NCTS Ch 1

The August sunlight was particularly sensual.

The pearl-red sunlight, brimming with seething heat, poured down upon the great gladiatorial arena of Iscaria, yet the people did not feel discomfort in the midsummer Mediterranean heat.

They were simply enraptured by the spectacle.

“Provocator! Provocator, Acheron!”

“Victoria! Victorius, Provocator!”

“The goddess of victory crowns his head!”

“Provocator! Acheron will triumph! Acheron Victorius!”

The eyes of those shouting until their throats bled were red with excitement.

They stretched out one arm, chanting the name of the goddess of victory in heightened voices, sometimes screaming and pounding their seats to express their fervor.

The crowd was passionately cheering for the gladiator standing in the arena.

On the sandy floor, several gladiators stood, and the spectators were chanting the names of the gladiators they each predicted would win.

And at some point, the voices of the cheering crowd unified into one.

“Acheron! Acheron!”

The man bearing that name was called the king of Iscaria!

His deep navy-blue eyes, clearly visible even from a distance, were profoundly calm.

The man, gripping a pointed Roman sword, a gladius, was called a Provocator, but his attire resembled that of a mercenary more than a gladiator. Without armor and even having removed his helmet, he hardly looked like a Roman heavy infantryman. In truth, he was closer to being unarmed. In this uncharacteristically negligent attire for a gladiator, the man stood firmly on the stage, gazing at the group before him.

Several gladiators, each wielding their own weapons, surrounded him. Some held nets, others spears, and some swords.

They were all targeting one man.

“Cut off Acheron’s head! You fools! There are so many of you, and you can’t even defeat one unarmed Provocator? What a waste of armor!”

For every person cheering, there was someone hoping for the king’s fall.

Those anxious about their bets shouted until their voices tore.

“Why aren’t you moving?!”

As is the way of things, the life of a gladiator is determined by the paying audience.

Whether victor or vanquished, their lives hung on the spectators’ gestures. The gladiators were obligated to comply with their entertainment to the fullest. They had no choice but to end their prolonged probing and move.

“Hya!”

One gladiator, who had been watching cautiously, threw a net forcefully toward Acheron. The moment the net, arcing through the air, seemed about to land on Acheron’s head—

“Grab him!”

Another gladiator, who had been keeping Acheron in check, hurriedly threw his spear.

Throwing a net and thrusting a spear was a tactic used for hunting beasts. To anyone watching, the overwhelming advantage in equipment was clearly set by the pressure of gamblers trying to balance the odds.

The moment the net was about to touch the champion’s head, his hand snatched it.

Acheron’s body spun rapidly.

“Guh!”

The spear aimed at him was caught in the tangled net, and in that instant, a scream rang out.

As if tearing delicate silk, Acheron ripped the net apart, escaping the crisis. A man clad in Samnite armor, with a frantic expression, moved his body.

In response, three or four gladiators charged, wielding swords and tridents, thrusting their weapons.

“The neck! Stab his neck, I said!”

“No, the lower body! Stab his thighs first to wound him!”

“You idiots! My seventy-year-old steward fights better than you!”

As is the way of the world, other people’s affairs always seem the easiest.

The crowd’s jeers toward the incompetent fools who couldn’t handle the easiest task were merciless.

“Kill him, kill him!”

A gladiator wielding a trident spat out a curse.

“Damn it…”

Under the bright sunlight, Acheron’s gladius gleamed.

The moment the sword twisted, the reflected light stabbed into the eyes of the trident-wielding man. As he writhed in pain, Acheron didn’t miss the opening.

The time it took for the sword to slice through the armor’s straps and for the hilt to strike the man’s throat was brief. A barehanded gladiator charging in, the man who threw the net—whose solar plexus Acheron kicked—and the spearman whose spear Acheron grabbed and whose stomach he punched with his fist—all happened in the blink of an eye.

In an instant, three fighters collapsed, rolling on the ground.

“Booo!”

Amid the spreading jeers of the crowd, a pair of violet eyes glinted sharply.

‘Germanicus.’

Calmly sunken eyes swept over the impassive face of a man standing against the sun, then suddenly stirred with a strange ripple. The lips of the man, wearing a deeply pulled-down pallium, curved into a smile.

“Acheron! Acheron!”

The match proceeded very smoothly from Acheron’s omniscient perspective.

Two Samnite gladiators, losing their composure to the crowd’s jeers, charged at Acheron but stumbled, entangled in a net. One gladiator in Samnite armor fell after being struck by a shield.

Another gladiator tried to stab Acheron’s foot with a dagger but was kicked instead, and at that moment, the crowd realized the tide had completely turned.

“Boo! Booo!”

Looking at the jeered stage, a black-haired man seated in the arena’s upper tier clicked his tongue.

“It’s over.”

Even against eight-to-one odds, three-to-one odds were conditions under which ordinary gladiators could win with luck.

And if the opponent was the king of Iscaria… wasn’t it practically a done deal?

‘Winning is all well and good, but that guy’s making it hard to earn big profits.’

The man, calculating his earnings, suddenly let out a chuckle and silently stared at the stage with icy eyes.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter anymore.’

The situation was quickly resolved.

“Gorgos! Gorgos! Gorgos!”

The moment a massive man, built like a hippopotamus, roared and swung his flail, screams scattered through the arena.

Two blades aimed at Acheron’s sides. As the crowd screamed and cheered, Acheron bent backward and kicked the dirt with his heel.

The man’s body soared through the air as if rolling on the ground, and the crowd responded with shouts filled with mixed emotions.

“Woooaah!”

Not missing the disrupted posture in midair, the flail-wielding man swung his arm widely. As the flail, glinting against the blazing sunlight, plummeted vertically, a pair of fiercely glowing navy-blue eyes glared at it.

“Crazy!”

The outcome was decided in an instant.

Boom!

The flail struck the ground heavily, not a person. Acheron had rolled on the ground and deeply cut the man’s calf.

The giant gladiator with the flail let out a scream, and Acheron grabbed a dagger clumsily swung toward the ground with his bare hand and pulled it. Turning his body, Acheron blocked a sword stealthily aimed at his back by pushing a fallen gladiator and raised a shield.

Clang!

“……!”

The crowd’s cheers grew louder.

“Acheron, Acheron has won!”

A flash passed through his navy-blue eyes!

“Waaaaah!”

The eight-to-one fight ended with six combatants incapacitated and two severely injured.

Except for the dual-sword wielder who became a human shield, taking a sword for Acheron, and the flail-wielder whose calf was cut, there was no significant bloodshed—a truly overwhelming victory.

“Acheroooon!”

The victor, drenched in hot blood, silently absorbed their cheers. Then, at some point, he looked up at the sky with calm eyes.

The sunlight bathed his impassive, blood-soaked face, but as if his eyes didn’t sting, the man gazed at the cloudless, clear sky for a while before turning his head to scan the crowd.

Then, with a short swing of his sword, he splattered droplets of blood into the air.

“Acheron, the king of Iscaria, has won!”

“Spare him! Spare the victor!”

“Spare the Provocator! Spare our king!”

It was an eight-to-one fight.

He had triumphed bare-bodied against gladiators clad in light armor and protective gear.

Neither the net-throwing Retiarii, nor the Samnites in their tribal armor, nor the Thracians with their curved blades could stop his winning streak, and in the end, the king of Iscaria had maintained an unbroken victory for three years.

“Spare Acheron! Spare him now!”

Who would dare to kill such a man?

Even those who lost money gambling would not disagree.

The referee gladly responded to the crowd’s cheers, and the arena’s master accepted him. Glancing at the arena’s master to gauge his reaction, the referee, seeing a slight nod, raised his thumb and shouted.

“Victorius! Victorius Acheron!”

“Woooaah!”

A deafening roar filled the stage. Even in a moment when his life hung in the balance, Acheron’s face remained utterly calm, as if untouched by fear. After briefly locking eyes with the referee, Acheron turned and left the scene.

The arena was paralyzed, submerged in fervent cheers.

Overwhelmed by the cheers, the referee couldn’t proceed with the next events, and it was only after some time, when the noise had somewhat subsided, that he could fulfill his duties.

“Quiet, please quiet down!”

In a way, it was the most critical climax of the gladiatorial match.

The moment the audience had eagerly anticipated.

“The time has come to decide the fate of the vanquished, everyone!”

The referee turned his gaze, staring intently at the defeated, who were gripped by fear.

The moment his eyes landed on the losers, another kind of roar, like a flood, filled the arena.

“Kill the losers!”

“They deserve to die! They’re not worth sparing!”

Those who lost large sums betting on the losers, militarists who believed the defeated were worthless, and those craving bloody entertainment.

All of them, as one, pointed their thumbs downward, shouting.

“Kill them! Kill them! Feed them to the lions! Burn them!”

“Spare me! I don’t want to die!”

“Kill the losers! Kill the vanquished!”

In a match held for the audience’s amusement, the gladiators’ lives were determined solely by public opinion.

“They will be brought onto the stage!”

At the referee’s resolute words, a resounding cheer pierced the sky. The moment a thunderous roar, loud enough to drown out the losers’ wails, shook the great arena of Iscaria, a scornful sneer flickered across the face of the victor standing outside the arena.

A scream!

Leaving the scream behind, Acheron wiped his blood-soaked face with a towel, his expression impassive. The arena he had been in had long since become a gruesome and absurd stage. The fierce duels seemed almost holy compared to the ‘theater’ taking place there, which was utterly wretched.

“They learned something strange in Rome.”

Under the shadow of the stage, a grumbling gladiator’s face was tinged with irritation. There was no hint of pity for the actors being slaughtered on stage. He merely complained with the characteristic indifference of someone accustomed to such events.

The survival rate of gladiators is less than half.

The daily bloodshed seemed insufficient to satisfy the audience, and they sought increasingly thrilling entertainment as the days passed.

The ‘cultured and erudite’ Romans of the mainland were adept at packaging such thrills in a highly refined manner.

“Look at that.”

At someone’s entranced words, attention gathered.

“Icarus.”

The cry of a gladiator soaring from a tower echoed loudly across the stage.

Thud! The sound of a heavy object crashing into the ground rang out. Laughter and applause followed, along with cheers.

The faces of the gladiators watching the stage in a daze bore traces of awe and bitterness.

“Damn, it’s elegant.”

This refined theater was created as a punishment for criminals.

In Rome, where the matches were brutal, most gladiators were criminals. Punishing them became entertainment for Roman citizens.

As someone said, the ‘damn elegant’ Romans began, at some point, to enjoy unique diversions during gladiatorial matches. This was the theater unfolding on the stage now—a execution mimicking a scene from mythology.

Gladiators brought onto the stage wore wax wings, modeled after Icarus, who flew and fell from the sky, and jumped from a high tower. Some were torn limb from limb, like Orpheus, killed by the followers of Dionysus, while others were burned to death, like Asclepius, struck by Zeus’s lightning.

<Though I be beaten with clubs, though I burn in scorching flames, though I be bound by heavy chains, though I be pierced by a merciless sword, I shall obey>

The final clause of the contract every gladiator must sign was not mere rhetoric for flair. Most gladiators lost their lives in their first match, and those who survived a year were rare.

No matter how strong a gladiator was, it was customary to prepare for death and pray to their gods before a match.

Yet Acheron always survived. For three years since being sold to Iscaria, and for four years before that as a gladiator, enduring wounds that tore muscles and exposed bones.

It was nothing short of a miracle. Among those sold with him, no one else was still alive.

Thus, the king of Iscaria was truly the god of gladiators.

Outside the stage.

“Acheron, Acheron! Look over here!”

“Arrogant bastard…”

“He survived again? Damn it, some of us don’t even know when we’ll die…”

Countless words poured toward Acheron as he walked. Acheron didn’t respond to the clamor, only walking quickly.

No one stopped him.

Those filled with inferiority, those who admired him, those who envied him—when faced with Acheron, they could say nothing and stepped aside.

Acheron swallowed dryly.

‘Water.’

The hot blood, touched by the August Mediterranean sun, was heating Acheron oppressively. His throat felt like it was burning. Wiping his cheek with a cloth didn’t remove the metallic smell, and his sweat-soaked body felt utterly grimy.

He didn’t even dream of a bath. Just some cool water would do.

Caught in such a desire, Acheron quickened his steps toward a visible building. And then, a frantic voice halted his steps.

“Acheron.”

Acheron stopped in his tracks as if by magic.

A soft voice, as if suited to a lyre, continued.

“You don’t answer when called? Do you know how many times I’ve called you?”

The one who stopped him was a black-haired man who appeared to be in his early thirties.

Acheron turned his head, gazing at the man with a cold stare.

The man, dressed elegantly with a long, flowing dark green toga secured by a laurel leaf brooch, exuded nobility with every inch of his being. His cold, intellectual eyes, an even icier and clearer shade than Acheron’s, blinked slowly.

A low voice flowed out.

“Lord Marcus.”

Acheron swallowed his irritation and muttered.

“I’ll clean the blood and come to you.”

Marcus shook his head at those words.

“No, there’s no need to go to the training grounds.”

Acheron’s eyebrow twitched. Marcus, frowning at the noisy surroundings, raised his voice.

“You are no longer my gladiator. You’ve been sold.”

“What did you just say?”

“The master of the Roman villa on the cliff has bought you, Acheron. Get on the carriage at once. You are no longer a gladiator but a private slave of a Roman citizen.”