The first cut came fast.

  Lucius barely saw the wooden gladius before it smashed against his ribs. Pain flared through his side, and his breath caught in his throat. He staggered but forced himself to stay upright, gripping his own sword tight enough for his knuckles to turn white.

  His opponent—Marcus Varro—grinned. “Already winded, Regillus?”

  Lucius didn’t answer. His ribs ached, sweat stung his eyes, and his muscles screamed from the endless drills. But pain was irrelevant.

  Pain didn’t matter in the arena.

  “Enough standing there like a statue!” Centurion Septimus barked. “Fight back, or I’ll make you run laps until nightfall!”

  Lucius clenched his teeth and lunged.

  His gladius lashed out—straight for Marcus’s chest.

  CLACK!

  Marcus knocked the attack aside with ease and drove his shield forward into Lucius’s shoulder. The impact sent him stumbling backward, his heels digging into the packed dirt.

  “You’re too stiff!” Marcus taunted, stepping forward. “Loosen up, or you’ll be dead before your first battle!”

  Lucius grunted and swung again.

  Left feint. Right slash. Shield raised.

  Marcus blocked it all.

  Then came his counterattack—a vicious strike aimed at Lucius’s exposed leg.

  Lucius barely saw it in time. He jumped back, heart pounding, barely avoiding the blow. His ribs throbbed where Marcus had struck him earlier. His body wanted to stop. To rest. To breathe.

  But he ignored the weakness.

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  He lunged again. Faster. More precise.

  His gladius shot forward in a tight thrust—no wasted movement, no hesitation.

  Marcus had to twist his shield sharply to block it.

  Lucius saw the opening.

  He slammed his shield against Marcus’s arm and struck low—aiming for his ribs.

  A perfect hit—

  THWACK!

  A sharp crack echoed across the training yard as Centurion Septimus’ vine staff smashed into the back of Lucius’s legs. His knees buckled instantly, and he hit the dirt with a grunt.

  The air went silent.

  Lucius gasped, pain flaring up his spine. He barely had time to process what happened before Septimus stood over him, his expression hard as iron.

  “Never overextend, Regillus.” The centurion’s voice was calm, but his eyes held nothing but cold disdain. “You landed a good strike—but it cost you your footing. On the battlefield, that means death.”

  Lucius gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, but he refused to collapse.

  Cassius watched him for a long moment. Then, with a grunt, he turned away. “Again!”

  ?

  The Price of Strength

  By the time training ended, Lucius’s body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of cavalry.

  His arms were lead. His ribs ached. His legs threatened to collapse beneath him.

  And yet—he had improved.

  Marcus walked beside him as they left the training grounds, rolling his shoulders. “Not bad, Regillus.”

  Lucius snorted. “You nearly took my leg off.”

  Marcus grinned. “That means you’re learning.”

  Lucius allowed himself the smallest of smirks, but it vanished when he saw the veterans watching from a distance. Their eyes were calculating. Cold.

  They had seen recruits rise. They had seen them fall.

  They were waiting to see which Lucius would be.

  He swallowed and forced his aching legs forward.

  This was only the beginning.

  Tomorrow, the training would be worse.

  And soon, he would face something far deadlier than wooden swords.

  War was coming.

  And he would be ready.

  ?

  Lucius didn’t know it yet.

  But something was watching.

  And the true battle had yet to begin.