The room was a stark contrast to the dank, dark cell he had just left. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the floor was covered with plush rugs. A large desk sat in the centre of the room, cluttered with papers and strange, glowing artefacts. Behind the desk sat a man who exuded an aura of authority and power.

The warden was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a hawk-like nose and piercing eyes that seemed to bore into Tyler’s soul. He wore a finely tailored uniform, a stark contrast to the drab uniforms of the slaves.

The guard shoved Tyler forward. "Here he is, sir."

The warden looked up from his papers, his eyes narrowing as he took in Tyler’s appearance. "So, you’re the recruit who thought it wise to mock a noble?"

Tyler shrugged nonchalantly. "I didn’t know he was a noble. Just thought he was... well, out of place."

The warden raised an eyebrow. "Out of place? What nonsense are you talking about?"

Tyler realized he had to adapt quickly. "I mean, I didn’t realize the gravity of the situation. It was a mistake."

The warden leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Mistakes like that can cost you your life here, boy. But you’ve already learned that lesson the hard way." He glanced at the guard. "Leave us."

The guard nodded and exited the room, closing the door behind him. The warden’s gaze returned to Tyler, assessing him with cold, calculating eyes.

"I am Warden Lysander," he said, his voice low and commanding. "And in this camp, my word is law. You are here to be trained as a gladiator. If you survive, you might get a chance to climb the tower. Fail, and you die."

Tyler took in his surroundings, noting the luxurious decorations and the warden’s imposing demeanour. Lysander’s face reminded Tyler of his parole officer — The man seemed ruthless, pragmatic, and in absolute control. Tyler knew he had to play his cards right.

Lysander continued, "You will be paid based on your performance in the arena. The better you fight, the more you earn. Each victory will bring you closer to your freedom but understand this: you will also be charged for your training, your weapons, your food, and your medical care. The costs are high, and only the best fighters manage to earn enough to buy their freedom. Do you understand?"

As Tyler considered his options, he analysed the situation. Lysander was a businessman at heart, interested in profit and efficiency. The fights were a means to an end—entertainment for the masses and revenue for the nobles. If Tyler could convince Lysander that he could make the fights more engaging, more profitable…

Tyler nodded. "Yes, sir."

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Lysander’s eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing. "Good. Now I can see those wheels turning in your head. If you have something to say, slave, spit it out."

Tyler took a deep breath, his mind racing with possibilities. He had to think quickly and carefully about what to say. He remembered the Colosseum and the fights he had seen there—brutal, bloody spectacles that lacked any real showmanship. His mind drifted to professional wrestling, where the fights were scripted, but the stories and characters kept audiences enthralled. If he could introduce that element here....

"I think I can be of value to you, Warden," Tyler began, his voice steady and confident. "I have some ideas."

Lysander said nothing as he nodded, prompting Tyler to keep going.

Tyler spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I’ve noticed that the fights here are intense, but they lack a certain... flair. People love a good story. They love heroes and villains, drama and excitement. If we could create personas for the gladiators—give them costumes, names, and backstories—we could turn the fights into more than just brute force contests. We could make them into stories that captivate the audience."

Lysander leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. The idea intrigued him more than he cared to admit. The camp had been struggling financially, the costs of training and maintaining slaves were high, and he lost a lot of decent fighters since that noble piece of shit, Lord Rufus Atilius started sending professionals to fight in the Colosseum. Attendance was down, and the nobles were losing interest. He needed something to turn things around, a new attraction to draw the crowds back and increase revenue. This idea of adding showmanship and drama to the fights was unorthodox, but it had potential. He needed something big, his own head was on the line.

"Showmanship, you say? What are you suggesting?"

Tyler swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. "I’m suggesting we turn the fights into more than just bloodshed. We create characters. Think of it like... professional wrestling. The fights are still real, but we add an element of theatre. Each gladiator has a persona, a story that the audience can get behind. It makes the fights more entertaining and draws in bigger crowds. Returning crowds who want to see how the story ends."

Lysander’s eyes narrowed. "And what makes you think you can pull this off?"

Tyler squared his shoulders. "I’ve studied entertainment and media. I know what draws people in, and how to make sure the fights are both thrilling and believable."

Lysander tapped his fingers on the desk, considering. "You make a compelling argument. But words are cheap. Prove it."

Tyler could see the gears turning in Lysander’s mind. He just needed a chance to prove himself.

"I will," Tyler said, determination in his voice. "Just give me the opportunity."

Lysander waved a hand dismissively. "You start in the underground fighting pits. If you survive and prove your worth, you might get a chance to fight in the Colosseum. And remember, if you fail, your life will be forfeit."

Tyler breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Understood. I won’t let you down."

Lysander's thoughts lingered as Tyler was led out. Financial pressures had been mounting since, and the noble backers were getting impatient. If this boy's idea could bring in more revenue, it might be worth the gamble. The warden needed something big, something to save the camp from ruin. This unorthodox approach could be just what was needed.

As Tyler was escorted back to his cell, his mind raced with the possibilities. He knew he had to make this work, not just for his own survival, but for the chance to change his fate and the fate of those around him. As he settled back into the dim, cramped space of the cell, and pulled out the enchanting manual. This was his opportunity to turn the tables, to use his knowledge and skills to carve out a place for himself in this brutal new world.