Jasper's fists clenched, his knuckles white with tension as he witnessed the cowardly act. In the sudden, shocked silence of the Colosseum, his decision crystallized. This was no mere gladiator—this was a warrior worthy of respect, cut down by treachery.

  Yet a surprised expression appeared on his face the moment Breeze fell. The crowd divided into categories: some started smiling hysterically, seeing his blood flowing on the ground—drip, drip—shining scarlet as the fire of the flickering torches cast dancing orange light across its surface; others gloated over his downfall—he made them lose all their money, forgetting that he had made them win on 34 occasions. Their faces twisted with malicious glee, teeth bared in grotesque smiles. Another group remained silent as if nothing had happened, their expressions carefully neutral, eyes deliberately avoiding the fallen champion.

  The acrid smell of sweat, blood, and fear permeated the air. Dust motes swirled in the torchlight, disturbed by the collective gasp of the crowd. The wooden benches creaked under shifting weight as spectators craned their necks for a better view.

  Ivar felt his nerves about to explode from rage, his temples throbbing, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. Then a shout came from next to him, cutting through the murmuring crowd.

  "I'll buy this honorable fighter!"

  All eyes, ears, faces, and bodies turned to the speaker—it was none other than Jasper. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of torches and the distant cawing of ravens circling above the arena.

  "Heh? The champion of the Colosseum is free the moment he gets crowned. No one can enslave him, buy him or sell him. What are you talking about?" A voice called out, dripping with condescension. The words bounced off the stone walls, echoing slightly in the vast space.

  Jasper felt as if he was a joke in the crowd for not knowing such a thing, heat rising to his face. However, he didn't let it pass without retaliating, his voice firm and unwavering.

  "So, I'll be taking him with me, since he is the champion."

  The announcer couldn't find an answer as Jasper broke through the crowd along with Ivar, their footsteps rapid against the worn stone steps, jumping into the arena with a soft thud as their boots hit the blood-dampened sand.

  The Colosseum manager appeared instantly, rushing forward with a flurry of rapid footfalls, his expensive silk robes fluttering behind him. "Hold it right there, you stupid citizen," he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "You can't take him with you—he is the one who needs to make the decision."

  Jasper kept staring at the man in front of him, taking in his perfumed arrogance and the glint of malice in his eyes, then said, "Do you think he is in any shape to make a decision? You should try and find the one who did this to the champion and kill him here before saying such words. And who are you to begin with, you stupid intervener?"

  Jasper made such a ruckus—something he had never thought he would do in his entire life—and for whom? For someone completely unknown to him. Yet the resilience and persistence of the gladiator had touched Jasper's heart, and for someone like that to be stabbed in the back like this, it was something unforgivable for the Brave Merchant. The heat of indignation coursed through his veins, his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

  "Clean your ears and open them wide, because the one in front of you is none other than the Colosseum manager," the man snarled, thumping his chest with one bejeweled hand. "I can order you kicked out whenever I want. Do you understand?" His breath reeked of expensive wine and rotting morals.

  "In that case, sell him to me. If you are the manager here, at least I can try to save him. It's the least you could do for someone like him. If you don't want to cure him yourself, let someone else do it." Jasper's voice cut through the tense air like a blade.

  "He won't be saved anyway. Why would I waste my money and effort on a corpse? Oh yeah, perhaps I can sell his body as a trophy. Is there anyone interested?" He declared with his arms wide open, the gold rings on his fingers catching the torchlight. The crowd, especially the perverted ones with glassy eyes and twitching hands, was triggered by his declaration. They started imagining how they would use his hair, skull, and every part of his body. They started hysterically shouting to buy his body, their voices melding into a cacophony of greed and depravity.

  "Ha ha ha! You see this, you foolish third-tier watcher?" (Jasper and Ivar were sitting in the third-tier seats.) The manager laughed mockingly, the sound echoing across the arena. His face contorted with cruel amusement, then declared again, "Heed my words: Anyone who pays for his body right now will be the one to take his body, right here, right now. I give you my word. If I take it back, I will cut my head off and give it to you to play with."

  They all stared at him in confusion, the silence punctuated by the shallow, labored breathing of Breeze, who lay bleeding on the sand, each breath leaving a small puff in the cool evening air. One of them started talking: "But I don't have money with me right now." His voice wavered with disappointment.

  "ME TOO!" shouted the crowd, the collective cry bouncing off the stone columns and starlit sky above.

  "Huh?" The manager's smug expression faltered, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  Jasper started laughing loudly, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "That's gambling for you guys." Then he turned to Ivar, whose face was still tense with concern, "Hey Ivar, do you have a copper coin?"

  "Yes." Ivar's hand disappeared into his leather pouch with a soft rustle.

  "Lend it to me."

  Jasper took the coin, its surface cool against his palm, and approached the manager, putting it in his hand with a soft clink. Then he went to take the young man, who was struggling to live with an arrow in his chest, the wooden shaft rising and falling with each labored breath.

  "Stop right there!" The manager's voice cracked like a whip.

  "What? Didn't you say that you would cut off your head if you took back your words? Or do you want to give us your head instead?" Jasper's voice was calm but carried the edge of a threat.

  The manager's eyeballs darted around, seeing the crowd looking back at him, waiting in excitement for him to cut his head. 'What a horde of lunatics,' he thought. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, glistening in the torchlight.

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  "I never said that I would take back my words." His facial features contradicted his statement, the muscles in his face twitching with barely suppressed rage.

  "I appreciate you keeping your word, Mister Manager. With your help, I purchased the strongest and most famous gladiator for the cheapest price in history." Jasper declared with a mocking tone, making the crowd giggle beneath their clothes, a rustling wave of suppressed laughter sweeping through the stands.

  Asking Ivar to carry the champion gently, he helped, saying, "I really don't like paying such a shameful price for someone of your caliber. However, I don't like giving money to that ugly manager."

  Breeze opened his eyes, barely able to see who was carrying him, the world a blur of torchlight and shadows. Nevertheless, he heard the whole conversation, each word penetrating the fog of pain enveloping him. "There is nothing more shameful than being a slave. Don't mind what happened. I find it enjoyable leaving him in such useless fury." His voice was a ragged whisper, hot blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

  "Argh!"

  Breeze cried in pain, the sound tearing through the tense atmosphere. His tired body, with a piercing wound in his chest, was already suffering, and now the jostling added to the pain, sending waves of agony through his frame. The arrow shaft wobbled with each careful step Ivar took.

  "Hold on a while, champion. Once we reach my place, you shall find relief." Jasper's voice was steady, reassuring, cutting through the haze of Breeze's pain.

  "Stop!" The manager couldn't stay still any longer, his face flushed red with rage.

  "What now? We are in a hurry." Jasper's patience was wearing thin, his voice tight with restraint.

  "You can't take him for such a price. You have to at least buy another gladiator if you want to take him." The manager's eyes gleamed with calculated malice.

  "You shameless... okay, you have to make it quick and give me a huge discount, because you are going back on your word." Jasper's fingers drummed against his thigh, his posture tense.

  "But of course, I'll give you a huge discount. However, if you can't buy him, you have to leave Breeze here to die." The manager's voice dripped with false sweetness, a viper's smile stretching his thin lips.

  The crowd was amused, watching such a drama unfold beneath the star-dotted night sky. They never cared to begin with—they were all here to please their lust, eyes bright with morbid fascination in the torchlight.

  "That's wildly unreasonable." Jasper feigned hesitation and anxiety, smirking behind his hood, the shadow concealing his confident expression.

  "Ha ha ha! If you don't like it, leave Breeze here and go on your way." The manager's laughter bounced off the stone walls. 'For a third-tier seat, he won't be able to purchase the sandal of a gladiator, let alone a gladiator. I'm such a genius,' the manager thought arrogantly, practically preening.

  "Bring all the gladiators." Jasper's command cut through the man's self-congratulation.

  "Okay, I know you are trying to buy time, only to make it difficult for Breeze to survive. If you don't bring them all here in a minute, I won't take your offer. I'll leave instantly with our champion." Jasper checked the sky, his expression resolute.

  "Heh heh heh, no worries." The manager snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the arena.

  In a minute, all the gladiators were in front of Jasper, their chains rattling softly with each movement, the smell of sweat and leather strong in the cool night air. As he was randomly trying to choose, one of them started speaking, his voice hushed but eager: "I'm friends with Breeze. We were together for..."

  He was interrupted by Jasper. "What's your name?"

  "Huh? Ahh, I'm Secundus." The gladiator blinked in surprise, his scarred face momentarily confused.

  "Okay, I choose this one." He referred to someone else, pointing to a tall, muscular fighter whose eyes betrayed no emotion.

  "Huh?" Secundus's face fell, disappointment evident in the slump of his shoulders.

  "Don't look at me like that. Even if you are innocent, I still can't choose you in such a situation." Jasper's tone was firm but not unkind.

  "How much for this one?" He turned back to the manager, whose fingers were twitching with annoyance.

  The manager mockingly said, "I promised I'd give a huge discount, so I'll sell him for 20 gold." His teeth flashed in the torchlight, a predator's smile.

  "Do you know that gold's value has risen to the sky, right? That's the same as selling him for 200g before the announcement." Jasper's voice carried clearly across the arena.

  "Yes, you trickster! He is right. How shameful!" Someone from the crowd shouted, the cry taken up by others until a chorus of disapproval rained down.

  The crowd was angry at him, yet inwardly they were mocking him. He wasn't noble, so they could mock him to their heart's content—especially after they lost their money. The air was thick with tension and the bitter tang of collective resentment.

  "Tsk. Because I'm generous, I'll reduce the price to 10g. That's the final deal." He spoke while still convinced he was winning, his stance arrogant. A sensation of a physical slap hit his cheek when he heard:

  "Give him ten gold, and let's go."

  Jasper's voice was casual, almost bored, as he nodded to Ivar, who produced a small pouch that jingled with the unmistakable sound of gold coins.

  "What? Wait, what?" The manager's mouth fell open, his eyes bulging with shock.

  Leaving him in rage, Jasper ordered the new slave to help Ivar carry Breeze, whose breathing had become more labored, a thin sheen of sweat covering his pale face.

  Ivar kept silent, carrying Breeze with the other guy to the wagon, the wooden wheels crunching over gravel as they departed. There, he finally breathed, the night air cool and sweet compared to the stifling atmosphere of the arena. The tense atmosphere was new to him—and also new for Jasper. That's why he asked in confusion:

  "Master, you really are not yourself this time." His voice was quiet, almost reverent in the still night.

  "Sigh, I'm also in awe of what happened just now. I didn't want to ever be in the center of attention. However, sometimes, to be human, you have to break the usual." Then he added, "Let's talk less and move fast. We need to reach our home soon." The urgency in his voice matched the quickening pace of the horse's hooves against the cobblestone streets.

  Making sure no one was following them, the soft clip-clop of their horse's hooves the only sound in the deserted streets, they tried their best to reach the guild as fast as possible. The way felt longer than their trip to the capital, each moment stretched by the ragged sound of Breeze's breathing and the occasional jolt of the wagon that drew a pained moan from his lips.

  The moonless night was as dark as Breeze’s future, by the time they reached the guild, its shadow left the way open for the light of the torch that Jasper was holding . They entered, the heavy wooden door groaning on its hinges, calling for Lysandra hysterically and loudly to come and check Breeze, while leaving Tertius, the new gladiator slave, outside as a watchguard of the guild. Their voices echoed through the silent halls, urgent and desperate.

  The sound tore through Lysandra's dreams—a raw cry that instantly painted her peaceful darkness with urgent fear. She lurched from the bed, every muscle screaming for action, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her skin.

  She thought that something bad had happened to either Jasper or Ivar. Jumping with every step, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor, she took off, with Mina following her, the soft rustle of their nightclothes the only sound in the dark corridors. They saw someone strange with an arrow in his chest, blood soaking through his torn tunic, the metallic scent of it filling the air.

  They didn't give her a second to question what was happening. They asked her to treat him immediately, while taking him to her lab, their footsteps echoing urgently down the hallway.

  There, they put him on the treatment table with a soft thud, the wood creaking under his weight. The room smelled of herbs and tinctures, glass bottles gleaming in the lamplight. Lysandra gave a quick glance, taking in the ashen color of his skin, the arrow shaft protruding from his chest, the labored rise and fall of his breathing. Then she said in a sad tone, her voice barely above a whisper:

  "I'm sorry."

  Jasper.

  Profession: A guild master.

  Coins: 9,604g 3250s 6b -1c