Valerius

 Through the chaos, another fighter cut a path forward — Valerius. Tall and broad, he looked carved from living stone, his bare torso gleaming with sweat and blood. His chest was a massive wall of muscle, each breath swelling the thick slabs of his pectorals. His abdomen was ridged and hard, every groove between the blocks of muscle etched deep like lines chiseled by a sculptor’s hand. His arms were long and powerful, veins bulging as they flexed with each swing of the sword, cords of strength rolling down to his broad, scarred forearms. His shoulders were huge and round, built to bear the weight of battle, while his back tapered like the frame of a bull, muscles knotting and shifting with every stride.

Valerius was more than muscle — he was fire and will. Known in the ludus for his relentlessness, he was the first to rise for training, the last to leave the sands at night. His fellow gladiators called him “the Anvil,” for he absorbed every blow without faltering, his stubborn endurance as unyielding as iron. Where others taunted their foes, Valerius fought in silence, his focus absolute. He carried himself with the grim certainty that victory was owed to the strong — and he had never yet been denied it.

That certainty burned in his eyes as two Roman soldiers closed on him. The first rushed forward, sword raised high. Valerius met him head-on, a thunderous swing of his own blade smashing through the man’s guard and cutting down through chest and belly. The Roman collapsed in a spray of blood, lifeless before he struck the ground.

Valerius turned, chest heaving, sweat and gore streaking his torso. The second Roman scrambled back, tripping and crashing to the dirt. Valerius loomed over him, planting a heavy foot on the soldier’s chest, sword raised high for the final, crushing stroke. His torso flexed, belly tightening, shoulders swelling wide — the image of raw power about to descend.

From the treeline came the sudden hiss —

ffffffffFTTT!!!
ffffffffFTTT!!!

Two arrows slammed into Valerius’ abdomen. One drove just beneath his ribs, the other struck deep in the center of his belly. His whole body jolted, sword halting mid-arc, thick muscles convulsing as the shafts quivered in his torso. Dark blood spurted violently from the fresh wounds, spraying across his heaving chest and dripping down the ridges of his abs.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!” Valerius grunted, raw disbelief laced with pain.

The Roman beneath him seized the chance. With a desperate snarl, he snatched his sword, lurched up from the dirt, and leveled the point at the gladiator’s blood-slicked torso. For a heartbeat he faltered, staring up at the massive chest and the ridges of Valerius’ abdomen, still flexing hard even as blood streamed from the arrow wounds. Then, trembling with both fear and fury, he drove the blade straight in —

ssssssSSST!!!

The steel ripped into Valerius’ belly just below the navel, tearing through the fortress of muscle he had trusted all his life. His torso convulsed violently, his powerful arms sagging as his body arched against the steel.

“AAAAHHHH!!!” Valerius roared, his abs quivering uncontrollably around the invading blade, the arrows jutting from his gut shuddering with the spasms.

The Roman grunted and rammed it deeper until the blade burst out through the gladiator’s broad back in a spray of blood. Blood ran in thick sheets down his torso, dripping from his ribs and soaking the earth beneath him.

Without hesitation, the Roman ripped his sword free, tearing it back through Valerius’ belly with a wet, splitting sound. He gave the massive gladiator one last contemptuous glance before melting away into the chaos of battle, already forgotten in the press of men and steel.

Valerius staggered forward, still somehow on his feet. His broad chest heaved, each breath rattling, blood pouring in sheets from the ragged hole in his belly. The arrows jutting from his torso quivered with every trembling step, his abdomen flexing and loosening uncontrollably as he fought against the inevitable. His great arms hung heavy at his sides, his sword gone, his strength spilling out onto the earth with every heartbeat.

For a moment, he swayed, knees buckling, his massive frame silhouetted against the carnage like a titan refusing to fall.

“Uhhhhh…” he groaned, raw disbelief burning in his eyes.

Then at last his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees, blood streaming down his torso, before pitching forward into the dirt with a heavy thud.

The Anvil, unbroken in the arena, had been ripped apart here — not by valor, but by arrows and a coward’s thrust. His living armor of muscle, once thought unpierceable, lay pierced and broken, blood soaking the ground beneath him as the battle raged on without him. And when the dust settled, Valerius would be no more than another nameless corpse on the field — his strength, his defiance, his legend all swallowed by the indifferent tide of war. Even in death his massive frame was grotesquely marked — arrows still jutting from his belly, the gaping stab wound spilling dark blood, his once-proud body left defiled and forgotten in the dirt.