The Death of Hercules

 Hercules tore through the streets of Tiryns, his naked glistening torso heaving, every step sending the heavy slabs of his pectorals and the ridged wall of muscle in his abdomen into motion.  A short, weathered tunic clung to his hips, leaving the rest of his god-forged body exposed. 

In the dungeons of the king, Lydia awaited him — and nothing would stand in his way.

He tore through the streets with dogged determination, eyes sweeping over every face. 

“Where is she?” he demanded of a pair of older women carrying baskets. They shrank from him, shaking their heads.

An old man stepped into his path — Hercules barked the question again, but got only frightened denials. Each refusal fanned his anger higher, his voice booming across the square, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s.

Then he saw a man he recognized — a wiry merchant clutching a satchel. Hercules remembered him near the palace gates earlier. In his fury, he decided this man knew something.

“You!” Hercules thundered. “You’ve seen her — the woman taken to the dungeon. Tell me!”

“I–I know nothing!”

Hercules saw fear and mistook it for guilt. He grabbed the man’s tunic, muscles swelling, and violently hurled him aside. 

The man’s head struck a jagged rock with a wet crack. His body jerked once and went still, blood pooling fast in the dust.

Hercules froze, chest heaving, the roar in his throat dying to silence. He looked down at the lifeless form, the vacant eyes, the dark stain spreading beneath the head — and the truth hit like a spear to the gut. 

This man had known nothing. He had killed an innocent.

The sky tore open. Lightning blazed down, bathing his body in white fire.

 “You have taken the life of an innocent,” Zeus’ voice thundered. “Your god-born strength is gone. Your flesh is mortal. You will bleed… and you will die as any man dies.”

The power drained from him like sand through an open hand. He was still massive, still a warrior — but now only a man.

Undeterred, he stormed the fortress gates to rescue Lydia. Inside, the clang of armor grew louder. 

A wall of Roman soldiers appeared, shields ready, led by a ruthless general.

 “I will stand aside,” Hercules growled, “over your corpses.”

He had no weapon — not even a dagger. But his mind, sharpened by a hundred battles, calculated every movement, every gap in their shield line, every angle where speed could make up for the strength he had lost.

The soldiers began to advance, spears lowering like the teeth of a predator’s jaw. Hercules crouched slightly, ready to explode forward, the muscles of his thighs and calves coiling tight.

The first man who came within reach would learn — god or not, Hercules was still a warrior.

For a heartbeat, it was as it had always been — Hercules in the thick of a fight, his towering frame and coiled muscle scattering foes like dry leaves in a storm. But then the tide shifted.

A soldier’s fist slammed into his ribs. Pain flared sharp and hot. Hercules staggered, the breath driven from his lungs — a sensation alien to him, one he had never truly known. Another blow caught his temple, making his vision swim. A third soldier grabbed him from behind, locking thick arms around his chest, pinning him long enough for a fourth to drive a fist deep into his gut. The impact folded him forward, a guttural sound torn from his throat.

The general’s eyes narrowed as he watched the once-unstoppable hero stagger under the rain of blows. Then it struck him — Hercules had lost his divine power. He was a mere mortal now. And though still a mighty, muscular warrior, he was no longer invincible. The living armor of solid muscle across his bare chest and abdomen was no longer impervious to the steel of Roman swords and spears.

Two soldiers clamped iron grips around Hercules’ arms, their fingers digging into the dense muscle of his biceps, forcing him upright and still. His chest and abdomen gleamed with sweat, stretched wide and helpless.

The Roman general stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor. He stopped just two paces away, his eyes narrowing as they swept up and down the breadth of Hercules’ frame — from the square shoulders and thick slabs of his pectorals, down the taut wall of muscle over his ribs and abdomen.

The general’s lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

 “You are not what you once were,” he said softly, almost savoring the words. 

“Your flesh… your muscle… it is no longer divine.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur.

 “You are just a man.”

The general’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he drew it from its sheath at his side. The sound was sharp and metallic, like the hiss of a serpent ready to strike. The torchlight caught the polished steel, casting a cold gleam across its edge.

The general stepped closer, his eyes fixed not on Hercules’ face, but on the perfect symmetry of muscle before him. He raised the sword, its point hovering for an instant above the center of Hercules’ abdomen, between the two vertical columns of chiseled muscle.

The soldiers tightened their grip on Hercules’ arms, pinning him upright. His bare, sweat-slick chest rose and fell, each breath deepening the shadows across the carved slabs of his pectorals. The hard ridges of his abdomen flexed and rippled as he braced himself, his entire torso exposed — a proud display of strength that, for the first time, could no longer defy steel.

Then, slowly, almost savoring the moment, the general lowered the tip until it touched flesh. The cold bite of the steel pressed into Hercules’ skin, dimpling the taut wall of muscle. Hercules inhaled sharply as the blade pressed in, his belly instinctively drawing in. But then — defiance. His jaw set, his nostrils flared, and he drove his abs outward again, flexing them into a hard, unyielding wall.

He knew the truth — no mortal muscle, no matter how dense, could turn the blade aside. And yet, his eyes locked with the general’s, blazing with challenge.

If this was to be the strike that ended him, he would meet it unflinchingly.

The thrust was sudden, merciless. The general brutally shoved his sword into Hercule’s bare belly with cruel satisfaction, the muscles in his forearm and shoulder coiling like a striking serpent. The steel blade drove straight into the center of Hercules’ abdomen with ruthless precision.

The cold steel blade sizzled as the point pierced skin and met the tightly flexed wall of muscle on Hercules’ abdomen. For a heartbeat, the blade resisted — the dense, coiled muscle holding against the intrusion — but the general pressed harder, his weight behind the thrust. The flesh and sinew yielded, and the sword sank deep into Hercules’ belly.

Hercules’ body reacted violently — his head snapped forward, chin almost to his chest, his powerful frame bending at the waist as a shudder ripped through him. His abdominal muscles, once an impregnable fortress, spasmed around the invading steel. A strangled grunt tore from his throat, half fury, half pain, his breath forced out in a single explosive gasp.

The general’s grip tightened on the hilt. With a savage jerk, he wrenched the blade free.

The sound was obscene — a wet, ripping slit of steel through flesh and muscle. A burst of dark blood sprayed across both men, spattering the general’s armor and streaking Hercules’ sweat-slick torso. The soldiers holding him felt the hot spray across their arms, but they did not loosen their grips.

Hercules’ body reacted instantly — his entire frame recoiling as if struck by lightning. His massive chest heaved, pectorals tightening, abs clenching hard in reflex around the gaping wound. His back arched sharply, the cords of muscle along his abdomen straining as though to hold in the damage.

A sharp grunt escaped his lips, half growl, half gasp, before his strength seemed to drain from him in a sudden wave. His head sagged forward, then to the side, before he slumped down between the two soldiers.

The soldier on Hercules' left smirked darkly, savoring the cruel spectacle of the general's blade run through Hercules thickly muscled, bare belly. The once invincible warrior's rock-hard abdomen yielding to Roman steel sent an erotic chill down his spine.

The soldiers held Hercules upright still, their hands locked tight around the bulging mass of his biceps, feeling the once-mighty arms slacken under their grip. Blood pattered to the stone floor beneath him, marking the first time Hercules had bled as a mortal man.

The general’s hand seized Hercules’ head, wrenching it back to bare his torso once more.

Hercules’ great chest swelled and fell in ragged breaths, the wound in his abdomen dripping a steady line of blood down his ribs. 

He struggled against their grip, but the two soldiers on either side wrenched his massive arms wide, baring the full breadth of his powerful chest and ridged abdomen. Every slab of muscle was now stretched and defenseless, a perfect offering to the general standing before him — sword in hand, eyes fixed hungrily on the flesh and blood he was about to claim.

The general stepped forward and callously drove the point of his sword forward again, this time straight into the upper abs just beneath Hercules’ sternum. The blade met the stiff resistance of thick, flexed muscle, slowing for a fraction of a second — but the general stepped in, putting his entire weight behind the strike.

The steel punched through, parting muscle and sinew with a wet, crisp sizzle before bursting out the middle of Hercules’ back in a crimson spray. Hercules’ body convulsed violently, a deep, guttural sound ripping from his throat. His powerful torso bent forward in reflex, the muscles of his abdomen knotting around the blade as if trying to push it out.

The soldiers on either side finally released their grip, letting his massive arms drop. Hercules’ hands shot to the hilt, fingers slick with his own blood as he tried desperately to pull the steel from his gut.

The general seized a thick lock of Hercules’ hair and yanked his head back, forcing his torso upright and arching his back. Then, with a brutal wrench, he ripped the sword free from Hercules’ abdomen in a rush of hot blood, the crisp, biting slit of steel through flesh ringing out sharp and wet in the chamber.

Hercules was mortally wounded, his breath ragged and shallow. His knees buckled, the weight of his massive frame dragging him down, yet he fought the fall with every last shred of will. His arms, still thick with muscle, trembled violently under the strain, veins standing out like cords as he tried to push himself away from the cold marble. Blood pounded in his ears, his vision swam, but still he resisted the pull of the floor. Every quiver in his biceps, every spasm through his broad shoulders was a silent, desperate defiance of death. But the strength that had once defied gods was fading fast, and the marble seemed to rise up to claim him.

But the strength was gone. His arms buckled, his body slumping forward, then rolling onto his side. His breath rattled once, shallow and broken. Then it stopped.

The general stepped forward, slid his foot under Hercules’ shoulder, and flipped him onto his back. His massive arms sprawled out, his chest still, eyes glassy and fixed. Blood pooled beneath him, warm against the cold stone.

The hall fell silent. The son of Zeus lay dead — stripped of his godhood, felled not by monsters or the will of Olympus, but by mortal steel. The once-invincible Hercules would rise no more.

The Battle

The fight was brutal. The two men were battling with nothing but their bare hands—one bare-chested with a powerful, muscular body, the other wearing a tunic but still thick with muscle. The outcome would decide who would lead the band of escaped slaves and gladiators against the Roman legions marching ever closer.

Roche, the bare-chested former gladiator, dominated from the start. His massive fists hammered Androcles again and again, driving him backward with every punishing blow. Androcles staggered, bent over, groaning as Roche’s relentless barrage broke through his guard. It seemed only a matter of moments before Roche finished him.

But treachery was afoot. Androcles’ men had mingled among the crowd of onlookers, waiting for the right moment to tip the scales. One of them—Lucius—stood closest, a cold readiness in his eyes, sword already drawn but kept low and hidden at his side.

Roche had Androcles beaten. The man sagged before him, barely able to stand. Roche pulled back his big, beefy arm high above his head, ready to deliver the final, devastating blow. The motion stretched his entire naked torso—every thick slab of muscle drawn tight, his abdomen completely exposed and unguarded.

Lucius’ gaze locked on the broad, flexed expanse of Roche’s unprotected belly. With his sword arm cocked far back, he charged from the crowd. Roche never saw him coming. In a flash, Lucius lunged and drove his blade into the center of Roche’s bare belly with brutal force. Flesh and dense muscle gave way, the steel punching through and ripping out Roche’s back in a wet burst of blood.

The former gladiator bellowed in agony, staggering as the blade was viciously run through his muscular torso. The crowd, moments before roaring for his victory, fell into stunned silence. Lucius yanked the sword free with a savage jerk, stepping back as Roche doubled over, clutching his gut with both hands, his face contorted in pain.

Androcles rose to his feet, his breathing ragged, and wrenched the sword from Lucius’s grasp. His left hand clamped down on Roche’s massive, blood-slick shoulder, lifting him upright so his naked, muscular torso was once again fully exposed.

He looked over the sea of faces and raised his voice so all could hear. “Sheer muscle alone won’t defeat the Romans!” he declared. “It will take cunning and trickery—a lesson lost on Roche!”

Without another word, Androcles pulled the sword back and brutally rammed it into Roche’s upper abs, driving the steel through to the hilt. The point burst from his back in a wet spray, the brutal force lifting him onto his toes.

Androcles tore the blade free and stepped away. Roche swayed for a heartbeat, then pitched forward and crashed to the dirt. His arms flopped limply to his sides, blood pumping from the two gaping wounds in his belly and rolling down the ridges of his powerful torso. The great gladiator lay still. Roche was dead.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers, some nodding in grim agreement, others exchanging uneasy glances. A few shouted approval, but most stood frozen, the weight of what they had just witnessed settling over them. 

Androcles turned back to the crowd, raising the crimson blade high above his head.

“Your champion is gone!” he roared. “I am your leader now—and I will lead you to stand against Rome!”

A murmur swelled into a roar of approval. The tribe had its new chief, and war with the legions was coming.

A Gladiator's Escape

 The moon hung high over the Colosseum, casting ghostly shadows on the bloodstained sand. The roar of the crowd had faded into silence, but the memory of battle still lingered in the air, heavy as incense. 

Deep beneath the arena, the catacombs twisted through a labyrinth of narrow tunnels and suffocating passageways, shrouded in darkness and heavy with the stench of damp stone and ancient blood.

Titus moved like a ghost in the night. The young gladiator had planned this night for weeks.

Navigating the shadows of the underground maze of tunnels and crumbling columns, his massive, muscular frame pressed tightly against the cold, jagged stone walls. Every step was silent, every breath measured.

Titus inhaled the heavy, damp air of the underground caves, each breath thick with moisture and the scent of stone, mildew, and old blood. The weight of the atmosphere clung to his chest, making every inhale feel like a struggle against the very darkness that surrounded him.

He moved cautiously through the shadows, slipping between the towering marble columns that supported the Colosseum, using their immense bulk to mask his every step. Each movement was deliberate, his powerful frame gliding from cover to cover like a predator stalking unseen prey.

Freedom was close. Just beyond the underground stairway lay the tunnels that would take him far from the crowd's roar and the emperor's gaze. No longer would he fight and kill innocent men in the arena for the sadistic delight of a baying mob or the cruel smile of the Emperor

Though still in the prime of youth, Titus had already earned a fearsome reputation in the arena. The emperor watched with unrestrained glee as the young muscular gladiator battled, half-naked, armed with only a short sword, cutting down opponents in brutal flurries, often facing two, three, even four gladiators at once. Clad only in a tattered tunic fastened by a leather belt, Titus fought without armor, trusting in his speed, skill, and raw strength. His chiseled torso, gleaming with sweat and blood, was laid bare to every blade and spear—a sight that stirred both admiration and prurient fascination in the emperor and the bloodthirsty crowds that filled the arena.

Titus was the emperor’s favored champion, the shining star of the arena, but no victory, no matter how savage or glorious, could win him the wooden rudis and the freedom it promised, not while Marcus Aurelius still sat on the throne.

So tonight, the lion would break from his cage.

His chest rose and fell with steady determination, the torchlight from the wall sconces dancing across the sharp ridges of his powerful abdomen. Sweat glistened on his skin, running in thin rivulets down his broad chest and thick arms. He moved like a beast through the mist.

Until he rounded the final column and stopped cold

A soldier standing guard. Armed, but with his sword sheathed. 

Titus cursed under his breath. In his haste, he had bypassed the armory where he could have secured a sword. He was unarmed. 

Titus quickly scanned the dim corridor. No other guards in sight. Just one man. One soldier stood between him and the stairway that led to freedom—one final obstacle.

The soldier shifted on his feet, the weight of long hours and still air pressing down on him like a shroud. The torches lining the stone walls flickered low, casting wavering shadows across the damp catacomb walls. 

His head dipped forward. He blinked slowly, caught between duty and sleep, barely clinging to alertness. Oblivious to the hulking gladiator lurking behind him.

Titus moved like a predator in the gloom, silent, precise, his hulking frame ghostlike in the mist. His bare chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. His eyes locked on the soldier, narrowing to slits, burning with quiet fury.

Titus had slaughtered many armed men face-to-face in the arena—warriors who saw him coming, who screamed before he cut them down.

But this young soldier? He would never even get the chance.

Titus crept forward, each footfall soundless. The muscles in his arms tensed, veins rising beneath his sweat-slicked skin like cords ready to snap. The soldier stood still, oblivious, no more than a few strides away.

Titus exploded from the darkness, a blur of muscle and momentum, his massive arms flared out. 

The young soldier snapped out of his trance and began to turn, but it was too late. Titus was about to pounce.

Titus’s right arm whipped around the soldier’s throat like a viper, cutting off his breath in a heartbeat. His left arm wrapped across the soldier’s torso, locking him in a brutal embrace. With a savage grunt, Titus yanked him close, his muscles bulging, and began to squeeze the life from his struggling prey.

The soldier let out a strangled gasp, not a scream, not a shout, just raw panic, as his feet kicked against the stone, completely overpowered.

He choked, panicked. Caught like a rabbit in the jaws of a lion. He thrashed, feet skidding, arms rendered useless, desperately struggling for every breath. 

With the last flicker of strength, the young soldier fumbled for the sword at his side, fingers trembling as darkness crept in, desperate to draw his weapon before consciousness slipped away. Titus held him tighter.

The soldier clawed desperately at his sheath, vision dimming, lungs burning. Just as the edges of his world began to go black, his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

The soldier wrenched his sword from its sheath and, with strength quickly draining from his limbs, raised it weakly at his side, his grip trembling as darkness closed in around him.

With a desperate, clumsy swing, the soldier lashed the sword backward, blindly striking in hopes of hitting flesh. 

The blade found its mark, sinking into Titus’ powerful left thigh, tearing through flesh with a burst of hot pain.

Titus let out a raw, guttural roar as the Roman’s blade tore into his left leg, slicing deep into muscle, the searing pain exploding through him like fire. His leg buckled.

The soldier wrenched his sword free from Titus’ thigh. Titus staggered, releasing his crushing hold on the soldier, and clutched the gaping wound with his left hand. Warm blood streamed through his fingers, pouring from the deep, vicious cut.

The soldier gasped as air rushed back into his lungs, staggering forward in a fog of fear and adrenaline. Steadying himself, he shifted the sword into his right hand.

Titus, who had never felt the sting of a sword blade cut into his flesh before, reeled from the sharp, unfamiliar agony searing through his leg. The pain was jarring, raw, and utterly alien to the invincible gladiator.  

Titus, consumed by the fiery pain in his leg, was perilously unaware of the threat rising before him. The Roman soldier, now fully conscious and steady on his feet, was turning to face him, his sword clenched tightly in his right hand, eyes locked on Titus’s exposed muscular torso. Gleaming with sweat under the flickering light, the unarmored wall of muscle across his abdomen was an easy target, powerful, vulnerable, and perfectly within reach of the Roman’s sword.

Titus, lost in the haze of pain, hadn’t yet looked up. And that’s when he felt it, a hand clamping down on his shoulder. His head snapped up, his instincts flaring, his eyes wide, fixed on the gleaming blade— hovering perilously close and aimed at his exposed belly.

The soldier was already upon him, grabbing his shoulder with one hand, sword arm drawn fully back, eyes blazing with fear and determination.

Titus barely had time to react. Instinctively, he flexed, his abs clenching into a wall of solid muscle. He stood panting, his naked torso heaving. Under the flickering torchlight, his muscles rippled like sculpted marble, chest broad, abs chiseled, flesh glistening with sweat. 

Titus’s gaze fixed intently on the Roman’s sword, its steel blade shimmering ominously in the flickering torchlight and aimed at his abdomen—his belly laid bare, wide open to attack, defenseless and vulnerable in a way he had never known before.

The young soldier hesitated, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He had trained endlessly, his blade slicing through straw dummies beneath the unforgiving sun, but never had he driven steel into naked living flesh and muscle. Never had he taken a man’s life. 

His sword hovered, cocked back, like a viper ready to strike. Yet his gaze lingered, roving over Titus’s naked, muscular torso—the broad sweep of his shoulders, the solid slabs of muscle anchoring his chest, the thick bands of muscle across his abdomen, tightly flexed.

The gladiator’s exposed belly—taut, glistening, was an alluring target, ripe for the blade. 

Something primal gripped the young soldier: awe, fear, and something deeper, darker.

And then,  he struck.

With a cry torn from his throat, the soldier lunged. The sword drove forward with brutal force, the blade hissing through the thick air before plunging into the very center of Titus’s bare belly.

Steel met flesh. Then the resistance of muscle and sinew.

Blood burst forth in a hot spray as the blade rammed into Titus’s muscular abdomen with a crisp aqueous snap, the steel blade viciously slicing through exposed flesh and dense muscle. 

But the Roman’s sword met fierce resistance—the thick wall of flexed muscle that shielded Titus’s abdomen stopped the thrust cold. The blade drove partway in, halted by the gladiator’s armor of rock-hard abdominal muscles covering his bare belly.

The soldier tightened his grip on the sword. When Titus gasped for air, the muscles in his abdomen slackened for a moment—just enough. The soldier let out a guttural yell as he forcefully shoved the rest of the blade into the gladiator’s belly with a short, savage thrust, to the hilt of the sword.

 The soldier’s brutal thrust had run Titus clean through, the blade tearing through his thickly muscled torso and bursting from his back in a violent eruption of blood and steel.

Titus’ massive body convulsed, a breathless shudder rippling through him as his mouth fell open in a silent gasp, the searing agony held at bay for an instant by the numbing shock of the cold steel blade brutally thrust into his bare belly.

Titus, who had never suffered so much as a scratch in the arena, now stood impaled, his once-invincible armor of dense muscle finally broken, the young Roman’s blade driven clean through his thick torso.

Titus suddenly let out a savage, guttural roar as the blade buried in his belly ignited into a white-hot lance of agony. The searing pain exploded through his core, rippling across every nerve like fire through dry grass. 

His thick, muscular torso writhed violently, twisting side to side in a desperate attempt to shake free the torment. But the steel held fast, and the gladiator’s mighty frame trembled under the unbearable surge of pain, his breath torn from his lungs in ragged gasps.

The soldier gritted his teeth and ripped the blade from Titus’ body, a wet, sickening sound echoing in the chamber as blood cascaded down the gleaming steel. 

Titus, the undefeated champion of the arena, whose flesh had never been pierced by an opponent’s blade, now felt the searing agony of a steel blade driven clean through his belly. The brutal fate he had so mercilessly dealt to countless others was, in a cruel twist of fate, now his own. Gasping, disbelieving, he lifted his eyes to the Roman soldier before him.

With his hand still gripping Titus’s shoulder, the young soldier felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through him like fire. Driving his sword through the bare belly of the heavily muscled gladiator—the resistance of the blade as it sliced through flesh, muscle, sinew, awakened something raw and primal inside him, an intoxicating mix of triumph, power… and something darker still, a heat coiling low within him he didn’t fully understand.

Titus, still reeling from the deep stab wound in his belly, stood dazed and defenseless, his naked, muscular torso left utterly exposed—vulnerable, unguarded, and glistening with sweat and blood.

The soldier’s gaze once again locked onto the wall of muscle stretched across the gladiator’s tightly flexed abdomen, his sword trembling in his grip, hungry for another taste of flesh and the rush of spilled blood.

The soldier suddenly and viciously thrust his sword forward again, harder, faster, and with greater confidence. The blade ripped through Titus’ flexed abs, punching through hardened muscle like a sharp knife sinking into a ripened melon. Titus roared again, a terrible sound that echoed through the hollow catacombs. His body convulsed, blood streaming from both wounds as the sword was driven deep into his muscular abdomen to the hilt with one brutally powerful thrust this time, again running Titus through.

The young soldier savored the moment, his breath quickening as he watched the muscular, half-naked gladiator writhe helplessly on his blade. A dark, sadistic thrill surged through him—unlike anything he had ever felt. 

The resistance of Titus’ thickly muscled belly as the steel drove in was strangely exhilarating, the sensation of flesh and hardened muscle parting beneath the blade both brutal and mesmerizing. The wet, visceral sound of steel slicing through living flesh and muscle stirred something deeper—something raw and confusing—deep in his core.

The soldier tightened his grip on Titus’ right shoulder and violently yanked the blade out of his gut with brutal force. Titus’ massive torso hunched forward instinctively, muscles seizing as the steel tore out of him with a slick, wrenching sound. A guttural moan escaped his lips, thick with agony, as blood poured from the two deep stab wounds, his strength draining rapidly with each fading heartbeat.

Titus arched his back and clutched his belly with his left hand in a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood and quell the searing pain. His fingers pressed desperately against the stab wounds, but they did nothing—neither slowing the bleeding nor easing the fire that tore through his core.

His face twisted in agony, and he staggered, swaying on unsteady feet. But he was strong—unyielding, like an ox.

Titus was mortally wounded. The two sword thrusts that tore through his belly had sealed his fate. Blood poured freely from the deep wounds, warm and relentless. His abdominal muscles—once a wall of sculpted armor—now trembled and clenched involuntarily around the gaping stab wounds. He stood only by sheer force of will, a dying monument of strength and defiance. But death was already inside him—cold, relentless, unstoppable. His flesh had been ripped open, muscle shredded, organs pierced. His breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat faltered. The flicker of life within him wavered, about to be snuffed out.

The Roman soldier—just moments ago, a trembling boy who had never seen battle—had changed. Something in him had snapped, or awakened. His wide eyes now burned with a cruel light, and his trembling hand had steadied into purpose. Driving his sword into the muscular gladiator's naked torso, the steel blade slicing through the tightly clenched muscles of his abdomen, stirred something dark within him. 

A twisted thrill crept into his chest as he watched Titus struggle to remain on his feet, his hand clutching his belly, covering the two deep stab wounds. There was pleasure in it—perverse and intoxicating. The soldier’s breathing quickened, his grip tightened on the hilt. He wanted more. 

The soldier, blade raised, was determined to drive the steel once more into the muscular gladiator’s magnificent naked torso— eager to feel the resistance of muscle and the give of flesh one final time before the giant collapsed. One last thrust, he thought.  His first kill was not yet complete. Not yet. He wanted to drive the blade deep into Titus’ rock-hard belly one last time, to mark the moment this invincible champion of the arena was finally brought to his knees.

The soldier stepped in, jaw clenched, heart hammering. He seized Titus by the shoulder again, gripping the gladiator’s thick, sweat-slick flesh with his left hand. His right lifted the sword, crimson and wet, and pressed the blade’s tip into the soft space just below Titus’s sternum.

Titus barely reacted, save for the sudden tightening of his abs. Instinct. Muscle memory. One final act of resistance. His core flexed like stone beneath the steel — a reflex born of survival.

But it would not save him now.

The soldier leaned in close, his breath hot against Titus’s ear.

“Now die, gladiator,” he whispered.

Then — thrust.

The sword drove deep. The sound was wet, gruesome. Flesh parted. Muscle split. The steel bit through the gladiator’s upper abdomen, all the way to the hilt. The blade buried itself in the thick wall of Titus’s flexed abs, cutting through the very armor that had protected him for so long.

The steel blade was once again driven through the gladiator’s densely muscled torso, bursting from the skin of his back in a violent eruption of blood and gleaming steel.

Titus let out one final roar of agony, arching his back as his muscles convulsed uncontrollably—the Roman’s vengeful sword tearing through his body with brutal finality.

The soldier jabbed his left hand into Titus’s massive, sweat-slicked chest, now heaving with the gladiator’s final, ragged breaths. With a savage pull, he yanked the blood-soaked blade from Titus’s belly one last time, tearing flesh and muscle as he shoved the dying gladiator backward.

Titus clutched his belly with both hands, blood streaming through his fingers as he staggered, his eyes squinting with a vacant, lifeless stare. He fought to remain standing, but his body was failing. The soldier stepped to the side, watching with cold satisfaction, savoring the sight of the once-mighty gladiator teetering on the edge of death.

Titus swayed once more, then dropped to his knees with a heavy thud. His bloodied hands slid from his torn belly, falling limply at his sides. A final breath escaped his lips—shallow, broken. Then he collapsed backward, on his back in the dirt, his massive frame motionless. The arena's mightiest warrior was gone, brought low not by a better man, but by the cold inevitability of death.

The soldier stood over the fallen giant, chest heaving, eyes locked on the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. Blood glistened on the blade in his hand, still warm from Titus’s flesh. For a long moment, he said nothing—just stared. Awe, disbelief, and something far uglier churned behind his gaze. A grin crept across his face, slow and crooked. The fear that once gripped him had vanished, replaced by a dark thrill. He hadn’t just killed a man—he had conquered a legend. And in that twisted moment of triumph, he felt powerful. More than a soldier. More than a man. A god of death, baptized in the blood of a gladiator.