Ancient Rome, 30 BC.

Ever since he was a small boy, Julius's life had been a relentless flight from the shadow of debt collectors, mercilessly pursuing anyone who owed them a single coin. When a devastating disease claimed both his parents at the tender age of seventeen, the relentless collectors, who had never forgotten their claim, swiftly found him. Julius had no money to repay the colossal debt. But instead of being cast onto the streets to perish, he was condemned to a fate far worse: he was turned into a slave, thrust into the brutal world of the Colosseum. There, he was forced to train until his very bones screamed in protest, and then forced to fight in bloody spectacles for the entertainment of civilians, nobles, and the Emperor himself.

Julius trained relentlessly, maturing within the very walls of the Colosseum. He learned every hidden trapdoor, memorized the subterranean cages where the wild beasts were kept, and mastered the brutal rhythms of the arena. Each time he was thrust into the ring to fight for survival, he poured every ounce of his being into winning, desperate to live another day and earn the elusive promise of freedom and fame. He yearned for a life like the nobles who lounged, detached, watching him take lives from their cushioned seats. Yet, he had no idea how long this agonizing path would stretch. Days bled into months, months into years, as he grew from a boy into a man, with no clear end in sight to the bloody, relentless fight.

The colossal crowd roared with frenzied excitement as Julius's blade found its mark, slitting another opponent's neck. Their hot blood, along with that of the others he'd brought down, splattered across his armor, a grim decoration. The scorching sun beat down on him, but he stood tall, huffing from exertion as his gaze swept across the arena. He took in the cheering masses, their faces contorted with glee, before his eyes drifted up to the nobles and the Emperor, who watched the spectacle from the cool, shaded luxury of their lavish podiums. His gaze flickered, lingering for a moment on the Emperor's son, who lay comfortably reclined on a marble lounge chair, plush with rich furs and soft pillows, idly plucking a grape from a vine as he observed the brutal show below.

Julius knew this was no ordinary gladiator event. Tonight, the last man standing until sunset would be granted freedom, elevated to the status of a noble, and receive a coveted royal invitation to the prince's grand birthday feast at the Royal Domus. The sun, a fiery orb, began its slow descent over the massive marble arena, casting long, dramatic shadows. Julius held his breath, his gaze fixed on the Emperor, waiting for his final pronouncement, silently hoping and praying to every god listening that he had finally done it.

The Emperor surveyed his loyal subjects, his gaze sweeping across the vast arena before finally settling on his son. Slowly, he stepped forward to the marble railing of his podium. "Julius Agrippa," the Emperor's voice boomed, echoing across the arena as he looked down at Julius, who stood amidst the fallen. "You are the last man standing. Your freedom and status are now yours to keep, and you are requested to come to Prince's celebration." With those words, the Emperor gave a decisive nod, as if to underscore their finality, before turning away. He cocked his head slightly, a silent gesture for his son to follow.

Julius stood in the arena, his heart pounding harder than a stampede of elephants as the townsfolk roared his name. For the first time in what felt like forever, the grip on his sword loosened, his knuckles finally relaxing. He watched, transfixed, as the royals departed, and his mind raced, a torrent of anticipation for the new life that now awaited him.