"Match two hundred and forty-nine! Hercules wins!"
The referee's loud, emotionless voice echoed through the Legion's dedicated Training and Gladiatorial Hall, drowning out the buzz of conversation from the metal stands and the scattered, pained grunts.
The hall's excellent amplification system carried his voice clearly into every corner.
At the center of the circular arena, repeated trampling and fierce movements had left the sandy ground hard-packed and covered in chaotic marks.
Hercules stood in the center like a reef unmoved after a storm.
He was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of dark training trousers that allowed him to move freely.
Under the full-spectrum lighting overhead, his wheat-colored skin gleamed with health and strength. Sweat slid slowly along sharply defined muscles, as though painstakingly carved by the finest sculptor, gathering into tiny streams in the grooves of his chest, abdomen, and back.
What drew the most attention was not his perfect physique, impressive enough to earn any Astartes warrior's admiration, but the smooth, flawless skin covering it.
There was not a single scar, not one old wound, not even the faintest trace of the abrasions or bruises so common in training.
This was not evidence of a lack of combat. Quite the opposite—it was a suffocating declaration of strength on an entirely different level.
Since this arena had been established, since Hercules had first stepped onto its sand to accept challenges, there had been two hundred and forty-nine matches.
Among his challengers were battle-hardened veterans, highly skilled champions, and even several Space Marine officers of Company Captain rank.
They were the pillars of the Legion, mighty warriors who had clawed their way out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood countless times.
Yet the outcome had never varied.
Every one of them had been "won over" by Hercules.
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