smelled of stagnant dampness, the path was blocked.

Three bulky men, faces weathered by arena dust and cheap wine, emerged from the shadows. The leader, a guy with a neck full of rope scars, pointed at the bag.

— The money, brat. Hand it over and maybe we’ll let you keep your teeth — he demanded in a raspy voice.

Flamma didn't stop. He didn't even change the rhythm of his breathing. He looked at them with absolute indifference, as if they were mere flies bothering him on a summer day. Without saying a single word, without any warning, Flamma launched a punch directly at the leader's chin. The impact sounded like bone breaking against marble.

The fight was a one-sided slaughter... at least at first. Flamma was fast, but it was three against one in a space where there was no room to maneuver.

Minutes later, Flamma was beaten to a pulp. His lip was a mass of red flesh, his left eye had swollen shut due to a purple hematoma, and his tunic was torn. But, to the attackers' horror, Flamma wouldn't fall. He stumbled, he spat blood, but his legs remained anchored to the ground like Roman columns. Despite the pain that must have been screaming in his nerves, a deformed smile appeared on his bloody face. He let out a raspy laugh that sounded like the crunching of gravel.

— Is that all? — he mocked, his voice choked with blood —. My master hit harder when he was drunk. You are... disappointing.

The attackers took a step back, infected by an instinctive fear. They weren't fighting a youth; they were fighting something that didn't understand the concept of surrender.

— Damn lunatic! — the bulkiest one shouted, losing his temper —. If you don't want to give us the money, we'll rip it out of your guts!

The metallic sound of three swords unsheathing in unison cut through the alley's air. The blades shone with a lethal reflection, pointing directly at the chest of a Flamma who, far from being scared, widened his smile.

Trapped, unarmed, and half-blind, the young man remembered Lucius 's words: "The day you don't feel fear, that day you will die." In that moment, Flamma felt an electric terror running down his spine, and it was that fear that made his senses sharpen to the limit.

The three steel blades advanced toward him like the jaws of hungry wolves. Flamma, with his vision blurred by the blood dripping from his split eyebrow, felt the world move in slow motion. Fear, that electric cold Lucius taught him to embrace, became pure survival instinct. His fingers, searching for support on the ground while dodging the first thrust, closed around something cold, rough, and heavy.

It was the remains of a broken sword, a rusted blade barely twenty centimeters long lying in the filth. In that instant, the memory of Lucius thundered in his head:

"Why do you strike, boy? If you don't have a motive, you're just waving iron."

Flamma gripped the metal so hard that the jagged edges sliced open his palm. His blood mixed with the rust.

— My motive? — Flamma whispered, and his voice no longer sounded like a teenager's, but like the dull roar of a forge —. My motive is that I decide when and where I die!

The lead attacker launched a downward slash, but Flamma was no longer there. He moved with an explosion of speed, entering the enemy's blind spot. He tensed every tendon in his back, accumulating all the rage from the blows received, and performed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin.

The broken blade didn't just cut the air; it created a trough of absolute pressure. The splintered metal worked like an invisible saw that amplified his centrifugal force to superhuman levels.

SHRA-BOOOOOOOOM!

It wasn't a common slash; it was a rupture of the air itself. The gust of solid wind and rusted metal tore through the torsos of the two front attackers as if they were wet paper. Time seemed to freeze as their bodies split in half. The upper halves were sent flying against the side walls, leaving a trail of viscera and blood, while their legs took one last involuntary step before collapsing into the alley's mud.

The third attacker, the one who had stayed a step back, stood petrified. His hands shook so much that his sword fell to the ground with a pathetic clink. In front of him, amidst the rain of blood that was beginning to fall, he didn't see a fifteen-year-old boy. He saw a demon with one eye swollen shut and a smile that defied the gods of the underworld themselves.

— A-Ah...! AAAAAHHHH! — the cry of pure terror broke the silence of the Subura.

The man turned around and ran desperately, tripping over his own feet, fleeing from that crimson shadow that had just erased his companions from existence. He ran until his lungs burned, feeling on the back of his neck the cold breath of the monster that had just been born.

Flamma dropped the bloodied piece of iron. He stood there, over the carnage, panting.

— Hahahaha... — he laughed with nostalgia, looking at his blood-soaked hands —. That old man... even dead, he still keeps teaching me how to survive...

- RETURN TO THE COLISEUM OF PURGATORY -

The glow of the memories dissolved. Flamma exhaled a long breath, a dense mist that seemed to burn the air in front of him. The sharpness of the present returned with the force of an impact.

— The reason is simple, old man!! — Flamma roared toward the immutable figure of Nobutsuna —. I wield a sword because it is the symbol of my survival! It is my ingenuity against adversity! It doesn't matter if the steel is perfect or broken... as long as my will is what moves it, it will never stop!

Flamma adjusted the grip on his scutum. His posture was no longer defensive; it was that of a predator who had just remembered that he is the master of the arena.

​

Chapter 4: Echoes of a Forgotten Fire

The roar of the crowd drowned in a sudden void. In the center of the black marble, Flamma shifted his center of gravity. It wasn’t an elegant movement; he hunched his shoulders, lowered his torso almost to the ground, and tilted his scutum shield in an unconventional way, leaving his right flank seemingly exposed, but with the gladius hidden behind the bronze, like a viper's fang waiting for the moment to inject its venom.

Around him, the air began to distort. Nike's drones detected an increase in atmospheric pressure within a three-meter radius around the Roman; it was as if the heat of his will was boiling the oxygen.

From Flamma's eyes, the world turned monochromatic. Everything was gray, except for the figure of Kamiizumi Nobutsuna. The old man was still there, leaning on his saya, with the sparrow back on his shoulder and that expression of peace that was almost insulting. Nobutsuna hadn't shifted his posture by a single millimeter, and that absolute stillness, that lack of "noise" in the samurai's spirit, was what made Flamma grit his teeth.

— How can he be so empty? — Flamma thought, feeling a shiver that wasn't of fear, but of an ancient familiarity —. This sensation... I’ve lived this before. In the place where steel does not forgive the weak.

And then, the glare of the sun on the black marble transformed into the suffocating light of a training yard on the outskirts of Rome.

Start of Flashback - Year 165 AD.

Alban Hills, Italy.

The night refused to die, but the dawn light was already beginning to tint the hills violet. Marcus Caelius, a boy of barely seven years whose name the world would forget only to replace it with that of a flame, held a wooden gladius weighted with lead. His hands were covered in a mixture of red earth and fresh blood from blisters that had burst hours ago. Marcus didn't remember the last time his lungs hadn't burned. He had been hitting the oak post since the moon was at its zenith. His knees were buckling, covered by the cold mud of the early morning, and his vision was blurring from extreme exhaustion.

Beside the boy, the figure of Lucius stood like a bronze statue. He was a man who had survived a hundred deaths in the Colosseum before receiving the wooden *rudis* that granted him his freedom, and now, as a Centurion of the Legio II Italica, his presence was even more terrifying. Lucius didn't just supervise; he trained as well. His movements with his service sword were slow, heavy, and perfect, cutting through the air with a force that made the leaves of nearby trees tremble.

— Your fingers are numb, Marcus — Lucius said without looking at him, his voice a deep growl that cut through the silence of the forest —. The cold is stealing your strength. But on the battlefield, the cold is your only faithful companion. Strike again!

The boy let out a groan that he tried to turn into a war cry. His palms, sticky with blood and wood sap, clung to the handle of the gladius. The oak post, driven deep into the virgin earth, seemed to mock him.

— I can't... feel my arms! — Marcus managed to articulate, falling to his knees for a second before Lucius 's steel gaze forced him to stand up.

— Then strike with your soul — Lucius stopped and stood in front of the boy, his shadow covering him completely —. Why do you fight, boy? Why are you still here when any other child would be sleeping under the warmth of their mother? What is your purpose in wielding iron in this field forgotten by the gods?

Marcus Caelius looked up. His eyes, framed by the soot of torches that had gone out hours ago, shone with a manic light.

— To be stronger! — he shouted, delivering a downward slash that, for the first time all night, managed to tear a deep splinter from the oak —. So that fear never finds a place to hide within me!

Marcus continued to breathe erratically, his chest rising and falling like a broken bellows. The oak splinter he had torn away lay on the ground, a small testimony to his will.

Suddenly, the silence of the forest was broken by a sound Marcus had never heard: a raspy, deep laugh. Lucius was laughing. The centurion approached and gave him a firm slap with his palm on the back, a gesture of camaraderie that almost made the boy lose his balance.

— Only worry the moment you no longer feel fear, child — Lucius said, and for the first time, his smile was not a combat grimace, but an expression of rugged pride —. Fear is what keeps you alert, what makes you fast. It is the fuel that prevents you from becoming a corpse. The day you stop feeling it... that day you will die.

Lucius sheathed his own sword and looked at the sky, where the sun was already beginning to warm the earth.

— Go on, gather your things — he added in a softer tone —. Even a future Lion needs fuel. Let's find something to eat; I know you have no one waiting for you in the city, so today you will eat with me.

- MEMORY MONTAGE -

From that moment, Flamma's vision became a succession of rapid scenes, fragments of a life that no longer existed:

• A Dinner: Lucius and Marcus sitting by a small campfire. The centurion hands him a piece of hard bread and jerky, while telling him stories of the campaigns in Germania, making exaggerated gestures with his hands that made the boy laugh.

• Training : Marcus trying to imitate a complex movement of Lucius and ending up tangled in his own tunic, falling face-first into the mud. Lucius shaking his head while hiding a smile behind his hand.

• Healing: Lucius carefully bandaging Marcus's bloody hands, his giant hands moving with unexpected delicacy.

As these images passed, the voice of the adult Flamma, deep and heavy with nostalgia, resonated over the memories:

"In a world where status was everything, where everyone sought my blood or my money... that man was more than a master. He was my wall against the world. He was the only family I ever had."

TIME SKIP: Year 173 AD. Subura, the heart of Rome.

The sun was setting over the Subura, casting long, distorted shadows on the brick walls. Flamma walked alone, hands in his tunic pockets and a small bag of denarii hitting rhythmically against his thigh. As he turned into a narrow alley that smelled of stagnant dampness, the path was blocked.

Three bulky men, faces weathered by arena dust and cheap wine, emerged from the shadows. The leader, a guy with a neck full of rope scars, pointed at the bag.

— The money, brat. Hand it over and maybe we’ll let you keep your teeth — he demanded in a raspy voice.

Flamma didn't stop. He didn't even change the rhythm of his breathing. He looked at them with absolute indifference, as if they were mere flies bothering him on a summer day. Without saying a single word, without any warning, Flamma launched a punch directly at the leader's chin. The impact sounded like bone breaking against marble.

The fight was a one-sided slaughter... at least at first. Flamma was fast, but it was three against one in a space where there was no room to maneuver.

Minutes later, Flamma was beaten to a pulp. His lip was a mass of red flesh, his left eye had swollen shut due to a purple hematoma, and his tunic was torn. But, to the attackers' horror, Flamma wouldn't fall. He stumbled, he spat blood, but his legs remained anchored to the ground like Roman columns. Despite the pain that must have been screaming in his nerves, a deformed smile appeared on his bloody face. He let out a raspy laugh that sounded like the crunching of gravel.

— Is that all? — he mocked, his voice choked with blood —. My master hit harder when he was drunk. You are... disappointing.

The attackers took a step back, infected by an instinctive fear. They weren't fighting a youth; they were fighting something that didn't understand the concept of surrender.

— Damn lunatic! — the bulkiest one shouted, losing his temper —. If you don't want to give us the money, we'll rip it out of your guts!

The metallic sound of three swords unsheathing in unison cut through the alley's air. The blades shone with a lethal reflection, pointing directly at the chest of a Flamma who, far from being scared, widened his smile.

Trapped, unarmed, and half-blind, the young man remembered Lucius 's words: "The day you don't feel fear, that day you will die." In that moment, Flamma felt an electric terror running down his spine, and it was that fear that made his senses sharpen to the limit.

The three steel blades advanced toward him like the jaws of hungry wolves. Flamma, with his vision blurred by the blood dripping from his split eyebrow, felt the world move in slow motion. Fear, that electric cold Lucius taught him to embrace, became pure survival instinct. His fingers, searching for support on the ground while dodging the first thrust, closed around something cold, rough, and heavy.

It was the remains of a broken sword, a rusted blade barely twenty centimeters long lying in the filth. In that instant, the memory of Lucius thundered in his head:

"Why do you strike, boy? If you don't have a motive, you're just waving iron."

Flamma gripped the metal so hard that the jagged edges sliced open his palm. His blood mixed with the rust.

— My motive? — Flamma whispered, and his voice no longer sounded like a teenager's, but like the dull roar of a forge —. My motive is that I decide when and where I die!

The lead attacker launched a downward slash, but Flamma was no longer there. He moved with an explosion of speed, entering the enemy's blind spot. He tensed every tendon in his back, accumulating all the rage from the blows received, and performed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin.

The broken blade didn't just cut the air; it created a trough of absolute pressure. The splintered metal worked like an invisible saw that amplified his centrifugal force to superhuman levels.

SHRA-BOOOOOOOOM!

It wasn't a common slash; it was a rupture of the air itself. The gust of solid wind and rusted metal tore through the torsos of the two front attackers as if they were wet paper. Time seemed to freeze as their bodies split in half. The upper halves were sent flying against the side walls, leaving a trail of viscera and blood, while their legs took one last involuntary step before collapsing into the alley's mud.

The third attacker, the one who had stayed a step back, stood petrified. His hands shook so much that his sword fell to the ground with a pathetic clink. In front of him, amidst the rain of blood that was beginning to fall, he didn't see a fifteen-year-old boy. He saw a demon with one eye swollen shut and a smile that defied the gods of the underworld themselves.

— A-Ah...! AAAAAHHHH! — the cry of pure terror broke the silence of the Subura.

The man turned around and ran desperately, tripping over his own feet, fleeing from that crimson shadow that had just erased his companions from existence. He ran until his lungs burned, feeling on the back of his neck the cold breath of the monster that had just been born.

Flamma dropped the bloodied piece of iron. He stood there, over the carnage, panting.

— Hahahaha... — he laughed with nostalgia, looking at his blood-soaked hands —. That old man... even dead, he still keeps teaching me how to survive...

- RETURN TO THE COLISEUM OF PURGATORY -

The glow of the memories dissolved. Flamma exhaled a long breath, a dense mist that seemed to burn the air in front of him. The sharpness of the present returned with the force of an impact.

— The reason is simple, old man!! — Flamma roared toward the immutable figure of Nobutsuna —. I wield a sword because it is the symbol of my survival! It is my ingenuity against adversity! It doesn't matter if the steel is perfect or broken... as long as my will is what moves it, it will never stop!

Flamma adjusted the grip on his scutum. His posture was no longer defensive; it was that of a predator who had just remembered that he is the master of the arena.

​

Chapter 3: The Edge of the East vs. The Steel of Rome

The air in the Purgatory Coliseum turned dense, almost solid. On the giant screens, a close-up of Nobutsuna’s open eye was projected with terrifying clarity; a pupil that didn’t just look at an opponent, but dissected a weakness.

Suddenly, a small Purgatory sparrow descended from the sea of clouds and perched softly on the old man's shoulder. Flamma watched, slowly losing his temper, while Kamiizumi didn't even blink; his breathing was so calm that the drone sensors barely caught any movement in his chest.

Flamma didn’t wait for the silence to finish suffocating him. The insult of being called "boy" by that hunched old man acted like a spark in a powder keg. His muscles tensed with an audible snap, and the wood-and-bronze scutum struck the black marble, sending a shockwave that the drone sensors recorded as a minor tremor.

—DIE THEN, YOU EMPTY SHELL! —Flamma's roar didn't come from his throat, but from a hunger born of decades of sand and blood.

Nike, from her floating platform, flipped a switch on her console. —Ladies and gentlemen, the Lion of Rome has lost his cool! —her voice vibrated through the speakers with a metallic echo—. Adjust your sensors, because this is going to be fast!

He launched himself like a siege ram. There was no elegance, only the raw physics of a hundred kilos of Roman muscle and steel on a collision course. The air whistled a sharp SHHIIKT! as his gladius sought the samurai's neck—a stroke designed to decapitate in a single motion.

But Nobutsuna did not retreat. There was no panic in his wrinkles.

In the fraction of a second before the Roman steel could bite into his tunic, the old man executed a circular pivot. It was a movement of perfect economy; his feet never left the marble, they simply rotated. Using Flamma’s own runaway inertia as a lever, Nobutsuna raised the base of his katana, driving the steel tsuka directly into the path of the gladiator’s jaw.

KRAK-SHHH!

The sound wasn't just a hit; it was the crunch of bone meeting an impossible angle. The directional microphones caught the snap of Flamma’s teeth slamming together. The Roman’s head whipped back violently, his amber eyes rolling back, losing focus on reality for an eternal instant. His body, robbed of balance and punished by his own charging force, tumbled heavily across the arena, leaving a trail of dust and sweat over the gold-veined floor.

The giant fell face-first, his shield skidding with a metallic screech that made the spectators' skin crawl.

Nobutsuna returned to his original stance, leaning his weight on the saya with insulting calm. The small sparrow, which had barely fluttered a few meters away, glided back to perch once more on the master's white hair, as if that burst of violence had been nothing more than a gust of wind.

—I told you, boy... —Nobutsuna’s voice, processed by the divine speakers, rang out with the coldness of a sentence—. Haste is the first symptom of death. If this is the steel of Rome, the marble has more character than you.

In the VIP box, Ares had stood up, the veins in his neck bulging with excitement. —Uncle, look at the angle! —he exclaimed, pointing to the holographic replay floating above them—. He didn’t hit him; he made Flamma hit himself with his own strength. That’s pure geometry applied to slaughter!

Flamma dug his fingers into the cracks of the marble. The throbbing pain in his jaw and the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth acted as dark fuel. He rose slowly, his gaze burning with a red fury, as the entire coliseum trembled before the roar of souls demanding more.

Flamma stood up with a slowness that showed the effort of his lungs to regain their rhythm. The left side of his face was beginning to swell, turning a purple hue that stood out under the coliseum’s overhead lights. He spat a thick clot onto the marble, and his amber eyes, now bloodshot, fixed on the samurai’s impassive figure.

—Brute force... can move even the heaviest stone, you decrepit old man! —Flamma’s roar was a thunderclap that vibrated the glass panels of the royal box.

This time, there was no blind charge. The gladiator adjusted his grip on his scutum, lowering his center of gravity. His feet, weathered by the sands of Capua, found traction on the gold veins of the floor. With a burst of power that made his sandals creak, Flamma lunged, but he didn't seek a slash with his sword. He used the metallic edge of his shield like a horizontal guillotine, sweeping the air in an arc designed to shatter Nobutsuna’s ribs.

Nike, fascinated by the change in strategy, leaned over her console, activating the impact scanners. —Look at that transition! —she exclaimed with a fierce smile—. Flamma is using his defense as a battering ram! If that bronze edge connects, the Sword Saint is going to end up as splinters!

The attack was swift—a blur of wood and metal cutting through the air with a dull hiss. However, Nobutsuna didn’t move until the shield’s edge was inches from his kimono. With a series of short, almost imperceptible steps, the old man seemed to glide across an invisible surface. He didn’t dodge backward; he moved inward, entering the gladiator's blind spot with an elegance that defied combat logic.

Flamma, feeling his blow find only empty air, tried to correct the angle, but his own weight worked against him. Nobutsuna extended a pale hand and, with a soft touch to the center of the shield, redirected the rest of Flamma’s energy.

It was as if the Roman had tried to push a mountain that suddenly turned into air. The inertia dragged him again, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. A lash of pain shot through his shoulder as the shield hit the ground, vibrating with a metallic echo that seemed to mock his effort.

Nobutsuna stood before him, looking down not with hatred, but with a pedagogical patience that was more painful than any wound.

—Relax, boy —the old man whispered, his voice transmitted by the drones with icy clarity—. Your haste makes you blind. Your anger makes you slow. You are fighting yourself, not me.

Flamma, hands trembling with frustration and face burning with humiliation, let out a hoarse growl. The old man's look of pity was the final blow to his self-control.

—SHUT UP! STAY STILL FOR ONCE, DAMMIT! —Flamma shouted, rising with an explosive movement.

In his mind, a desperate idea took shape. "If I can't touch him, I'll make the ground itself betray him." With a roar of effort, Flamma raised his shield over his head and slammed it with all his might against the marble.

BOOOOOM!

The impact was so brutal that the coliseum floor cracked. A dense cloud of dust and black marble shards rose immediately, creating an opaque veil that hid both combatants. The giant screens flickered, showing only static interference as the heat sensors tried to locate the samurai amidst the chaos.

Flamma didn't stop after the initial impact. As the cloud rose, the gladiator executed a move that left the crowd breathless. Using the rebound of his shield against the floor, he propelled his body into a low spin, almost at ground level, moving with a speed that the drone sensors could barely track.

It was a flash of bronze. In the blink of an eye, Flamma appeared right behind Nobutsuna’s back, using the veil of dust as cover.

Nobutsuna, for the first time, curled his lips into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He didn’t turn; he simply seemed to enjoy the change of pace, like a master seeing his student finally understand a difficult lesson.

—I’VE GOT YOU, OLD MAN! —Flamma roared.

With a brutal downward motion, the Roman brought down the full weight of his body and shield against Nobutsuna’s position.

The impact was seismic. The bronze edge of the scutum sank into the marble, creating a crater of radial cracks that kicked up a new curtain of debris. Flamma grit his teeth, waiting to feel the samurai's bones crunch under his weapon... but he felt nothing. Only the vibration of the ground.

Through the settling dust, Flamma saw with horror that the crater was empty.

—Who are you hitting, boy? —Nobutsuna’s voice emerged from his side, as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.

Before Flamma could turn his neck, the old man moved. With a fluid gesture, Nobutsuna swung his saya. It wasn't a blow loaded with force, but with surgical precision. The hardened wood of the scabbard struck Flamma’s ribs squarely, right in the gap of his armor, letting out a dry THUD! that emptied his lungs.

Without giving him time to react, and taking advantage of the gladiator staggering from the lateral impact, Nobutsuna brought the saya down in a descending arc. The blow connected with the back of Flamma’s knees with astonishing speed. The Roman’s legs gave way like paper, and the giant fell to his knees once more, his shield hitting the ground in an involuntary gesture of defeat.

Nobutsuna took a step back, shrouded in the floating dust. With one hand, he began to stroke his long, white beard deliberately, looking down at the gladiator with profound disappointment.

—Really... I’m getting bored —the old man sighed, and his voice, amplified by the coliseum's technology, resonated with absolute weight—. Is this all the fire Rome has to offer?

In the VIP box, Hades leaned further forward, resting both arms on the railing. The spark of curiosity in his black eyes intensified. —Ares... —the King of Purgatory murmured— Your warrior is losing more than just blood. He is losing his "why" in the face of that man's indifference.

In the royal box, Ares let out a vibrant laugh that made the shadow nymphs tremble. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but of absolute confidence. He turned to his uncle, amber eyes sparking under the light of the fireworks.

—Uncle, uncle! You really don't know humans as well as you think —Ares flashed a wolfish smile, resting his arm on Hades' shoulder—. Just watch and you’ll see. There’s a reason I suggested this tournament, and it’s precisely to wipe that look of eternal boredom off your face. Humans are most beautiful when they are cornered!

Hades didn’t respond, but his fingers stopped drumming on the obsidian. His gaze returned to the arena, where the air was beginning to heat up again.

Below, Flamma remained on his knees, head bowed, chest heaving violently. Suddenly, a strange sound began to bubble from his throat. It wasn't a moan, or a cry... it was a raspy laugh, loaded with static and blood.

—Heh... hehe... HAHAHAHA! —Flamma lifted his head. His face was a mess; his jaw was swollen and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek, but his eyes shone with a manic intensity—. You decrepit old man! It’s been decades since anyone made me kiss the dirt like this!

The gladiator stood up with a fluid movement. The fury was still there, burning in his veins, but now it was wrapped in a layer of wild excitement. The fear of defeat had been replaced by the joy of a hunter who finally finds prey that can strike back.

—My whole body hurts... and it’s the best I’ve felt in millennia —Flamma adjusted his grip on his gladius, making the metal creak—. You’re not just some old man. You’re the wall I’ve been looking for.

At that moment, a murmur began to sweep through the stands. The oldest sections of the spectators, those wearing kimonos and samurai armor, stood up in unison.

—Look at that calm! —a man shouted from the front row—. It can be no other! He is the one who reached the summit! He is the Sword Saint! The founder of the Shinkage-ryū!

The name began to bounce off the marble walls of the coliseum: "Nobutsuna! Nobutsuna!". The drones zoomed in on the old man's face, projecting his image on every screen.

Flamma stood, muscles still vibrating from adrenaline, but his stance was no longer that of a cornered animal. He wiped the trail of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the old man. There was something in the way Nobutsuna stroked his beard, with that absolute indifference toward death, that forced the Roman to recognize he wasn't facing a mere mortal.

—Old man... —Flamma’s voice rang with a new gravity, captured by the drones descending to surround them—. You aren't what you seem. You’ve made me kiss the ground three times without even breaking a sweat. In Rome, men like you have statues built for them or are feared like demons.

The gladiator slightly lowered his shield in a gesture of respect that no one expected.

—If I’m going to keep fighting you, if I’m going to die or conquer in this arena... it’s important to know who I’m facing. Tell me, grandfather... How should I address you? What name does the man who humbles the Lion of Rome with a wooden branch carry?

Nobutsuna stopped the movement of his hand on his beard. A faint, almost paternal smile formed on his wrinkled face. He looked at Flamma, appreciating for the first time the spark of true will in the young man's amber eyes.

—Important? —the old man repeated with a soft smile—. If you’re so interested in knowing how to address the one who will give you your final lesson, boy... you can call me... The God of Martial Arts.

His voice was a whisper, but thanks to the divine speakers, it boomed like thunder in the ears of every spectator. He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of one who has reached the peak of a mountain no one else can see.

Flamma was speechless for a second, processing the magnitude of those words. But then, his smile returned, wilder than ever.

—A God, huh? —Flamma propelled his body upward in a low spin, recovering his gladius with superhuman dexterity—. Then get ready, "God"! It’s time to see if Roman steel can kill a divinity!

He adopted his definitive combat stance: the scutum firm protecting his flank, the gladius ready like a hungry fang, and a cold determination that made the arena itself seem to hold its breath.

​

Chapter 3: The Edge of the East vs. The Steel of Rome.

​The air in the Purgatory Coliseum turned dense, almost solid. On the giant screens, a close-up of Nobutsuna’s open eye was projected with terrifying clarity; a pupil that didn’t just look at an opponent, but dissected a weakness.

​Suddenly, a small Purgatory sparrow descended from the sea of clouds and perched softly on the old man's shoulder. Flamma watched, slowly losing his temper, while Kamiizumi didn't even blink; his breathing was so calm that the drone sensors barely caught any movement in his chest.

​Flamma didn’t wait for the silence to finish suffocating him. The insult of being called "boy" by that hunched old man acted like a spark in a powder keg. His muscles tensed with an audible snap, and the wood-and-bronze scutum struck the black marble, sending a shockwave that the drone sensors recorded as a minor tremor.

​—DIE THEN, YOU EMPTY SHELL! —Flamma's roar didn't come from his throat, but from a hunger born of decades of sand and blood.

​Nike, from her floating platform, flipped a switch on her console. —Ladies and gentlemen, the Lion of Rome has lost his cool! —her voice vibrated through the speakers with a metallic echo—. Adjust your sensors, because this is going to be fast!

​He launched himself like a siege ram. There was no elegance, only the raw physics of a hundred kilos of Roman muscle and steel on a collision course. The air whistled a sharp SHHIIKT! as his gladius sought the samurai's neck—a stroke designed to decapitate in a single motion.

​But Nobutsuna did not retreat. There was no panic in his wrinkles.

​In the fraction of a second before the Roman steel could bite into his tunic, the old man executed a circular pivot. It was a movement of perfect economy; his feet never left the marble, they simply rotated. Using Flamma’s own runaway inertia as a lever, Nobutsuna raised the base of his katana, driving the steel tsuka directly into the path of the gladiator’s jaw.

​KRAK-SHHH!

​The sound wasn't just a hit; it was the crunch of bone meeting an impossible angle. The directional microphones caught the snap of Flamma’s teeth slamming together. The Roman’s head whipped back violently, his amber eyes rolling back, losing focus on reality for an eternal instant. His body, robbed of balance and punished by his own charging force, tumbled heavily across the arena, leaving a trail of dust and sweat over the gold-veined floor.

​The giant fell face-first, his shield skidding with a metallic screech that made the spectators' skin crawl.

​Nobutsuna returned to his original stance, leaning his weight on the saya with insulting calm. The small sparrow, which had barely fluttered a few meters away, glided back to perch once more on the master's white hair, as if that burst of violence had been nothing more than a gust of wind.

​—I told you, boy... —Nobutsuna’s voice, processed by the divine speakers, rang out with the coldness of a sentence—. Haste is the first symptom of death. If this is the steel of Rome, the marble has more character than you.

​In the VIP box, Ares had stood up, the veins in his neck bulging with excitement. —Uncle, look at the angle! —he exclaimed, pointing to the holographic replay floating above them—. He didn’t hit him; he made Flamma hit himself with his own strength. That’s pure geometry applied to slaughter!

​Flamma dug his fingers into the cracks of the marble. The throbbing pain in his jaw and the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth acted as dark fuel. He rose slowly, his gaze burning with a red fury, as the entire coliseum trembled before the roar of souls demanding more.

​Flamma stood up with a slowness that showed the effort of his lungs to regain their rhythm. The left side of his face was beginning to swell, turning a purple hue that stood out under the coliseum’s overhead lights. He spat a thick clot onto the marble, and his amber eyes, now bloodshot, fixed on the samurai’s impassive figure.

​—Brute force... can move even the heaviest stone, you decrepit old man! —Flamma’s roar was a thunderclap that vibrated the glass panels of the royal box.

​This time, there was no blind charge. The gladiator adjusted his grip on his scutum, lowering his center of gravity. His feet, weathered by the sands of Capua, found traction on the gold veins of the floor. With a burst of power that made his sandals creak, Flamma lunged, but he didn't seek a slash with his sword. He used the metallic edge of his shield like a horizontal guillotine, sweeping the air in an arc designed to shatter Nobutsuna’s ribs.

​Nike, fascinated by the change in strategy, leaned over her console, activating the impact scanners. —Look at that transition! —she exclaimed with a fierce smile—. Flamma is using his defense as a battering ram! If that bronze edge connects, the Sword Saint is going to end up as splinters!

​The attack was swift—a blur of wood and metal cutting through the air with a dull hiss. However, Nobutsuna didn’t move until the shield’s edge was inches from his kimono. With a series of short, almost imperceptible steps, the old man seemed to glide across an invisible surface. He didn’t dodge backward; he moved inward, entering the gladiator's blind spot with an elegance that defied combat logic.

​Flamma, feeling his blow find only empty air, tried to correct the angle, but his own weight worked against him. Nobutsuna extended a pale hand and, with a soft touch to the center of the shield, redirected the rest of Flamma’s energy.

​It was as if the Roman had tried to push a mountain that suddenly turned into air. The inertia dragged him again, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. A lash of pain shot through his shoulder as the shield hit the ground, vibrating with a metallic echo that seemed to mock his effort.

​Nobutsuna stood before him, looking down not with hatred, but with a pedagogical patience that was more painful than any wound.

​—Relax, boy —the old man whispered, his voice transmitted by the drones with icy clarity—. Your haste makes you blind. Your anger makes you slow. You are fighting yourself, not me.

​Flamma, hands trembling with frustration and face burning with humiliation, let out a hoarse growl. The old man's look of pity was the final blow to his self-control.

​—SHUT UP! STAY STILL FOR ONCE, DAMMIT! —Flamma shouted, rising with an explosive movement.

​In his mind, a desperate idea took shape. "If I can't touch him, I'll make the ground itself betray him." With a roar of effort, Flamma raised his shield over his head and slammed it with all his might against the marble.

​BOOOOOOOM!

​The impact was so brutal that the coliseum floor cracked. A dense cloud of dust and black marble shards rose immediately, creating an opaque veil that hid both combatants. The giant screens flickered, showing only static interference as the heat sensors tried to locate the samurai amidst the chaos.

​Flamma didn't stop after the initial impact. As the cloud rose, the gladiator executed a move that left the crowd breathless. Using the rebound of his shield against the floor, he propelled his body into a low spin, almost at ground level, moving with a speed that the drone sensors could barely track.

​It was a flash of bronze. In the blink of an eye, Flamma appeared right behind Nobutsuna’s back, using the veil of dust as cover.

​Nobutsuna, for the first time, curled his lips into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. He didn’t turn; he simply seemed to enjoy the change of pace, like a master seeing his student finally understand a difficult lesson.

​—I’VE GOT YOU, OLD MAN! —Flamma roared.

​With a brutal downward motion, the Roman brought down the full weight of his body and shield against Nobutsuna’s position.

​The impact was seismic. The bronze edge of the scutum sank into the marble, creating a crater of radial cracks that kicked up a new curtain of debris. Flamma grit his teeth, waiting to feel the samurai's bones crunch under his weapon... but he felt nothing. Only the vibration of the ground.

​Through the settling dust, Flamma saw with horror that the crater was empty.

​—Who are you hitting, boy? —Nobutsuna’s voice emerged from his side, as calm as if he were commenting on the weather.

​Before Flamma could turn his neck, the old man moved. With a fluid gesture, Nobutsuna swung his saya. It wasn't a blow loaded with force, but with surgical precision. The hardened wood of the scabbard struck Flamma’s ribs squarely, right in the gap of his armor, letting out a dry THUD! that emptied his lungs.

​Without giving him time to react, and taking advantage of the gladiator staggering from the lateral impact, Nobutsuna brought the saya down in a descending arc. The blow connected with the back of Flamma’s knees with astonishing speed. The Roman’s legs gave way like paper, and the giant fell to his knees once more, his shield hitting the ground in an involuntary gesture of defeat.

​Nobutsuna took a step back, shrouded in the floating dust. With one hand, he began to stroke his long, white beard deliberately, looking down at the gladiator with profound disappointment.

​—Really... I’m getting bored —the old man sighed, and his voice, amplified by the coliseum's technology, resonated with absolute weight—. Is this all the fire Rome has to offer?

​In the VIP box, Hades leaned further forward, resting both arms on the railing. The spark of curiosity in his black eyes intensified. —Ares... —the King of Purgatory murmured— Your warrior is losing more than just blood. He is losing his "why" in the face of that man's indifference.

​In the royal box, Ares let out a vibrant laugh that made the shadow nymphs tremble. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but of absolute confidence. He turned to his uncle, amber eyes sparking under the light of the fireworks.

​—Uncle, uncle! You really don't know humans as well as you think —Ares flashed a wolfish smile, resting his arm on Hades' shoulder—. Just watch and you’ll see. There’s a reason I suggested this tournament, and it’s precisely to wipe that look of eternal boredom off your face. Humans are most beautiful when they are cornered!

​Hades didn’t respond, but his fingers stopped drumming on the obsidian. His gaze returned to the arena, where the air was beginning to heat up again.

​Below, Flamma remained on his knees, head bowed, chest heaving violently. Suddenly, a strange sound began to bubble from his throat. It wasn't a moan, or a cry... it was a raspy laugh, loaded with static and blood.

​—Heh... hehe... HAHAHAHA! —Flamma lifted his head. His face was a mess; his jaw was swollen and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek, but his eyes shone with a manic intensity—. You decrepit old man! It’s been decades since anyone made me kiss the dirt like this!

​The gladiator stood up with a fluid movement. The fury was still there, burning in his veins, but now it was wrapped in a layer of wild excitement. The fear of defeat had been replaced by the joy of a hunter who finally finds prey that can strike back.

​—My whole body hurts... and it’s the best I’ve felt in millennia —Flamma adjusted his grip on his gladius, making the metal creak—. You’re not just some old man. You’re the wall I’ve been looking for.

​At that moment, a murmur began to sweep through the stands. The oldest sections of the spectators, those wearing kimonos and samurai armor, stood up in unison.

​—Look at that calm! —a man shouted from the front row—. It can be no other! He is the one who reached the summit! He is the Sword Saint! The founder of the Shinkage-ryū!

​The name began to bounce off the marble walls of the coliseum: "Nobutsuna! Nobutsuna!". The drones zoomed in on the old man's face, projecting his image on every screen.

​Flamma stood, muscles still vibrating from adrenaline, but his stance was no longer that of a cornered animal. He wiped the trail of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the old man. There was something in the way Nobutsuna stroked his beard, with that absolute indifference toward death, that forced the Roman to recognize he wasn't facing a mere mortal.

​—Old man... —Flamma’s voice rang with a new gravity, captured by the drones descending to surround them—. You aren't what you seem. You’ve made me kiss the ground three times without even breaking a sweat. In Rome, men like you have statues built for them or are feared like demons.

​The gladiator slightly lowered his shield in a gesture of respect that no one expected.

​—If I’m going to keep fighting you, if I’m going to die or conquer in this arena... it’s important to know who I’m facing. Tell me, grandfather... How should I address you? What name does the man who humbles the Lion of Rome with a wooden branch carry?

​Nobutsuna stopped the movement of his hand on his beard. A faint, almost paternal smile formed on his wrinkled face. He looked at Flamma, appreciating for the first time the spark of true will in the young man's amber eyes.

​—Important? —the old man repeated with a soft smile—. If you’re so interested in knowing how to address the one who will give you your final lesson, boy... you can call me... The God of Martial Arts.

​His voice was a whisper, but thanks to the divine speakers, it boomed like thunder in the ears of every spectator. He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of one who has reached the peak of a mountain no one else can see.

​Flamma was speechless for a second, processing the magnitude of those words. But then, his smile returned, wilder than ever.

​—A God, huh? —Flamma propelled his body upward in a low spin, recovering his gladius with superhuman dexterity—. Then get ready, "God"! It’s time to see if Roman steel can kill a divinity!

​He adopted his definitive combat stance: the scutum firm protecting his flank, the gladius ready like a hungry fang, and a cold determination that made the arena itself seem to hold its breath.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Motivation and the Chosen

Outside, the floating Coliseum vibrated. It wasn't just the shouting of the people; it was the bass of the epic music blaring from the divine speakers, mixed with the roar of fireworks exploding in impossible constellation patterns over the sea of clouds.

In the Divine Box, the atmosphere was an oasis of icy silence. Hades was reclined in his throne, his cheek resting on his pale hand. He let out a long, listless yawn, closing his eyes, weary of eternity.

—They are so loud... —Hades murmured in a monotonous voice.

Beside him, a young shadow nymph, her hands trembling, tried to fill the King's golden cup with a wine as dark as blood. She was terrified by her lord's presence, but then, a giant shadow was cast over them.

—UNCLE, LOOK AT THIS AND TELL ME IT ISN’T ART! —Ares shouted, appearing with a smile so wide and bright it lit up the box like a second sun.

With an energetic gesture, Ares activated a holographic projector that unfurled a list of blue light before Hades' eyes. Ares' energy was so electric and pure that the servant, upon seeing him, couldn't help but let her fear transform into a small, involuntary smile; the God of War's passion was, literally, contagious.

Hades half-opened one eye to read the Official Fighter List:

1. Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna : Seeks a worthy opponent to test his skill and perfect his technique.

2. Hino Chōko : Wants to prove his worth as a warrior and gain recognition in Purgatory.

3. Tsukahara Bokuden : Seeks to overcome his own limitations and become the strongest warrior of all time.

4. Marco Celio "Flamma : Seeks the thrill and adrenaline of combat; willing to fight anyone.

5. Egil Skallagrímsson: Wants to demonstrate the superiority of the Vikings and win eternal fame.

6. Genghis Khan : Seeks honor, glory, and eternal recognition, even in the afterlife.

7. George Washington : Seeks to explore new facets of himself and grow as a person after death.

8. Ching Shih : Wants to leave a legacy as the greatest leader in piracy.

9. Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar "El Cid": Seeks to prove his worth, defend his faith, and his devotion.

10. Hatshepsut : Driven to prove that male pharaohs can be surpassed by a woman.

11. Henry Every : Desires to increase his infamy and be remembered as a legendary pirate.

12. Tecún Umán : Seeks to preserve the identity and autonomy of his people and the Mayan legacy.

Hades scanned the names, pausing for a second on each one's motives.

—My... —Hades straightened up just a few centimeters, a nearly imperceptible but significant movement—. Pirates, liberators, sword saints, and kings... All with a hunger that doesn't fit in their chests.

Ares let out a laugh and slapped his uncle on the shoulder, making the wine in the cup wobble.

—I told you! —Ares exclaimed—. That "Why" is what makes them dangerous! And look who’s opening the show!

In the center of the arena, under a spotlight of white light that seemed to descend directly from Olympus, Nike moved across the sands. She didn't need vibrant lights; her mere presence electrified the air. She gripped her golden microphone with a force that made her knuckles stand out and looked toward the infinite stands.

—HUMANS OF ALL ERAS! HEROES WHOM TIME FORGOT AND LEGENDS WHO ARE STILL WHISPERED! —her voice, amplified by divine technology, made the black marble floor vibrate—. You are not here to be judged for your sins, but to be celebrated for your WILL!

Nike spun around, pointing toward the sky where camera drones captured her every expression.

—The King of Purgatory has spoken! The prize for the one who remains standing after this carnage is unprecedented... THE FULFILLMENT OF A SINGLE DIVINE WISH WITHOUT ANY LIMITS! Anything your heart yearns for, any mistake you wish to erase, or glory you wish to achieve... will be yours by right of combat!

The roar of the crowd was so powerful that the clouds surrounding the coliseum dispersed. Nike waited for the climax of the shout to reach its highest point and then lowered her arm with a violent gesture.

—BEHOLD THE PATH TO GLORY!

In that instant, a series of blue and gold fireworks exploded over the arena, forming a dome of lights that transformed into a gigantic holographic board. The celestial plasma screen descended from the infinite, showing the order of the combats with brutal clarity:

OFFICIAL CARD – FIRST PHASE

• Kamiizumi Ise-no-kami Nobutsuna vs. Marco Celio "FLAMMA"

• Egil Skallagrímsson vs. Genghis Khan

• Ching Shih vs. Henry Every

• Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar "EL CID" vs. Hino Chōko

• Tsukahara Bokuden vs. Tecún Umán

• George Washington vs. Hatshepsut

—There you have it! —Nike shouted, her voice charged

with an emotion bordering on madness—. Twelve souls, six initial matches, and only one path to the Absolute Wish! Let the gods prepare themselves and let men show why their stubbornness is eternal!

Nike fixed her gaze on the right gate. Hydraulic steam shot out with a roar, and the coliseum lights turned a blood-red that made the stands vibrate.

—ON THE RIGHT SIDE! —Nike's voice reached a new level of power—. The man who turned dust and blood into his only air! The warrior who was a slave to men, but absolute master of death!

In the box, Ares stood up, resting his hands on the glass railing.

—Look at him, uncle! —Ares whispered with reverence—. The man who made the Emperor of Rome himself stand up to beg him to accept his freedom.

—FOUR TIMES HE REJECTED THE RUDIUS! —Nike continued, while giant screens showed holographic recordings of ancient combats—. He fought 34 times against the empire's best assassins and emerged victorious in 21 duels to the death! He survived 9 technical draws where no one else would have remained standing! A Secutor who mastered the art of pursuit and counterattack like no other in human history! THE KING OF THE ARENAS... MARCO CELIO "FLAMMA"!!

Flamma emerged from the shadows. His musculature, bathed in the neon glow, looked like molten bronze, marked by scars that told stories of beasts and blades. He walked with a confidence that made the ground vibrate. Upon reaching the center, before the stunned gaze of millions, Flamma brought his hands to his heavy steel helmet.

With a metallic hiss, he removed the helmet.

His dark, messy hair fell into a high ponytail, revealing a young face, weathered by the Roman sun, and amber eyes that devoured the stadium with a mixture of ferocity and wild joy. He let out a scream that tore through the air and thrust his fist toward the sky. The roar of "FLAMMA!" was so loud that the drone cameras trembled.

Nike waited for the echo of "Flamma!" to quiet slightly and then turned toward the left gate.

—AND ON THE LEFT SIDE! —her voice dropped a tone, becoming solemn, an implicit reverence in her words—. The man whose skill and technique in kenjutsu are legend! A swordsman and martial master of great renown, acclaimed by many as the pinnacle of the art of the sword!

In the box, Hades half-opened an eye, showing an unusual interest. He had heard of the purity of this man's technique.

—A TEST OF PRESTIGE AND STRENGTH IN BATTLES SUCH AS THE ATTACK ON YAMANAKA CASTLE AND THE DEFENSE OF TAKEDA SHINGEN’S CASTLE! —Nike continued, while a respectful silence began to fall over the Japanese sector of the stands—. Acclaimed as "the best spear thrower of Kōzuke" and the founder of the Shinkage-ryū school...! The Sword Saint... The great... KAMIIZUMI ISE-NO-KAMI NOBUTSUNA!!

From the left gate, no muscular giant emerged. An old man did.

The audience fell silent, confused. Nobutsuna walked with a slowness that made the spectators nervous. His stature was tiny, his body fragile, covered by a worn kimono that moved with the breeze. His face, etched with deep wrinkles, was almost entirely obscured by his long, loose white hair and equally long, white beard.

He used his sheathed katana as if it were a cane, leaning his fragile weight on every step he took across the gold-veined black marble. He walked slowly toward the center of the arena, where Nike and a visibly confused Flamma awaited him.

Some spectators in the stands laughed nervously. Others, however, looked at the old man with curiosity and respect, sensing there was something more behind his appearance. Flamma looked at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement. Is this the "Sword Saint" he was supposed to face?

Flamma lowered his fist and looked at the old man. His smile didn't disappear, but his amber eyes narrowed. He could feel it. The air around the old man wasn't cold or hot... it was empty.

With a burst of energy that made her light armor release blue sparks, Nike, the Goddess of Victory, took a prodigious leap backward. In mid-flight, a floating platform of glass and gold, equipped with control consoles and holographic screens, slid beneath her feet to receive her.

The platform rose quickly until it was suspended several meters above the center of the arena, giving Nike the perfect view of every inch of the sand.

—LET THE FIRST DUEL OF WILLS... BEGIN!! —Nike's shout, broadcast from her aerial cockpit, resonated in every corner of Purgatory as she settled in front of her monitors, ready to narrate the carnage.

The roar of the crowd filtered through the edges of the Coliseum, but in the center of the arena, the air had become thick. Nike, from her floating platform, adjusted the sound controls so that every word from the gladiator would be transmitted to the millions of spectators.

Flamma took a step forward, the sole of his Roman boot screeching against the floor. His smile was now a grimace of pure hunger.

—Tell me, old man... —Flamma's voice dropped in tone, becoming a vibrating threat—. I have seen kings cry for their lives and giants beg for mercy in the dust of Rome. I have rejected freedom four times because no man outside this arena made me feel alive. But you... —Flamma pointed his gladius at the hunched figure of the samurai—. You look like a dry leaf about to be stepped on. Tell me I'm not wasting my time with a corpse that forgot to die! Tell me that title of "Saint" isn't just a story to scare children!

Nobutsuna didn't respond. He remained motionless, leaning on his katana as if it were a simple stick of old wood. The south wind ruffled his worn kimono, but his body showed not a hint of tension. That absolute silence began to irritate Flamma; it was like shouting at a mountain.

In the box, Ares leaned forward, intrigued. Hades didn't even blink.

Slowly, the old man raised his head. His long white hair parted from a face marked by countless battles, revealing an expression of peace that was insulting in the middle of a coliseum.

Suddenly, he opened a single eye. It wasn't the eye of a tired old man. It was a sharp and lethal pupil that seemed to pierce Flamma's soul. In that instant, the pressure in the arena shifted abruptly; the gladiator felt a chill, as if a thousand invisible blades were brushing against his neck at the same time.

—Did you say something... boy? —Nobutsuna let out.

It was his first word. A dry voice, devoid of hate or fear, that cut the air with more force than any war cry.

—Draw your sword. —the old man sentenced, with a blood-chilling calm—. And show me if it is as sharp as your tongue.

On the giant screens, the close-up of that open eye and the Sword Saint's icy gaze left the world in a deathly silence. The challenge was issued.

​

 Chapter 1: The Boredom of a God

Purgatory was not a place of torture, but of an infinite waiting that weighed more than any punishment. In the center of that realm of silver mist and impossible architecture, Hades remained motionless. His young and vigorous face contrasted with eyes that seemed to have witnessed the birth and death of a thousand suns; eyes that no longer expected anything from the universe. The King of Purgatory sighed, and the sound was like an icy wind sweeping through the corridors of his obsidian castle.

—Another era ends... —Hades murmured, resting his cheek on his pale, perfect hand—. The same sins, the same pleas. Humanity is a book I already know by heart. No twists, no surprises. Only the echo of their own insignificance.

For a God who has seen it all, eternity is not a gift; it is a cell without bars.

Suddenly, the grayish peace of the castle was shattered. It wasn't a sound; it was pressure. The air became thick and hot, and a smell of ozone and iron invaded the throne room. The main doors, carved in Stygian stone, creaked and swung wide open.

Hades’ servants, shadow nymphs accustomed to sepulchral silence, let out a collective scream and recoiled in terror. Before them, framed by the dying light of Purgatory, stood him.

Ares entered, not as a God, but as an unleashed force of nature. His golden armor was almost entirely darkened by splashes of dried blood and sweat. He held his spear in his hand, and every time the pommel struck the marble floor, a metallic **CLANG! CLANG!** vibrated through the columns, like a war drum roll.

His face was contorted with a maniacal intensity. His amber eyes glowed with a fire that seemed to demand blood and destruction—a gaze that froze the soul of anyone who met it. For the servants, he was the embodiment of the slaughter that the other gods loathed.

But Hades, watching from his throne, knew the truth. That gaze didn’t ask for blood; it asked for perfection. Ares came straight from a daily training so brutal that he was covered in his own sweat and the blood of the sacred beasts he used for practice, all to keep his edge.

—Ares... —Hades sighed again, this time with a note of genuine annoyance—. I’ve told you a thousand times to clean yourself before entering my presence. My castle is not a battlefield.

Ares ignored the reproach and the frightened servants. He approached the throne, and that terrifying gaze instantly transformed into a wide, ear-to-ear grin, like a child who had just found a treasure. Before Hades could even blink, the God of War leaped up the throne steps and grabbed his uncle by the shoulders with his bloodstained hands.

—UNCLE! DON’T JUST SIT THERE WITH THAT STATUE FACE! YOU HAVE TO HEAR ME! —Ares shouted, completely euphoric.

Ares began to shake Hades with divine strength, causing the King of Purgatory’s head to sway from side to side. Hades offered no resistance; he simply allowed his body to be shaken, maintaining his expression of absolute boredom, eyes half-closed and cheek still resting on his hand, as if waiting for an earthquake to pass so he could go back to sleep.

—I saw a duel in the human world, uncle! —Ares continued, ignoring that he was staining Hades' immaculate robes with training blood—. A swordsman against a spearman... it was... it was beautiful! My heart almost broke because of how incredible their determination was! Those humans fought as if there were no tomorrow!

Hades, while still being shaken by his nephew, let out a long, listless yawn.

—Ares... let go of me before I decide that your new "why" should be discovering how long you can last without air in Tartarus —Hades murmured in a monotonous voice.

Hades finally placed a pale hand on his nephew's forearm, stopping the frantic shaking. Ares stopped, but didn’t pull away immediately. He stood right there in front of the throne, his eyes glowing like burning embers.

—It is only dust, Ares —Hades said, elegantly wiping away a bloodstain his nephew's hand had left on his pristine robes—. Dust that fights the wind before being swept away. In the end, they all end up crossing the Styx with empty hands and broken souls, begging for a second chance they didn’t know how to earn.

Ares did not respond immediately. He took several steps back, not out of submission, but to reclaim his space as a warrior. His expression changed completely; the maniacal joy and almost childish euphoria vanished, replaced by profound seriousness and mystical dignity.

He crouched slightly and picked up his divine spear from the floor. He gripped it with one hand, his muscles tensing beneath his armor. Ares took a deep breath, and the air in the hall seemed to hold its breath as well.

Suddenly, with a fluid and devastating motion, Ares launched a horizontal thrust into the empty air of the hall. The sound wasn't a simple rustle; it was a sharp and violent **SHHAAW!**, a cut so perfect and powerful that the air itself seemed to moan and split before the tip of the spear.

The God of War slowly lowered his weapon, keeping the point toward the ground, and looked at Hades with solemn respect in his voice.

—You are wrong, uncle! —Ares spoke with a resonant voice full of quiet conviction, no longer shouting—. You are so wrong it makes me sad. It is not death that defines a warrior. It is the "Why." That inner fire that forces them to take one more step when their lungs burst and their bones are splinters.

Hades arched an eyebrow, but this time he didn’t yawn. There was something in his nephew's dignified tone that cut through the boredom.

—Susanoo and I spend entire nights discussing this while we clash our weapons —Ares continued, lowering his voice to a tone of near reverence—. The other gods only see ants killing each other for crumbs of glory. But I... I see colors. Every spirit has a unique hue. I have seen a samurai seek absolute perfection in a single sword stroke, ignoring the pain of his wounds. I have seen a father protect his son against an army, not for glory, but for a love that defies logic. That will is not repetitive, uncle! It is an anomaly that not even Olympus can replicate.

Ares leaned forward, his face just inches from Hades'.

—If you gave them a reason... if you gave them a stage where fate isn't already written... you would see a spectacle that would make you forget that damn apathy once and for all!

Hades remained silent for what felt like an eternity. His fingers drummed on the obsidian armrest. For the first time in millennia, a spark of black light, dense and dangerous, danced in his pupils.

—You say their will is unique? —Hades straightened up, and the pressure in the room shifted. The cold of Purgatory became sharp—. Even after the Reaper has claimed their names?

—Especially then! —Ares exclaimed, feeling he was finally reaching his uncle's heart—. Free them from the weight of time. Give them a purpose worth more than life itself.

Hades stood up. The aura of boredom, momentarily cleared by his nephew's presence, fell away from him like an old cloak, revealing the terrifying majesty of the King of the Underworld.

—Very well, nephew. Let us play your game. If those humans have a "why" as powerful as you swear, let’s put it to the test before all of creation.

Hades extended his hand into the void, and a slow smile, filled with predatory curiosity, spread across his face.

—We shall summon the souls that left scars on human history. But they won't fight for nothing. Let them fight for the ultimate prize: The fulfillment of a single divine wish without limits. That which life denied them, they shall win here, in my coliseum, or be lost to nothingness forever.

[SCENE CHANGE]

Above a sea of perpetual clouds, the Coliseum of Purgatory emerged not as a ruin, but as a marvel of impossible engineering. It floated majestically, surrounded by divine surveillance drones and giant holographic screens projecting the tournament's name in long-forgotten tongues. The black marble vibrated under a blue electric LED lighting system that ran through every corridor, creating a hypnotic contrast.

From the floor of Purgatory, infinite staircases of solid light extended, connecting the earth to the coliseum in the clouds.

—Look at them arrive! —Ares exclaimed, leaning on the railing of a white glass corridor illuminated from below.

Below, an endless procession of humans from all eras walked toward the stairs. Warriors in wolf skins climbed alongside soldiers from the Great War; Greek philosophers discussed with astronauts from a distant future. All had heard the call of the Seraphim: the promise of a wish without limits.

Among the crowd, dark and solitary figures could be seen walking with a different kind of weight. They were the participants. Their silhouettes, shrouded in dense shadows, emanated a pressure that made people step aside as they passed. One of them, with a rigid posture and firm step, moved toward the arena tunnels without looking back.

In the Divine Box, the atmosphere was electric. Fireworks of impossible colors exploded in the void, illuminating Hades' bored face and Ares' radiant one. Floating cameras buzzed around, capturing every angle for the deities watching from their own realms.

—It’s too bright... and loud —se quejó Hades, aunque sus ojos no se apartaban de la arena—. But I must admit, nephew, the expectation of these mortals is... interesting.

Ares didn't respond; he was too busy feeling the roar of millions of souls. His hands trembled on the pommel of his spear. To him, this place was more than a stadium; it was an altar to will.

Suddenly, a beam of white light, purer than any neon, hit the center of the arena. The hum of the drones and the murmur of the millions of spectators stopped dead, leaving a silence that felt heavy as lead.

In the middle of the spotlight, she appeared.

Nike, the Goddess of Victory. Her presence filled every corner of the high-tech coliseum. She wore light armor of avant-garde design that shimmered under the lights, and her hair seemed charged with static electricity. With a predatory smile charged with infectious energy, she raised her golden microphone toward the sky.

—LADIES, GENTLEMEN... AND DEITIES WHO HONOR US WITH YOUR PRESENCE!! — Her voice, processed by divine speakers that made the ground vibrate beneath the spectators' feet, thundered with overwhelming force.

Nike spun quickly, gesturing broadly toward the infinite stands where robes, military uniforms, and futuristic clothes blended together.

—HUMANS OF ALL ERAS! Welcome to the place where time stops and legend begins! Welcome... TO PURGATORY!

The coliseum exploded. It wasn't a shout; it was an explosion of human will that shook the clouds. Nike closed her eyes for a second, absorbing that energy as if it were her food, and then looked directly into the main camera with an intensity that made the gods in their boxes lean forward.

"Today we seek no justice! We seek no judgment! We seek the spark that makes a mortal defy fate!" Nike pointed toward Hades' box with a dramatic gesture. "By mandate of the King of Purgatory, let the first duel of wills... BEGIN!"