Episode 7: The Devil's Child (Part 2)
An emotionless gaze and a presence so faint it felt ghostly.
It looked like five corpses were piled up.
The training officer's face momentarily stiffened before twisting into a scowl.
In nearly twenty years at this place, he’d encountered all manner of slaves, but never one that made his entire body break out in goosebumps like this.
Yet he grew furious at himself for being unnerved by some brat.
“What rotten luck. Ptooey!”
The officer spat at Caron’s cage before inspecting the other cells.
Ten had survived at sunset, but by morning, only six remained.
One had succumbed to wounds, two to suicide, and one to madness.
Six was a decent number—sometimes fewer than three survived the first trial.
With the morning bell, gladiators began drifting into the training grounds.
Muscled warriors all, they eyed the ten cells from a distance, murmuring among themselves with curiosity.
When the officers finished their inspection, the gladiators approached as if by unspoken agreement to examine the new slaves.
Their attention centered on Caron,
who sat atop corpses rather than the blood-soaked floor, even as the crowd gathered around his cell.
“Is he even alive?”
A mustached gladiator squinted as he spoke. His companion snorted:
“Would a corpse sit like that?”
“How’d a runt survive?”
“Sole survivor of the Colosseum beast attack. This was child’s play for him.”
“Still too damn young.”
The mustached man tilted his head skeptically, eyes narrowing as if itching to test the boy himself.
Caron’s reputation had already spread among the gladiators—likely from drunken Triphoras soldiers’ loose tongues,
the gossip trickling through servants before reaching the fighters’ ears.
This attention boded ill. To be noticed was to become a target.
“This the one?”
A shadow fell across the bars as a towering gladiator approached,
forcing others to shuffle aside. His clean-shaven scalp and balanced musculature exuded quiet power,
dark brows and slightly drooping eyes lending him an icy demeanor.
Gletch—early thirties, Palemon’s reigning top gladiator.
“Seems so. Looks half-dead already,” replied Yutaro,
the mustached fighter who alone hadn’t retreated, stroking his beard. Though considered Gletch’s equal in skill, Yutaro willingly stood a step below the champion.
“The capital’s Colosseum’s fallen far. Letting some bloodstained brat slip through by luck. Keh-hah!”
“The boy’s survived multiple near-death trials to get here. Luck alone couldn’t carry him.”
Yutaro’s calm rebuttal changed nothing. Gletch’s mind was set—
no slave so young had ever passed all trials to earn the gladiator title.
“Hah! He’ll never clear the final gate!”
“True. The last trial’s brutal at his age.”
Yutaro nodded absently, studying Caron. The boy’s frail, muscle-less frame bordered on emaciated. A miracle he’d survived this long.
Yet what unsettled him were the child’s eyes and expression.
No fear. No tension. Just hollow emptiness, utterly unreadable.
A question arose: If he survived the beast attack, why send him to this backwater instead of grooming him in the capital?
“Clear the way!”
Supervisors and officers from the main hall arrived, trailed by servants handling menial tasks.
The gathered gladiators watched with keen interest as the survivors were ordered to thrust their hands through the bars.
They complied hastily—every second in those cells risked madness.
Clang!
Manacles snapped shut. All six cell doors opened simultaneously.
The slaves emerged slowly, bodies crusted in blood.
Their eyes gleamed vicious, having survived the brutal test. Only the strongest-looking remained—
except Caron. Small, young, and eerily devoid of aura.
The stench of unwashed bodies filled the training grounds.
“Take them away.”
The officers chained the slaves together and led them underground through maze-like passages.
Caron memorized every weapon storehouse and corridor. The outer walls were too high—escape had to come from within.
They reached a vast bathhouse, knee-deep water filling long troughs.
“Five minutes. Clean yourselves.”
The slaves scrubbed frantically, water turning red with blood. Caron stood motionless until an officer moved to kick him—
then he began washing mechanically, having sensed the man’s approach.
The officers muttered about “jinxed brats” and “devil’s spawn.” Caron heard every word but remained indifferent, long accustomed to being seen as a monster.
Given ragged cloths to cover themselves, Caron wrapped his mother’s necklace carefully within the fabric before being led to the mess hall.
The cavernous room stood empty, gladiators away at morning training.
Each slave received water, hard bread, and mystery meat stew. They devoured it ravenously—
except Caron, who chewed methodically. While others writhed from stomach cramps, he showed no discomfort.
Returning to the training grounds, they stood chained before Markus, the scar-covered supervisor.
“You’ve been reborn today,” he roared, coiling his whip. “Forget being human. Become beasts. Shame, guilt, pride—useless here.”
His voice hammered their skulls. For Caron, with heightened senses, it was torture.
“Your trials aren’t over. Rest today. Prepare your bodies and minds. Tomorrow, hell awaits.”
Crack!
At Markus’ signal, officers herded the slaves back to cells now scrubbed clean of bloodstains.
“Only those who pass all trials shall walk the gladiator’s path!”
The fighters roared in response, pounding their chests. Caron watched blankly as his cage door shut.
When the six were secured, gladiators flooded the grounds for training.
New recruits hauled rocks and scaled walls. Veterans sparred with practice weapons—
lightning strikes, parries, feints, and counters unfolding everywhere.
Caron sat motionless in his cell, seemingly vacant. In truth, his hyper-alert senses absorbed every move.
He dissected each technique, adapting stances to his small frame, mentally battling imaginary foes.
Sweat beaded his forehead, though to guards, he appeared merely ill.
Training ended at sunset. Only when the gladiators retreated underground did Caron close his eyes.
Rest proved impossible—the cell’s lingering blood odor clung to his nostrils.
Thud.
A tray slid in: hard bread and gruel. Valuable assets weren’t starved, even if destined for Palemon’s arena over the capital’s Colosseum.
For Caron, it was a feast compared to his starving days as a slave. He ate slowly, rebuilding strength.
Next morning, gladiators clustered at the training ground entrance, exchanging bets.
Gletch and Yutaro stood among them.
“Three hundred shillings on the little devil,” Yutaro said, handing a slip to a weaselly man.
“You? Since when?”
“What’s the odds?”
“Five-to-one for the brat.”
“Done.”
Caron had been dubbed “little devil” overnight.
Gletch scowled from his post against a pillar. “Betting on the runt? Yesterday you said he looked half-dead. I’ve got money on the yellow-haired ox in third cell.”
Yutaro smiled cryptically. “We’ll see.”
In the arena, six slaves stood chained to massive logs.
Caron, smallest of all, faced a log nearly his own height.
