CORINTH, ANCIENT GREECE.
SOMETIME IN THE HELLINISTIC PERIOD.
"Kill them all!"
Over the loud noises of the crowd in the arena. Over the sound of a blade drawing blood from flesh. Over the anguished cries of demigods before they were finally slaughtered—Christopher could hear his own heartbeat.
It was forceful, charged with fear, every part of it telling him to run. Run? How was he supposed to do that when he was locked behind iron bars, chains clamped to his hands and feet—unable to move?
Though lit by the dim lighting of a lamp, the cell was a torrent of darkness. It smelled of blood and booze, probably because there were drunk imperial guards constantly patrolling the area, looking for a victim to inflict with pain.
Christopher couldn't deny he'd been found by them. How long had he spent down here? A day? Two?—however long, he'd spent just enough time to suffer a dangerous, unhealing cut on the forehead of his temple. His hands were jagged with blade cuts, and his lips were bruised.
If only there had been a mirror in this prison cell, he would have had a hard time believing his own appearance.
"Who's next?!" He heard a challenger's scream echo through the prison. A guttural voice like the furious, yet excited huff of a bull.
And most of all, he heard Death's intense cry from outside as it struggled to seize another soul. A voice only a few could hear, but then why wouldn't he? He was a son of Hades after all.
How he wished he could go back thirteen years ago when he'd first referred to his godliness as a blessing. No, it was anything but a blessing. Demigods—to the humans—were curses, formidable creatures that should not exist.
Christopher would have been better off not knowing that he was a demigod, but then it was revealed as fast as it couldn't stay hidden, and ever since then, he had become prey to the monsters—considered a fugitive by the humans.
Except that he'd been caught. Imprisoned. His life on the brink of being used as entertainment. His heart thumped aggressively in his chest. Of course he feared death; it wasn't partial to anyone, not even the son of Hades.
"You." A guard approached his cell, dressed in complete black rather than the quirky uniforms of the normal imperial guards. Christopher recognized him. He had been the one selecting the next victim to be killed in the arena.
Christopher gazed weakly at him, and he registered a flinch in the guard's mannerism.
"T-Take him." The guard ordered. As soon as he spoke, two other guards bustled into his cell, fumbling with his chains and beating him with their weapons. Christopher understood this language like a dog understands its owner, and so he moved.
They gave him a sword. Tarnished silver, three feet long, marred with cracks and chips. Even if there had been a chance he'd survive out there, it was now zero to none. Not with this sword.
Not that it mattered to them anyway. They dragged him out of the prison caves, and every few minutes, Christopher would pass by another guard hauling carts of corpses, some he recognized as the people he'd been escaping with.
All dead.
They reached the mouth of the cave. Daylight assaulted his eyes, and so he raised his arms to block it. The excited cheers of the watching crowd filled his ears like an awful loud music, and when he was escorted to the center of the battlefield, they hurled whatever fruit they had in their grasp.
Christopher keenly studied the arena. It was a large, tall pinnacle that was constructed to fit a circle, with pillars that held the watching crowd. At the highest level, he spotted the royal sponsors of the place, watching satisfied as the audience stoned him with fruits.
When he looked down, he saw the imprints of his feet on the sand, along with dried blood. Christopher looked before him to his challenger. A man... No, not a man. A beast with the head of a bull and the lower body of a man—wielding two giant swords. They were celestial golden with a black-red hilt, and they were still streaked with the blood of his former victims.
A minotaur. Christopher figured. He remembered escaping one during his early days as a fugitive.
"You guys underestimate me more and more!" the minotaur growled. Although the noise of the crowd drowned him out, Christopher could still hear him. "Why give me something this skinny to fight with? I am Lebion, slayer of thousands!"
And yet still a slave, Christopher wanted to argue, but he only drew his blade at him.
From above, the imperial commander raised a signal arm in the air, followed by a shout, "Fight!"
"Fine, I'll make this one slow and painful."
The minotaur trudged toward him, sheathing his blades behind him. Christopher launched himself forward, refusing to hesitate. His sword cut through the air, aiming for the minotaur's head—only for his attack to be avoided effortlessly.
He pulled back immediately, then lashed out again, and again. His sword moved in a flurry of slashes, each one calculated, each one headed for the kill.
But none of them landed.
The minotaur firmly grabbed his weapon by the blade, and before Christopher could react, a kick slammed into his gut.
The impact was like being struck by a battering ram—if metaphors mattered—his breath left him. He was floating midair, then he crashed, his body rolling against the bloodied sand. His body screamed at him in searing pain, and his brain ached for mental purchase.
He tried to stand, but the hoof of Lebion's foot stopped him, crashing into his left arm. He yelled sharply as he heard his bone snap, and every last inch of him begged for a quick rewind.
"Get up." Lebion gazed down at him, hell in his eyes. He hadn't pulled a sword just yet, but Christopher already felt like he had been cut into a thousand pieces.
He pushed himself to his feet, which was hard since he was only doing it with one arm. Judging from his opponent's domineering stare and his broken arm, he knew that his chances of survival were now a little too less than zero.
Well, it was a life well spent.
Who was he kidding? He'd been born a demigod, had been hunted all his life. He'd heard rumors that he was supposedly the main character of a dangerous prophecy that could affect the gods—which potentially made him a threat to the gods.
So, even if—by some luck—he survived this, his death was still very much imminent.