Chapter Text
“Sign with your blood or your sweat, Yoichi,” whispered Michael Kaiser.
The distant roar of the crowd vibrated through the stone floor like a rhythmic, hungry heartbeat. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light breaking through the iron bars, illuminating the heavy, oppressive air of the ludus. The smell of iron, blood and stale despair hung thick in the dungeon, a scent so pervasive it seemed to coat the back of the throat.
Kaiser stood before the cell, an apparition of pristine nobility amidst the filth. He extended his ornate walking cane, the gold tip catching the light, and hooked it under the chin of the sweating, battered gladiator, forcing his head up.
"Smile, Yoichi," Kaiser purred, his blue eyes gleaming with a terrifying mixture of possession and amusement. "I am the man who is pulling you out of this hole. And from this moment on, the only one you will ever belong to."
Six Months Earlier
Location: The outskirts of Ostia Antica
Year: 180 AD (Reign of Imperator Commodus)
Artrana snorted sharply, the sound tearing through the peaceful silence of the pine forest. The black mare broke her gallop and fell back into a rhythmic trot thanks to Isagi's relaxed posture and slight loosening of the reins.
A soft, ragged breath escaped Isagi Yoichi’s lips. "Easy, girl. Easy."
Riding was a beautiful art, but by the gods, it was exhausting. His legs burned from gripping the mare’s flanks, and his fingers were stiff around the leather reins. Yet, as he looked around, the physical toll seemed a small price to pay. The countryside surrounding the harbor city of Ostia was breathtaking in the full bloom of spring. The ancient stone pines spread their umbrellas against a sky of piercing azure, and the lush green willows near the riverbanks swayed in the gentle breeze coming off the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Nature was his sanctuary. Here, away from the noise of the academy and the pressure of the city, the world felt alive in a way that soothed his anxious heart. Animals emerged from their winter hiding places, scurrying through the underbrush, celebrating the warmth. It was around ten degrees, a mild Roman winter turning into a gentle spring, but Isagi couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing.
No cherry blossoms, he thought, a familiar melancholia settling in his chest.
In the land of his ancestors, far to the East, the sakura would be falling like pink snow right now. Here, the flora was rugged, stoic, olive and pine. He missed a sight he had only seen in his parents' old paintings.
The wind, now carrying the scent of salt and wild thyme, ruffled his cotton tunic. It was a comfortable fabric, simple but of good quality, rustling as it carried fallen leaves across the path. Just yesterday, Isagi had turned sixteen. It hadn't been a grand affair, no feasts or sacrifices to the gods, just a quiet dinner with his mater and pater. That was how he liked it. At the academy, the Schola Ichinan, he was a phantom. An outsider. Unpopular, unnoticed, and perfectly content with his invisibility.
Invisibility was safety. Especially for someone like him.
His thoughts drifted, threatening to spiral into dark memories of financial ruin and the near-miss of slavery that haunted his family's past, but he shook his head. Stop. Not today.
"Focus, Yoichi," he muttered to himself. "Don't ruin the ride."
He hadn't had time for this in weeks. The school curriculum was brutal, designed to churn out officers and administrators for the Empire, and Artrana did not take kindly to being ignored. The mare was… temperamental, to put it politely. She was a beauty, coat as black as the river Styx, but her personality was as prickly as a thistle.
Yoichi smiled faintly, patting her neck. They had been together since he was seven.
He remembered the day clearly. He had been a small, fearful child living in one of the cramped insulae tenements on the outskirts of Rom. A place that smelled of refuse and desperation. He had found her in the woods near a trade road, a lost, spindly foal separated from a military caravan.
Her first reaction had been to run away, naturally. Horses were faster than men, and certainly faster than a clumsy seven-year-old. But Isagi, usually so timid, had been possessed by a strange, quiet obsession. He had chased her, tripped, face-planted into the mud, he could swear the foal had laughed at him then, and returned home covered in filth.
His parents had been furious. "We are barely citizens, Yoichi! We cannot afford trouble!" his father had scolded. But Isagi had gone back the next day. And the next.
It took six months for her to eat from his hand. It took a year before she let him lead her to a stable his father had rented as their fortunes began to turn.
"Artrana," he whispered, testing the name on his tongue.
He had named her when he was eight. Latin had been a clumsy tool in his mouth back then, a jumble of harsh consonants compared to the fluidity of his mother tongue. He had wanted to name her Atra for "dark" and Regina for "queen," but in his childhood confusion, it had merged into Artrana. It meant nothing in Latin, a nonsense word, but it was theirs.
Now, things were different. Thanks to the peace treaties Emperor Commodus had signed with the Germanic tribes, trade was booming. His parents, shrewd merchants dealing in exotic goods from the Silk Road and overland routes to Gaul, had ridden the wave of the Pax Romana. They had moved from the slums to Ostia, the beating heart of Rome’s commerce.
They lived in a villa now. He attended an elite school. He was supposed to be happy.
Why does the Latin grammar still give me a headache? he thought, grimacing as he remembered his tutor's face. Magister Nero looks at me like I’m a barbarian every time I declinate a noun wrong.
Math was worse. But Art? Sport? Those were the only times he felt his soul align with his body. It was ironic; practical skills for a merchant were his weakness, while the arts of the nobility were his strength.
Suddenly, Artrana’s ears pinned back. Her muscles bunched beneath him, hard as stone.
He snapped out of his reverie. Not good. Artrana wasn’t skittish. She was arrogant. If she was reacting, it wasn’t fear, it was most likely annoyance.
A rustle in the bushes to the left.
Yochi's blue eyes darted toward a dense cluster of myrtle bushes. A small creature, a meerkat, likely an escaped exotic pet from a wealthy estate, popped its head up, stared at the massive black horse with wide eyes, and vanished instantly.
"It's just a rat, girl. Calm down," Isagi soothed, though his heart hammered a disjointed rhythm.
Artrana huffed, sounding distinctly unimpressed, and tossed her head before turning onto the paved road leading back to the city. He took a moment to adjust his seat. Riding without stirrups, which the Romans deemed unnecessary for a true horseman, required immense thigh strength, but the saddle itself was a work of art. It was a scordiscus, a four-horned military saddle made of stiff leather, designed to lock the rider in place during combat or violent maneuvers.
She shifted her weight, her coat gleaming like polished obsidian in the sun. She was a rarity in Rome, not a stocky Italian draft horse nor a flighty Numidian. She was a tall, muscular breed from the far East, perhaps with Nisean blood, brought over the Silk Road by his parents' caravans. She possessed a thick, arched neck and a mane he kept roached short in the military style to prevent it from tangling in the reins. She was power condensed into an animal form, faster than anything the local academies fielded, and she knew it.
"You're just showing off now," Isagi muttered as she pranced sideways, her hooves clopping rhythmically on the paving stones, demanding attention from everyone they passed.
Isagi checked the position of the sun. It was high.
"Crap," he cursed softly. "We're going to be late."
Today wasn’t just a training day. It was the district match against schola Zephyrus. A chance for glory. A chance to be seen by the scouts.
Yoichi urged the mare into a canter. As they merged onto the Via Ostiensis, the city of Ostia rose before them. It was a marvel of engineering and ego. Under the reign of Commodus, the city had been adorned with new statues, mostly of the Emperor himself. Commodus as Hercules, Commodus as Mars, Commodus looking benevolent while crushing a barbarian under his sandal. The marble was white and pure, but beneath it, Isagi could always sense the tension. The people walked quickly, eyes downcast. The wealth was blinding, but the shadows were long.
He guided Artrana through the Porta Romana, the massive city gate. The guards, recognizing the expensive horse and the academy crest on Isagi’s saddlebag, waved him through without a second glance. Being "half-citizen" with money was safer than being a full citizen with none.
The transition was jarring. They left the serenity of the pine forests for the organized chaos of the Empire’s lung. Ostia was a city of red brick and white marble, a grid of bustling commerce that never slept.
As they trotted down the Decumanus Maximus, the main thoroughfare, the shadow of the Emperor felt heavier than ever. Commodus had only been sole ruler for a short time, but his vanity was already carving itself into the stone of the city. Banners of Tyrian purple hung from the balconies of the insulae, proclaiming the upcoming "Games of the Plebs," a spectacle funded by the state to keep the masses docile.
He noticed a new shrine being erected near the Forum. It wasn’t for Jupiter or Mars, but for the Emperor himself, depicted in a statue as Hercules, draped in a Nemean lion skin, club in hand. The craftsmanship was exquisite, but the eyes of the statue were cold, staring down at the citizens with a demand for absolute adoration.
"Make way! Grain for the arena!" a carter shouted, whipping his oxen.
Yoichi steered Artrana deftly around the cart. The street beneath them was a masterpiece of black and white mosaics, depicting tritons and sea monsters, a reminder that Ostia ruled the waves. But the air smelled of garum, a fish sauce, unwashed bodies, and an undercurrent of fear. The Vigiles, the city watch, patrolled in pairs, their eyes scanning the crowd not just for thieves, but for dissidents. To speak against the "New Hercules" was to invite death. In this city of marble and mud, silence was the most valuable currency.
They navigated the bustling streets, dodging ox carts carrying grain and amphorae of wine, until they reached the Villa Isagi, located in a quieter, wealthier district near the marine baths. It was a medium-sized estate, but striking in its elegance. Unlike the ostentatious, gold-leafed villas of the senators, his home breathed a strange, disciplined tranquility.
The architecture was Roman, a red-tiled roof, white stucco walls, but the garden visible through the open gate was distinctly different. There were no chaotic flower beds; instead, precise rocks were arranged in sand, and water trickled from a bamboo pipe into a stone basin with a meditative rhythm.
Isagi dismounted in the atrium, the central hall open to the sky. The impluvium, a kind of rainwater pool, was crystal clear.
He dismounted in the courtyard, his boots crunching on the gravel and began to unsaddle Artrana himself.
Any other young man of his station would have snapped his fingers for a stable boy. A villa of this size should have had at least ten slaves, cooks, cleaners, grooms. But the Villa Isagi had none.
It was the family’s most dangerous secret and their quietest shame. Years ago, before their business boomed, a debt collector had nearly put chains on Issei and Iyo. They had stood on the auction block for an hour, an hour that scarred their souls, before a sudden payment from a business partner saved them. Since that day, they refused to own another human being. They hired freedmen for the heavy work during the day, but at night and for personal tasks, they did it themselves.
Isagi grunted as he heaved the heavy leather saddle onto the wooden stand.
"Yoichi!"
His father, Issei, stepped out from the tablinum. He was a man of soft edges and worried eyes, dressed in a high-quality tunic of deep indigo, a dye imported from their homeland. He held a scroll of inventory in one hand, looking every bit the busy merchant.
"You're cutting it close," Issei said, though his smile was warm as he walked over to help. "Your mother is still at the market near the Capitolium. She insisted on picking the fish for dinner herself. You know how important fresh food is to her."
"I know, Pater, I lost track of time," Isagi said, hauling the heavy saddle onto a wooden stand. "The woods were... quiet."
"Quiet is good," Iyo said, handing him a waterskin. "But quiet doesn't win games. Are you ready for the Chovgan match?"
He paused. Chovgan. The Eastern sport of kings and cavalry. Two teams, horses, mallets, and a ball. It was fast, violent, and the specific obsession of the Ichinan Academy.
"I'm ready," Isagi said, though he didn't feel it. He felt... small. "Zephyrus has Cyrus. Everyone says he's a prodigy. The scouts for the Imperial Gladiator Schools will be watching him, not us."
"And maybe they'll see the boy who assists his team," Iyo said encouragingly, missing the point entirely. "Just do your best, son. We are proud of you regardless. You are riding with the sons of senators. That is victory enough for us."
Yoichi forced a smile. "Right. One for all, and all for one."
"Mater wanted to be here to wish you luck," Issei said, stroking Artrana’s nose. "But she told me to tell you: 'Ride like the wind, but don't forget to come back to the earth.' Typical Iyo wisdom."
"I'll try," Isagi replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Though in Chovgan, coming back to the earth usually means you've fallen off."
His Father laughed, a nervous sound. "Don't joke. Just... be careful. The world is watching today."
Isagi forced a smile. “I know Pater”
He left his father and hurried to his room. It was sparsely decorated, save for a few scrolls and his gear. He stripped off his cotton tunic and pulled on his academy uniform.
First, the padded trousers, an Eastern invention, necessary for riding, then the reinforced tunic in the colors of Ichinan: white and blue. He strapped on the leather greaves, tightening the buckles until they pinched. Finally, he picked up the heavy riding gloves.
On the breast of his tunic sat the crest of the school. He traced it with his thumb.
Today, he thought, a sudden, unfamiliar spark flickering in his chest. Today, maybe I won't just be a passer. Maybe...
But the thought died as quickly as it came. That wasn't how the world worked. He was Isagi Yoichi, the merchant's son, the team player. He wasn't a star like Kira. That was the reality.
He grabbed his helmet and headed for the door. The arena awaited him.
The Campus Martius of the Academy was not just a field; it was a proving ground. Before the horses were even brought out, the air was heavy with the legacy of the sport they were about to play: Chovgan.
It was not a Roman invention. It was a spoil of war, stolen from the Parthian Empire in the East and repurposed by the Roman cavalry to sharpen the killer instincts of their riders. The concept was deceptively simple: two teams on horseback, armed with long-handled mallets, fighting to drive a wooden ball through the opponent's goal posts. But under the reign of Commodus, who fetishized violence, the rules had been loosened. It was no longer just about skill; it was about dominance. It was fast, it was brutal, and it was the only path to glory for a young rider.
Isagi sat atop Artrana, his knuckles white beneath his leather gloves. He took a breath, tasting the dust.
Here, in the public eye, he was not Isagi Yoichi. That name was a whisper, a secret kept for the safety of his home. In the Academy records, in the shouting mouths of the crowd, he was Yoichus. A Roman mask for a foreign face. To exist in this empire was to erase oneself.
"Form up, Schola Unitas!" their coach bellowed.
Yoichi glanced at his teammates. Next to him was Thaddeus, a nervous boy whose horse was already chewing the bit anxiously.
Across the field stood the enemy: Schola Zephyrus. They looked like statues of war, draped in expensive crimson tunics. And at their front rode the golden boy, Cyrus.
Cyrus was the embodiment of what Rome loved. Handsome, charismatic, and ruthlessly talented. He sat on a white stallion that looked more like a mythical beast than a horse. The scoreboard, large wooden placards turned by slaves, already told a grim story. The game started.
Schola Zephyrus: I
Schola Unitas: 0
They were down by one point. The game was nearing its end.
The buccina, the curved bronze horn, blasted across the arena. The ball was dropped.
"MOVE!"
The ground shook as twenty horses surged forward. The sound was a thunderclap of hooves and shouting men. Yoichi leaned low, becoming one with Artrana. The black mare was faster than the others, her stride eating up the ground.
The game was a chaotic swirl of dust and violence. A Zephyrus rider tried to body-check him, but Artrana side-stepped with a snort of disdain, leaving the opponent flailing.
Isagi saw the ball rolling loose near the midfield. His eyes widened. He didn't have a "vision", not yet, but he had a scent. He could smell the opportunity.
"Mine!" he gritted out.
He swung his mallet, connecting with a solid crack. The ball flew forward, skipping over the uneven earth. Yoichi galloped after it, breaking away from the pack. The wind roared in his ears.
He was clear. The goal posts loomed ahead, guarded only by a terrified keeper.
I can score, the thought flashed through his mind, raw and intoxicating. I can tie the game. I can be the hero.
For a split second, he imagined the roar of the crowd being for him. He imagined stepping out of the shadows of mediocrity. But then, the indoctrination of Schola Unitas clawed him back.
One for all. The individual is nothing. The Legion is everything.
He hesitated. His eyes darted to the left. Thaddeus was galloping up the flank, technically in a "better" tactical position, though he looked terrified.
“Yoichius play to me” Taddeus shouted.
Pass it. Play the right way.
Yoichi suppressed his ego. He killed his own glory. With a sharp tug on the reins, he swung his mallet not at the goal, but to the side.
"Thaddeus! Here. Take it!"
The pass was perfect. It landed right in front of Thaddeus’s horse. But Thaddeus wasn't a warrior. He was just a boy scared of losing. He fumbled his grip. His mallet hit the dirt instead of the ball.
The ball rolled harmlessly to a stop.
And then, a shadow fell over them.
"How generous of you, Yoichus," a voice drawled.
Cyrus descended like a hawk. He didn't even look at Yoichi as he swept past. With a grace that was almost insulting, Cyrus scooped up the ball. He turned his white stallion on a dime, the horse rearing slightly, and charged back toward the Unitas goal.
There was no passing. There was no "one for all." There was only Cyrus.
He wove through three defenders as if they were children. He raised his mallet, his form picture-perfect, and struck. The ball soared through the air like a cannonball, smashing between the wooden posts.
The slave turned the placard.
Schola Zephyrus: II
Schola Unitas: 0
The horn blew three times. It was over.
The silence that followed was heavy for the losers, but deafeningly loud from the Zephyrus stands. The crowd erupted, chanting the victor's name.
"CYRUS! CYRUS! CYRUS!"
Yoichi slowed Artrana to a walk. He felt hollow. He stared at his hands, trembling slightly on the reins. Why? Why did I pass?
Thaddeus rode up next to him, tears streaming down his dusty face. "I... I'm sorry, Yoichus. The sun... it was in my eyes. I ruined it."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
On the other side of the field, Cyrus was holding court. He had dismounted and was surrounded by admirers. A wealthy noblewoman, draped in silks that cost more than his entire manor, leaned over the railing, fluttering a fan.
"Oh, Cyrus! magnificent!" she cooed. "You ride like Mars himself! Surely the Ludus Imperialis, the Emperor's own Gladiator School, is your destiny!"
Cyrus flashed a dazzling, practiced smile. He bowed his head slightly. "You honor me, Domina. But I am just a humble servant of the Empire. I could not have scored without the... spirit of the game."
He glanced over at the defeated Unitas team, his eyes lingering on Yoichi for a fleeting second. There was no pity in that look. Only amusement.
The Unitas coach gathered his weeping team. He clapped a hand on Yoichi’s shoulder, shaking him.
"Heads up, boys!" Do not look so grim!" the coach shouted, his voice thick with misplaced pride. "You played correctly! You played with honor! In my eyes, and surely in the eyes of the gods, Schola Unitas is the true winner today because we upheld the virtues of teamwork!"
The other boys sniffled and nodded, finding comfort in the lie. "Yes... we did our best," Thaddeus sobbed.
Yoichi looked at the scoreboard. 0 - II.
The true winner?
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He looked at Cyrus, who was being handed a wreath of laurels. That was reality. The wreath. The cheers. The victory.
We didn't win, Isagi thought, a cold, dark realization settling in his gut, heavier than any armor. We lost. We are a team of polite losers. And I... I am just the fool who gave away his shoot.
He pulled away from the coach's hand. "I need to cool down my horse," he muttered.
Without waiting for permission, he kicked Artrana into a trot, heading for the exit gate. He needed to get out. He needed to be away from the cheering, away from the crying, and away from the suffocating lie that "teamwork" was a substitute for victory.
The roar of the crowd was still audible as Yoichi guided Artrana through the heavy wooden gates of the Academy complex, but it sounded distant now, like the crashing of waves against a cliff miles away. The cheers for Cyrus were a rhythmic throbbing in the air, a constant reminder of what Yoichus was not.
He steered the mare away from the main thoroughfare, choosing instead the winding paths that hugged the banks of the Tiber River. The sun had begun its descent into the Tyrrhenian Sea, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and bleeding orange. It was a beautiful sunset, the kind poets wrote verses about, but to Yoichus, it looked like the sky was dying.
Artrana walked with a loose rein, her head low. She could sense his mood. Horses were empathetic creatures, and the connection between them, forged over years of whispered secrets and shared solitude, was absolute. She didn't prance or demand attention now; she simply carried him, a silent partner in his misery.
As they moved away from the city center, the marble facades gave way to the reality of Rome. They passed crumbling tenements where the plaster was peeling to reveal raw brick, like wounds in the city's skin. Beggars sat in the shadows of grandiose statues of Commodus. The Emperor’s likeness was everywhere, Commodus as the Sun God, Commodus as the World’s Victor. The stone eyes watched the poverty with an indifferent, sculpted smile.
Yoichi tightened his grip on the reins. The reality of the Empire, he thought bitterly. Gold for the few, dust for the rest.
His mind drifted, as it always did when the darkness threatened to swallow him, to the one man who had defied this reality.
Noa Noel.
The name alone was a talisman. In a world of Roman order, Noa was an anomaly. A slave from the frozen lands of the North, born into chains, with nothing but his body and a mind sharp as a gladius. He hadn't been a rider at first; he had been fodder for the arena. But Noa hadn’t died. He hadn’t just survived. He had dominated.
Yoichi remembered the stories his father told him. How Noa fought not with rage, but with a terrifying, mechanical logic. He wasted no movement. He possessed no unnecessary emotion. He had climbed from the blood-soaked sands of the provincial pits to the Colosseum itself. He had won his freedom, his rudis (wooden sword) and then, miraculously, he had gone further. He had become a citizen, a wealthy man, and now stood at the right hand of the Emperor himself as a trusted advisor and the supreme champion of the games.
Noa didn't pass the ball, Isagi thought, the memory of his own failure stinging like a fresh whip mark. Noa wouldn't have looked for Thaddeus. Noa would have seen the goal, calculated the angle, and executed.
That was the difference. Noa Noel was a protagonist. Yoichus was an extra in someone else's play.
The path dipped into a small, secluded grove of cypress trees near a bend in the river. The city walls were visible in the distance, but here, it was quiet. The wind rustled the dark branches, whispering secrets.
Yoichi pulled Artrana to a halt. He sat there for a long moment, staring at the flowing water of the Tiber. It was murky, carrying the filth of the city out to the cleansing sea.
"I wanted to be like him," Yoichi whispered to the empty air. His voice cracked.
He looked down at his hands. They were calloused from the reins, strong enough to control a beast like Artrana, but they felt incredibly weak. He thought of his parents. Issei and Iyo, who refused to own slaves because they knew the horror of chains. They were "half-citizens," Peregrini with money but limited rights. They walked a tightrope every day. One bad business deal, one angry senator, and they could lose everything.
Yoichi’s dream hadn't just been for glory. It was for security. If he became a star, a Privilegiatus, he could secure full Roman citizenship for his entire bloodline. He could protect them.
But I can't even take a shot.
The frustration, which had been a cold stone in his gut, suddenly ignited into a hot, blinding rage. It wasn't anger at Thaddeus for missing. It wasn't anger at Cyrus for scoring. It was anger at himself. At his own conditioned cowardice.
"If I hadn't passed..."
The words tumbled out, gaining speed.
"If I hadn't listened to that damn coach! If I had just trusted myself!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, replaying the moment. The open goal. The clear shot. The destiny that had been right in front of his face, waiting to be seized. And he had turned away. He had chosen the "correct" play, the "team" play, and it had cost him everything.
One for all?
"BULLSHIT!"
The scream tore out of his throat, raw and primal. It shattered the peaceful silence of the grove.
"I WANTED TO WIN! DAMMIT, I WANTED TO WIN!"
He slammed his fist against his thigh, the leather armor making a dull thud. Tears, hot and unbidden, spilled from his eyes, tracing tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He wasn't crying gracefully. He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking with the force of his self-loathing.
"M-Monster!" a high-pitched voice squeaked nearby.
Isagi snapped his head up, his vision blurry.
A group of three children, street urchins likely looking for frogs by the riverbank, were staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. They saw a dark rider on a massive black beast, screaming like a man possessed by furies, his face twisted in agony.
"He's mad! Run!" one of them shouted. They scrambled up the muddy bank, tripping over their tunics, fleeing as if they had seen a ghost.
He watched them go, his chest heaving. He didn't call after them. He didn't care. The outburst had drained him, leaving him empty and hollow. Therefore slumped forward, burying his face in Artrana’s coarse mane. The horse stood rock still. She didn't startle at his scream. She didn't shy away from his anger. Slowly, she turned her head, her warm breath huffing against his knee. She nudged him, a gentle, insistent pressure.
I'm here, she seemed to say. Get up.
He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Patting her neck, his fingers tangling in the black mane of Artrana.
"You're right, girl," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Crying won't change the score."
He sat up, straightening his back. The tears were drying, leaving his skin tight. The sun had fully set now, and the first stars were appearing over the silhouette of Rome. The city lights were flickering on, thousands of oil lamps burning in the distance. Somewhere in that city was the Emperor. Somewhere was Noa Noel. And somewhere, basking in praise, was Cyrus.
Yoichi was none of them. He was nobody. Just a boy on a horse in the dark.
But, a small, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like the ego he had tried so hard to kill, if you had shot... you would have scored.
He gathered the reins. That thought was dangerous. That thought was a heresy against everything he had been taught. But as he turned Artrana back toward the villa, toward home and his waiting parents, he couldn't shake it.
The seed had been planted. Not of hope, but of hunger.
"Let's go home, Artrana," he said quietly.
They rode into the night, leaving the river and the regrets behind in the dark, but carrying the hunger with them.
When Isagi arrived home again, it was already very late in the evening; he rarely came home so late. But after his defeat against Cyrus and the Schola Zephyrus and his emotional outburst, he had taken a small detour so that when he arrived home, he would no longer be so depressed and dejected. His parents truly did not deserve to become the target of his despair. Although a new hunger had awakened within him, he was not yet sure how he would satisfy it in the future.
A sigh escaped him. "It will work out somehow."
For the second time today, he unsaddled his horse, put the bit and the bridle in the shed, and groomed his mare. "You were incredible today." She neighed in response and nuzzled against his hand as if she agreed with him but also wanted to comfort him because of the defeat. She had always understood him so well. "Sleep well, my sweet." Closing the stall door, he then said goodbye to her and moved toward the villa.
Contrary to the nightly shadows, the wide window of his father’s study cast soft light onto the courtyard; light also came from the kitchen. Strange. His father worked at this hour just as rarely as he came home at this hour. So, practically never. The last time he had been this late was after he had miserably lost at combat training for the selection of future gladiators and had vented his frustration in the forest on a tree trunk until his mare decided that he had damaged enough nature for one day and forced him to leave. She had simply clamped his sword under her hoof and waited. At the beginning, he had still come up with the ridiculous idea that he could take it from her if she became inattentive, but he was wrong; the hooves of a horse were damnably heavy to move if the animal had no desire to do so, this rule applied practically to the entire animal.
Why am I drifting off so much today? All day his thoughts had been so scattered. Perhaps he should have slept longer, though he generally needed to get his sleep schedule under control. But those homework assignments for natural philosophy did not do themselves; only he could do them, albeit much too late. Starting an assignment one evening before the submission deadline for which he had had one month was certainly not smart, but as long as this tactic worked and it usually did, he saw no reason for a change in strategy. Never change a running system (even if the system is only half-running).
Fortunately, he was not a perfectionist, except for art and the humanities; he had given up high ambitions for natural philosophy a long time ago. As long as he got his degree, everything was fine, and afterward, he would probably only take over his parent's business and start a house as well as a family. Somehow, this dream had sounded more lucrative at the age of eight. Especially after today's game, this future prospect felt like a waste. Regrettable that one's own fate was already so carved in stone.
In the kitchen, a light was still burning, and on the table, alongside plenty of Roman dishes, stood a large plate of Kintsuba. A small traditional Japanese cake with bean paste wrapped in a thin layer of dough. They were his absolute favorite food. A smile played around his lips, his parents were the best.
But why were they parents not here? Why would they be in the study? It made no sense at all. Confused, Isagi moved along the high, imposing walls of the villa. The corridor felt strangely cold, and a mounting, palpable feeling took hold of him. A sense that something was deeply wrong. He finally came to a halt before the tall, dark wood door of his father's study.
Inside, several voices seemed to be in spirited discussion. What was going on here? He knocked. Once, twice, thrice. But the voices either did not hear him or simply chose to ignore him. Among them, he noticed two loud voices that seemed to be debating animatedly. One sounded like his father, Issei, but the other was unknown to him. Faintly, he could also make out the sound of his mother, Iyo. The rest of the voices he did not recognize. Indeed, the discussion showed no sign of ending, only escalating further. What could it be about?
Yoichi had been raised with distance and respect, which included not simply bursting into conversations that did not concern him. It was probably just some business matter of his father’s, and his mother was once again playing the peacemaker between him and some merchants. His mother was truly skilled at mediation, even though she rarely had to use that ability at home. He did not fight with his parents; the last time they had had a dispute was years ago. When he had once asked her where she got these mediation skills, she told him that her own parents had fought far too often, and as their only daughter, she had frequently been caught between two fronts.
"Issei, please, stop!"
His mother’s cry made him bolt upright. To hell with etiquette.
The door flew open with such force that it didn't just swing, it practically jumped from its hinges.
"Mater!" "Pater!"
The small, modestly furnished room was brightly lit, and within it stood six people in total. There were his parents, his mother looking shocked and fearful, just like his father, who looked as though he would rather have Yoichi anywhere else in the world but here. Beside them stood three Roman guards; judging by their uniforms, they were in the service of a high-ranking official. Next to them stood the likely representative of said official.
Yoichi was surprised to see it was a woman.
"Hello, Yoichi Isagi."
Wait a moment - how did she know his real name?
"It is a great pleasure to meet you."
Why was she pleased? Who was this woman even? What was happening right now?
"You know, I was just speaking with your parents about it."
Oh gods, what did this woman want from him now? At school, he had always behaved so conscientiously and stayed under the radar. People weren't supposed to want anything from him because they didn't even know he existed.
"Well then, I must be going now. It was a pleasure to have met you, Yoichi. We shall see each other next week at the inaugural ceremony."
Wait, what! What was going on? He couldn't remember signing up for anything, and this didn't sound like a school event at all.
"I wish you a good evening as well, Domine and Domina Isagi."
His father did not return the greeting, and his mother only offered the woman a forced, artificial smile. The feeling that something was tremendously wrong settled deeper into Yoichus's bones. The guards gave him a brief nod in farewell, and he stammered a parting greeting back.
The heavy door fell slowly into the lock behind them with a loud thud.
The room somehow looked much more friendly than before.
"Mater, Pater... what did those people want? And why does that woman know our true names?"
The furrows on his father’s face deepened as he opened his mouth to say with great effort: "Yoichus, it... we... we have to tell you something. We are so sorry."
"We are so sorry, my angel." Tears stood in his mother’s eyes, the first already rolling down her cheeks. "But unfortunately, there is nothing we can do."
"We will get you out of there as quickly as possible, so please, hold on. Actually, forget that " His father turned to his mother. "If we hurry, we might still be able to flee, Iyo."
"Wait, what! Flee? What are you even talking about?"
"Yoichi, it’s like this…”
Yoichi had to take it back.
So much for one’s own fate being carved in stone.
He wanted access to that stone, please, to somehow recarve it himself.
It would be best to strike the entire last week from existence altogether. His supposedly relaxed merchant life had somehow turned into something completely different. He had not dreamed of this. He had not wanted this, at least not like this.
One should be grateful for opportunities, but this did not feel like one.
A mixture of fear and expectation made his heart beat faster.
The tall building of marble and sandstone looked like a prison despite its grandeur. It was one, after all.
For Isagi had just this morning sold his life to the Roman Empire.
But he would not give up so easily nonetheless. It couldn't be that bad. It was time for him to take this mess into his own hands and free himself from the current situation, for he disliked it immensely.
Here, fate didn't count for shit, because the arena demands only one thing: Panem et Circenses. Bread and Circuses.