3 days, 3 days in this damned green hell, of mosquitoes, diseases, savages and this damned Tower.

On the first day, we tried to make camp at the base of the Tower, but the constant night attacks by beasts and monsters made us change our minds. For 3 days we circled the entire tower and saw no entrance on its facade, at the top, an immense, perfect dome. So many times the tower was pierced with physical and magical means and it remained unchanged, not a scratch was left on its surface. The mood on the expedition was one of defeat, everyone was tense and looking for something or someone to blame. No one had the courage to blame the paladin, her charisma and beauty made her an untouchable target, as for Filiz, the archmage, he was known for being explosive, in every sense of the word, but oddly enough he was the calmest and most peaceful of all, all thanks to his new concubine, only losing to the captain of the Blue Marlin, who spends the day destroying his private wine cellar.

Antinua, with a sigh that seemed to echo the frustration of the day, crushed a piece of cheese bread between her fingers. The watery wine, almost as tasteless as the “green sea” that stretched out the window, ran down her throat without leaving any trace of consolation.

“Another day, another dead end,” she grumbled, casting a melancholic look at the vastness of the “green ocean. This damned, stinking, old, and stupid Tower looks more like a monster than it laughs in our faces.”

Charlig, always optimistic, smiled weakly. “We can’t lose hope, Antinua. We’re already so close… we just need to find the “key” to open the “door.””

“The key? That key is an archmage with powers of divination, Charlig. And convincing him to help us, with Filiz being as stubborn as a donkey on market day, is a nearly impossible task.”

Charlig took a sip of wine, grimacing. "He's stubborn, but he's not stupid. The Red Tower has a reputation for being... complicated. If Lord Filiz doesn't want to call anyone from there, he must have a good reason."

"And what would that be? Fear of losing control of the expedition? Fear that he'll lose prestige for the Red Tower? Or maybe he just doesn't want to share the glory?"

Charlig stood up, walking to the window. "It doesn't matter the reason, Antinua. We need to convince him. The Obsidian Tower is there, waiting for us, we need to get inside. It's the only chance we'll find what we're looking for, all other options have already been exhausted."

Antinua, with a thoughtful look, observed Charlig. "And how are we going to convince him? Besides convincing the tower to come help us, we can't just break into the Red Tower and steal a soothsayer."

"No, but we can try to reason with him. Show him that we need their help, that the Red Tower is the only key to our success. And even offer a share of the glory in exchange for joint leadership."

Antinua, with an ironic smile, shook her head. "Glory? Charlig, you know this expedition is not about glory. It's about saving the kingdom, about stopping evil from spreading. And for that, we need all the help we can get."

"Exactly! And the Red Tower is the only one that can give us that help right now." Charlig, with a sparkle in his eyes, turned to Antinua. "We're going to convince Filiz. Together, but with special help."

"What are you talking about, man? Don't beat around the bush, just say it!" Antinua said, slamming her hand on the tabletop, sending splinters flying, showing no signs of irritation at having stood still for so long without hitting anything.

"Macarra'ka..." said Charlig and took a sip of wine.

"HHHaaaammm, you're going to convince him through the head below." Antinua laughed and took the glass and made a toast. "Macarra'ka." Antinua, despite still being worried, felt a thread of hope reborn in her heart. Maybe Charlig was right. Maybe, together, the three of them, could convince Filiz and finally find the key to open the door to the Obsidian Tower.

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The roar of the crowd echoed through the coliseum, mixing with the clang of swords and the crash of blows. Kawada watched the fight with a distant look, his mind divided between the adrenaline of the arena and the bitterness of the fight with his sister.

"Maeda," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Don't you think we're being a little childish?"

Maeda, sitting next to him, stared at the fight with a horrified look. "Childish? Kawada, you accused me of the same thing you were doing just a few meters away from me, with the princess!"

"But I'm a man..." Kawada retorted, his voice low and tense.

"IDIOT!" a glass of wine flew at Kawada's forehead.

"Darling! Stop, for all I care, today is a day of celebration, everyone here is to celebrate our wedding." Roper touches his beloved's arm.

"Sorry, dear, it's just that everything is happening too fast and my idiot brother isn't helping. Besides, seeing people fighting to the death isn't the kind of celebration I would imagine for myself on my wedding day." Maeda replied, his voice thick with frustration.

"We're all brothers now, Maeda! We should trust each other, not fight amongst ourselves, dear!" Trifina takes Kawada's hand and squeezes it, making him turn his attention to his beautiful fiancée and deescalate the mood between the brothers.

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A heavy silence hung between them. The roar of the crowd seemed to intensify, but for Kawada and Maeda, the world was reduced to a small space of bitterness and resentment.

"What do you want me to do, Maeda?" Kawada asked, his voice hoarse. "Do you want me to pretend nothing happened? To forget what you did?"

Princess Trifina, sitting next to her fiancé, whispers in his ear. “Be quiet, or I’ll punish you!” She kisses his cheek and with a perfect smile turns to watch the fight taking place in the arena below. Kawada swallows hard and closes his mouth in an instant.

On the opposite side, his brother, prince Roper, starts talking to his fiancée. “My flower, my life, the final battlers are famous, respected and admired, it would be very bad if they died for good, duels of this level rarely lead to death, usually end when one of them knocks down or disarms the opponent. But when that happens, they are resurrected."

But Roper... today is our wedding. We cannot start our lives together with this fight. The future of our kingdom cannot start like this. If we can't understand each other, how can we rule together?"

Kawada's gaze met his sister's, and for the first time that day, he saw the pain and anguish reflected in her eyes.

The fight in the arena seemed to fade away, the crowd fading into a distant murmur. "Maeda," he said, his voice soft and full of regret. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Maybe I overreacted, but I didn't mean to."

Maeda hesitated, his eyes fixed on Kawada's face. "And I want to be angry with you too, Kawada. But we... we have to get over this."

A shy smile played on Kawada's lips. "Yes, Maeda. We have to get through this." He held out his hand, and Maeda took it. Their fingers intertwined, they looked into each other's eyes, the promise of a future together shining in their hearts. The fight, as painful as it had been, was just an obstacle to be overcome. Brotherly love, strong and deep, would bring them together again.

"WWWWAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" Roper leaps from his chair and stands up, arms raised.

Maeda looks at her fiancé and sees that the entire arena has done the same.

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a sea of faces turned toward the sand pit. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the gladiators as they battle. On one side is Murdinto, the son of a Romani general who is addicted to combat and is now a Hoplomaho gladiator, his body ripped with muscles acquired during the skirmishes of the Red border. On the other is Sphiokus, a seasoned and ruthless Sekuristoj gladiator known for his strength and brutality. The bloodthirsty crowd shouts the gladiators' names, their voices mingling in a wild chorus. The combat begins with a clash of swords, steel against steel, sparks flying in the air. Murdinto, with the fury of a wounded lion, attacks with precision and force, while Sphiokus, more agile, attacks with great precision and power. and unpredictable, he dodged the blows, looking for a gap in his opponent's defense.

The fight was a deadly ballet, a dance of swords and blood. Every movement was calculated, every blow charged with intention. Murdinto, with his military experience, fought with strategy and experience, while Sphiokus, with his agility and ferocity, fought like a hungry wolf. The first attack was from Murdinto, a powerful blow that Sphiokus dodged with a quick movement, followed by a kick that hit the Romani's knee. Murdinto staggered, but recovered quickly, responding with a furious attack, a series of blows that Sphiokus skillfully blocked. The fight intensified, a whirlwind of steel and flesh. Murdinto, with his brute strength, tried to pressure Sphiokus, who moved like a snake, dodging and counterattacking with precision. Blood began to stain the sand, a bright red that contrasted with the white of the gladiators' tunics and armor. Sphiokus, taking advantage of Murdinto's carelessness, landed a deep blow on his arm, making the romani roar in pain. Murdinto, wounded but still with fury in his eyes, threw himself at Sphiokus, trying to knock him down.

The fight turned into a deadly dance, with every move risking his life.

The audience cheered, with every blow, every scream, every drop of blood. Adrenaline ran through the veins of the gladiators and the crowd, the pain and thirst for victory driving them.

In a moment of desperation, Murdinto risked everything, a final blow, a suicidal attack that Sphiokus dodged with an agile jump. Murdinto's sword grazed Sphiokus' face, who, in a quick movement, plunged one of his sword into the Romani's chest.

Murdinto fell to his knees, a groan of pain escaping his lips. Blood gushed from the wound, dyeing the sand red. Sphiokus, exhausted, breathing heavily, looked at Murdinto, his opponent on his knees, sword in hand and shield lying on the ground beside him. The crowd watched the victor in silence. Sertorius raised his sword high in triumph. The crowd roared deafeningly and applauded the victor.

Life and death intertwined in the arena, under the relentless gaze of the sun.

Murdinto, on his knees like a snake, struck with a precise blow, his sword finding Sphiokus' body, straight to the heart, a clean and accurate blow. Sphiokus was dead before he hit the ground. The audience, ecstatic at Maximus' victory, roared in approval. The gladiator, bathed in sweat and blood, raised his sword towards the royal box, receiving the acclaim of the crowd, then turned to his opponent, bowed in respect, took his opponent's sword and now raised both swords to the crowd, which went wild.

And falls next to his opponent. Dead, with the sword still stuck in his torso.

Murdinto's fight against Sphiokus, a brutal and exciting combat, became one of the most memorable moments in the history of the arena, engraving in the memory of the Talayans, the strength, courage, glory of the gladiators and the promise of riches that few can achieve, as the King's prize was lands, title, mansion, slaves and an annual stipend paid by the crown.

Behind the scenes, Murdinto's sweat and blood were sold for a gold coin a drop, and legend has it that a night with one of the gladiators could cost 1,000 gold coins an hour, and that many firstborn sons of the empire had their seed in the champions, Murdinto and Sphiokus.

As far as we know, Sphiokus and Murdinto, after being resurrected, retired after this fight, and the two gladiators became good friends. Sphiokus became a master and owner of a gladiatorial school that later became recognized for its own style, which focused on agility, acrobratics, and "stage" presence. Murdinto had several wives and many children, some of whom became important and respected figures in the military throughout the history of the empire.