Thanks, But I Don't Need That Kind of Thing

The morning performances had nothing to do with Zhang Heng and the others. After making an appearance, the gladiators returned to the waiting room to await their moment.

Blood and death constantly stirred the nerves of the spectators in the stands. The cries of battle and cheers outside shook the wooden boards overhead until they creaked, while dust drifted down through the cracks and settled on everyone's hair and shoulders like ashes after a great fire. Yet the waiting room was unnaturally quiet, as though it belonged to another world.

But if anyone thought the beasts had fallen asleep, they were gravely mistaken.

They were merely sharpening their fangs and claws in the darkness, waiting for a slaughter.

Yet until the final moment arrived, no one knew who was the prey and who was the hunter.

At last, amid an unbroken wave of cheers and screams, the beast-fighting exhibition reached its finale. A hundred ill-tempered bulls were slaughtered by skilled Beast Fighters. Of course, some of the fighters were also gored through the stomach by hard horns or trampled madly beneath hooves, dying on the spot.

The blood of men and beasts dyed the arena's yellow sand red. Yet before people could properly savor the Beast Fighters' heroic bearing, the next carnival had already begun.

The gladiators' moment had finally arrived.

Vendors moved through the stands, hawking snacks such as pine nuts, walnuts, figs, olives, and small loaves of bread. They also sold cushions to make the seats more comfortable, as well as fragrant rosewater. Those who had shouted themselves hoarse took advantage of the gap between battles to head to the nearby drinking fountains and replenish their water, so they could keep cheering for their favorite gladiators.

The first of Victor Arena's seven men to enter was Habitus.

His