César XVII entered the ring of the Grand Arena to boos from the crowd. The Neo Axis team was widely disliked, yet the punters kept their eyes on them.

On the other side was Eji, the short masked man. Shrouded in his brown cloak, he gave off an aura of mystery. His general appearance intimidated no one, but those familiar with the mediumistic arts knew how powerful his Axé was. The masked man raised his head before the Italic giant.

César bent in half to get close to the little man. Then he laughed as if he had gone mad. The Greco-Roman wrestler had already faced opponents of extreme physical strength in various parts of the world. He was an Olympic medalist for his country. He considered it nonsense to have to fight a child.

"But what is this? Who left the nursery door open? I go into the ring looking for a man to fight and I find a little brat. Listen, shorty, go back to Mommy's lap."

The scene was hilarious for the audience. César XVII himself was tearing up with laughter.

"Who did you call shorty?"

"You, you shorty!"

In one swift movement, César XVII grabbed the collar of Eji's cape and lifted him up to his face.

"I gave you the chance to run out of the ring with your tail between your legs, you scoundrel. But now, I'm going to show you the power of a superior race."

Prac-pric, Eji's small hands grabbed his opponent's wrists. With a force that stunned the Greco-Roman wrestler, the hooded man separated his opponent's two arms. It was no longer the Italian who held him in the air, but the masked man who clung to his opponent's arms as if he were an athlete on the parallel bars.

No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't free himself from Eji's grip. César XVII's forearms began to turn purple. The circulation was stuck in his forearm. The veins throbbed in his skin. He collapsed on the floor, on his knees, submissive to Eji. He bit his lips until they bled. He turned his head, gasped, and finally let out a scream that echoed through the Great Arena.

"No, let me go! How can you be so strong when you're so small?"

"Our clan sits on the Throne of Force, and due to a divergence in the perception of what true strength is, our clan has split into two different schools: one expert in the use of weaponry, and the other, of which I am an adherent, which transforms the body into a weapon."

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"No... please... stop!"

"Your strength comes from your supposed superiority. But who says you're superior? This notion of superiority is what some people create as a way of hiding their frustration, resentment and weakness. It's just fragility coated in lies."

"No... uargh!"

Blood squirted out like sprinklers. Eji broke Caesar XVII's forearms like toothpicks. The bleeding flooded the floor of the ring. The dammed blood flowed like a river arm. He tried to get up, but he was too weak to fight back. He fell backwards. He screamed for help.

Eji turned and walked slowly to the other side. Victory was declared. Before he reached the edge, César XVII jumped on him. He prepared to kick him in the head.

"Don't sing victory before your time, shorty."

The sole of his foot came close to the hooded man's head, but didn't hit. A strong repulsive energy threw him backwards.

"I thought I was done with you, but to my surprise, you're still alive."

Eji punched César XVII in the stomach. The impact was so strong that the man twisted. The internal organs of his stomach burst. He vomited blood and bile. Another punch hit the fighter in the face. He fell backwards onto the ground. Eji jumped on his opponent. He threw another punch, and another, and others followed.

With each punch, Italo's face deformed like a sheet of paper. His abdomen sank into the floor and a crater formed. By the time Eji had finished punching, all that remained was a shapeless mass of flesh, bones and blood soaking into the floor of the Grand Arena. Finally, Eji left the ring.

The Greco-Roman wrestler remained conscious, even though his senses were scrambled. The intense pain spread through all his muscles and tendons. It was as if someone was ironing his tissues. He tried to breathe, but his airways were torn apart.

For every time his convulsed chest pumped blood, his torn intestines churned.

How could someone superior die in such a shameful way?

In a daze, in memory, he transported himself to the day he was caught in the anti-doping test at the European Greco-Roman wrestling qualifier. César XVII had been using customized drugs based on his blood plasma for years. This allowed for high athletic performance and the ability to bypass the sophisticated tests of the Greco-Roman leagues.

In the locker room, after being expelled from the sport, assaulting the referee and being abandoned by the coach, he was visited by two men. They were wearing black overcoats, hats and dark glasses. On the lapel of their overcoats was a brooch in the shape of a stylized black sun. Only people sympathetic to Nazi-fascism would recognize the symbol.

After determining the origin of the duo, the Italian became less tense. He relaxed his fists, stared at them and said:

"You came too late..."

"Mr. César XVII, as you may know, we're from Neo Axis. We've been following your trajectory, and the engaging and fruitful way in which you've been defending our cause, in your own way, of course. We need representatives for our cause. The superior races need to lead this world again."

"At last someone who speaks my language. I thought you were legends. Do you want to include me in your ranks?"

"Yes, we want resolute companions in our cause."

"All right! But I don't want ties or useless rules. I want to act and exercise my superior right over this world."

One of the men in the overcoat approached, removed his gloves and held out his pale hand to the fighter.

"A lion must reign and exercise its power, otherwise the jungle takes the place of the garden."

Gradually, that gray image took on a ruddy hue. The red expanded over the canvas, coagulated, became a dark mass, until all traces of light disappeared.