Page 15 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

Through cracked lips, I offer a bargain. “Let me fightcestus. No blades, no death. Pure skill against skill. The crowd will still have their blood without the final cost.”

He studies me for a long moment. “Cestusfighting can kill as surely as any blade.”

“But that is not its purpose. Its purpose is to demonstrate superiority through skill, not slaughter. To defeat without destroying.” Each word costs precious energy, forced through cracked and blistered lips, but this is too important for silence. “Let me prove that mercy can be as profitable as murder.”

Thelanistacircles my trembling form. “Four more days to think about it. Then we’ll discuss terms.” He walks away, then tosses over his shoulder, “But you’ll never make it that far, Greekling.”

More days pass, each bringing new lessons in endurance. I learn to find strength in stillness, power in acceptance. The sand’s weight becomes a teacher rather than a torment. Each grain a reminder that all burdens are temporary, all suffering an opportunity for growth.

Other gladiators watch how stillness can build strength as surely as motion. Thelanista’spunishment becomes an unintended demonstration of stoic principles. Even the guards grow quiet, respectful.

My body is half-starved, muscles standing out like ropes beneath sun-darkened skin. But my mind has never been clearer. I understand now what Father meant about finding freedom within constraints, about dignity transcending circumstance.

The memory begins to fade, but the lesson remains sharp as a blade’s edge. Some victories come not from fighting against chains, but from transforming them into strengths. Some battles are won not through resistance, but through acceptance and adaptation.

The scene shifts again to the sixteenth sunset. Thelanistahimself removes the buckets from my raw-rubbed hands. “You’ve earned your chance,” he says. “Don’t make me regret this mercy.”

My arms drop, but my spirit stands taller than ever. Not because I endured the punishment, but because I transformed it into something more. The crowd would soon learn that true strength needs no killing edge, that skill and mercy can bring greater glory than any death blow.

It took a week to recover from the punishment, then I intensified my training, became faster and stronger. Within two months, I was the newcestuschampion.

By the end of the next month,cestusfighters were coming from all over the country to challenge me. None succeeded. The arena was filled with fans chanting my name. There was blood and broken bones, but not once did I take a life.

The memory fades completely, replaced by the soft sounds of Maya moving in the next room. My arms ache with phantom weight, but the lesson serves its purpose. Whatever challenges this strange new world brings, I’ve survived worse. Whatever bonds bind me here, I can transform them into strength.

Tomorrow’s training will build a different kind of strength. But tonight, the memory of sand buckets and burning sun reminds me that all transformations begin with accepting what is while working toward what could be.

Sleep finally comes, dreamless and deep. My arms still remember their sixteen-day burden, but my spirit remains unbound. Whatever trials tomorrow brings, I face them with lessons carved deep as the scars on my palms—some victories come not from fighting against fate, but from transforming it into something greater than its creators intended.

Chapter Twelve

Maya

Time becomes a blur of training sessions and stolen moments. Victor takes to modern gym equipment like he was born to it, though his reactions to each new machine make me bite back smiles.

“It’s called a lat pulldown,” I explain, demonstrating the movement. His eyes track the cable’s path with fascination, watching how the weight stack rises and falls. “It targets your—” I catch myself before launching into the usual anatomy lesson. How do you explain muscle groups to someone who probably learned anatomy from watching gladiators bleed?

“Ingenious,” he murmurs, testing the grip. “Like rowing, but…” He completes a perfect rep, form better than half my trained fighters. Of course he does.

These moments of discovery become my favorites. The way his eyes light up at each new piece of equipment, his quick mind working out the mechanics. He maintains his grave dignity around the others in the gym, but when we’re alone, his curiosity breaks through.

The first time he sees the squat rack, he circles it like a suspicious cat. “This device prevents the weight from crushing you?”

“That’s the idea.” I adjust the safety bars. “Though I’ve seen plenty of guys who thought they were too good for proper form end up learning the hard way.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Is this how warriors in this place prove their worth? By letting a machine save them from their own stupidity?”

“Something like that.” Our eyes meet, and that now-familiar heat flares between us. I clear my throat. “Let’s start light. Work on form first.”

He proves to be the perfect student—patient, attentive, and eager to learn. His strength returns faster than seems possible, though he’s careful to hide his true progress when Tony’s men are watching. Smart. Keep them underestimating him.

The other fighters notice him, of course. Hard not to, given his size, the grace with which he moves, and the amount of attention I’m giving him. But he keeps to himself, watching their sparring sessions with careful attention while pretending not to understand what he sees.

“Your left-handed fighter drops his guard,” he tells me one evening after the gym clears out. “And the big one’s kicks are easy to see coming.”

I nearly drop the weight I’m reracking. “You got all that just from watching?”

He shrugs, the movement making his shoulders flex impressively under the now-properly fitting T-shirt I snagged from the lost and found bin. “A fighter who does not study his potential opponents deserves his fate.”

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