Priscus

 Through the chaos, another fighter carved his way forward — Priscus. Young in face but massive in form, his bare torso rippled with power. His frame was thick and powerful, every muscle layered hard over bone like armor. His chest was broad and heavy, the slabs of muscle across it rising and falling in deep, steady heaves. His arms were immense, cords of muscle twisting down to his veined forearms, each movement promising raw strength. His abdomen was not just cut, but dense — thick ridges of muscle stacked one on top of the other, more fortress than sculpture. Sweat ran down his torso in shining trails, clinging to the deep grooves between the muscles. His presence on the battlefield was that of a boulder set in motion: unstoppable, crushing, made to endure.

Blood streaked across his skin as though the battlefield itself had marked him. He clashed with a weaker Roman soldier, the man’s strikes clumsy against the gladiator’s strength. With a snarl, Priscus raised his foot and slammed it into the soldier’s chest, kicking him violently to the ground. The Roman’s sword and shield clattered into the dirt.

Priscus stepped forward, sword arm raised high above his head, ready to deliver the fatal blow. But as he brought the blade down, another Roman lunged in and clamped a hand tightly around his wrist, halting the strike. Priscus turned, teeth bared, to see who dared grab him — his sword arm still held aloft. For a brief, fateful moment his entire torso was stretched wide, his chest thrust forward, abs flexed and exposed, utterly vulnerable.

It was enough. The soldier at his feet scrambled to his knees, hands fumbling for his fallen sword. His face was pale, lips trembling, eyes darting like a trapped animal. He had no courage in him, only desperation. For an instant he simply stared at the towering gladiator above him, his eyes wide, breath caught, as if even he could not believe the gift fortune had placed before him — the gladiator’s head turned and chest stretched wide, his chiseled abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — an irresistible target laid bare before trembling Roman’s steel.

The soldier lunged upward, thrusting wildly—

ssssssSSST!!!

— the cowardly thrust driving the sword’s blade deep into Priscus’ thickly muscled abdomen.

“AAAAHHHH!!!” the gladiator roared, his head snapping forward, eyes wide in shock, his mouth gaping as a raw cry tore from his throat.

Every slab of muscle across his belly convulsed violently around the invading steel. Instinctively, his left hand shot down and seized the blade driven into his gut, thick fingers wrapping desperately around the slick steel even as its sharpened edge carved into his palm. Blood spilled between his knuckles as he tried in vain to wrench it free, the effort only deepening his torment. His own sword slipped from his grip, falling uselessly from his right hand — though the arm itself remained held high, pinned aloft by the Roman who still wrenched his wrist back, stretching his body open.

The Roman stared in disbelief, then smiled a thin, weaselly smile. He was no hero, no warrior — but with fortune’s favor and a coward’s thrust, he had filled the muscle-bound gladiator’s belly with steel.

He lingered a heartbeat, savoring the false triumph, then, still on his knees, he ripped the blade out of Priscus’ belly in a violent spray of blood, tearing it free even as the gladiator’s bloodied fingers clung to the steel. Priscus staggered, his torso convulsing violently again, blood sheeting down the ridges of his abs. His chest heaved, each breath a ragged struggle. His legs quivered, threatening to buckle, but still he remained upright, swaying, his massive body refusing to yield.

The Roman’s cowardice curdled into something bolder — a cruel, calculating confidence. He leapt to his feet, seized Priscus’ big, beefy shoulder with his left hand, and with a sneer of ownership brutally thrust the blade into the gladiator’s belly again—

ssssssSSST!!!

Then, tightening his grip, he drew back and savagely rammed the blade into Priscus a third time—

ssssssSSST!!!

Each thrust was deliberate now, fueled not by desperation but by vengeful satisfaction. The steel ripped into Priscus’ abdomen with crisp, sharp crunches that cut through the din of battle, the force of the blows lifting the massive gladiator to his toes.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!” he grunted sharply with each vicious thrust, his eyes bulging, his jaw dropped wide as his muscles spasmed in raw defiance even as they were ripped apart, his great body jerking helplessly against the blade.

At last, the Roman released him. His lips curled in a pinched, false smile. Pride radiated from him — hollow pride, born not of valor but of cowardice and chance — as though he had conquered the might of Priscus by strength rather than the cruel fate of the gods.

Priscus collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching at the deep stab wounds in his abdomen.

“Uhhhhh…” he groaned, blood pouring down the ridges of his abs, soaking his trembling arms.

His muscles still flexed as though straining to hold his body together, but his strength ebbed, his massive frame crumpling forward until he fell onto his side, curling into the dirt in a fetal position. His chest rose once, then fell still. The young gladiator lay motionless — his fortress of flesh and muscle breached not by valor, but by a coward’s blade.