The First Supply

The underground arena beneath the Tullo villa was nothing less than a demonic bowl carved deep into the stone of the Suburra, where the boundary between Rome's proud civilization and ultimate savagery was utterly erased.

Around the vast semicircular stands, hundreds of oil-soaked torches burned flickeringly, casting an oppressive heat and billowing plumes of black smoke that clung pitch-black to the vaulted marble columns. The stench of sour wine spilled through the rock crevices mingled with the sour reek of human sweat, the damp stench of animal dung, and above all, the heavy, overpowering reek of fresh blood rising fiercely from the sandy floor below.

Upon the highest dais, Servius Tullo sat in bloated state upon a lavish leopard-skin throne. His heavy, flabby body leaned back, one arm clutching tightly around Claudia’s shoulder while the other brandished a silver goblet brimming with fine wine. The Roman senators, generals, and aristocrats seated around him howled, their faces flushed red with drunkenness and the depraved bloodlust erupting within every vein.

"Spill blood! Spill more blood!" Servius roared, his voice dulled yet brimming with brutal authority. He used a finger heavy with jade rings to press hard into Claudia’s slender shoulder, forcing her to lean forward. "Look down there, my little doll! Look at how the wild strength you praised last night is being crushed to pieces!"

Claudia did not tremble. She hid her slender hands within the folds of her purple silk, her fingers tightening until her nails dug deep into her palms, drawing sharp pain to keep her lips from flinching. Her brown eyes stared unblinkingly down at the arena floor.

Down in the pit, the bloody tragedy had dragged on for a full hour. Most of the Kavanu prisoners had fallen. Their proud bodies had been torn limb from limb, their bones snapped under the razor-sharp jaws of famished hyenas. The yellow sand floor had transformed into a sticky, messy crimson hue. The heart-wrenching screams slowly faded, yielding to the bloodthirsty, low-throated growls of the three largest hyenas—beasts with matted grey fur, claws dripping with fresh blood, and jaws oozing venomous saliva.

And in the center of that bloody shambles, only a single man remained standing.

Jabari.

The southern general stood towering amid the chaotic atmosphere. Both his wrists remained bound tightly by a short, thick iron chain connecting two iron loops driven straight into his skin. His bronze-toned skin was blanketed in a mix of fresh and dried dark blood, his muscular chest heaving with heavy, labored breaths. Though his left shoulder bore a deep, bone-deep claw mark left by beastly fangs, his stance remained as proud as a god of war freshly stepped from the abyss.

An alpha hyena—its frame as massive as a northern grey wolf—let out a piercing shriek. Lowering its center of gravity, its eyes flashing with a grotesque blue light, it lunged straight for Jabari’s throat!

"Come on! Tear his throat out!" The aristocrats on the stands roared in unison, leaping to their feet in ecstatic applause.

Yet Jabari did not even dodge.

The exact moment the beast vaulted through the air, its sharp fangs mere inches from his neck, Jabari whipped his body around. Explosive kinetic force surged from his broad shoulders in a horizontal sweep! Raising both arms, he used the very short iron chain binding his wrists to wrap tightly around the hyena's lower jaw, then dropped his weight and wrenched it in a violent circle!

Crack!

The dry snap of the beast's cervical spine echoed harshly across the arena!

Without missing a beat, Jabari hoisted the hundred-pound carcass of the beast into the air, smashing it down against the stone floor with cataclysmic force. Fresh blood burst from the creature's mouth, spattering across the sand.

The remaining two hyenas panicked at such absolute brutality, but hunger drove them to charge his flanks simultaneously. One sank its fangs deep into the flesh of Jabari’s rugged calf.

Jabari did not let out a single groan. His chiseled face hardened, his dark eyes blazing with a wild, feral bloodlust. Flinging his left arm, he delivered an iron-hammer blow straight to the temple of the hyena clamped to his leg, shattering its skull on the spot. Simultaneously, he whipped his right arm—wrapped in iron chain—around the neck of the final beast, tightening a lethal chokehold around its windpipe.

Veins bulged along Jabari’s neck and arms like ancient tree roots. Tilting his head back, his body strained to its absolute limit. The beast thrued violently, claws tearing strips of flesh from his chest, but the southern general's chokehold only grew tighter, colder.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Hnh...

The final hyena went limp, its lifeless body dropping heavily into the puddle of gore beneath his feet.

The entire arena plunged into a graveyard stillness.

The lyre music died away. The howling Roman senators froze, silver goblets tilting in their hands. Servius Tullo sat paralyzed upon the leopard-skin throne, his bloated face turning ashen with shock and humiliation. The four most ferocious beasts had been struck down—not by fully equipped Roman soldiers, but by a shackled, exhausted, blood-soaked captive!

Amidst the bloody sand, Jabari straightened his spine. He did not pant in panic. He slowly raised his head.

His body was caked in blood, his braided hair swaying amid flickering torch smoke. And then, beneath hundreds of eyes converging upon him, Jabari did not look at Servius. He did not look at the Roman nobility.

His deep, black eyes—burning with lethal intent and absolute dominance—pierced straight up toward the highest dais where Claudia stood.

Their gazes locked across the suffocating air.

Jabari clearly saw the woman in purple silk. Amidst the frantic, terrified crowd, she was the sole soul who neither howled nor trembled. Her alabaster skin glowed under the torchlight, and her warm yet ice-cold brown eyes reflected the brutal battle just passed. He saw no pity in those eyes, only the sharp gleam of someone who had just witnessed an ultimate weapon unearthed.

And Claudia saw him too. He looked at her not with the posture of a surviving slave, but like a king standing upon his own battlefield, peeling away every hidden layer of concealment and ambition beneath her obedient exterior.

Servius slammed a hand against his armrest, roaring to shatter his own shock: "Lock him up! Chain that black bastard back up! Tomorrow night I'll have him fight a northern iron bear!"

Late at night.

The depraved frenzy subsided, returning the Tullo villa to a chilling stillness. Servius, having drained several jars of sour wine, passed out heavily across the velvet bed, his pig-like snorts echoing through the bedchamber.

Claudia slipped silently from the bed. She draped a dark grey coarse-linen cloak of a servant over her shoulders. Within her wide sleeves, she concealed a small ceramic jar containing python fat mixed with healing herbs, a few strips of clean linen, and a precious piece of hard dry bread filleted from the banquet table.

Her footsteps were as light as a phantom gliding through the cold Suburra stone corridors.

The torches had burned low, leaving only flickering beams reflecting off damp, moss-grown walls. Slipping past two guards slumped beside empty wine flasks, Claudia stealthily nudged open the solid cast-iron gate.

Screeech...

The soft screech of rusted metal tore through the quiet.

The thick stench of fresh blood and scorched flesh from the arena still lingered in the dungeon air.

In the gloomy corner of the vault, Jabari leaned his back against the cold stone wall. The general’s muscular frame rose and fell with heavy, agonizing breaths. Wounds across his left shoulder and chest still oozed fresh blood, the deep claw marks reaching down to the bone causing every muscle in his frame to contract rhythmically. Yet the exact second Claudia’s soft footsteps brushed the stone floor, his dark eyes snapped wide open.

The bloody bloodlust from the arena battle had not yet faded, blazing like a blade freshly drawn from its scabbard.

"It is you again, noble matron?" Jabari’s voice was deep, hoarse like grinding stones. He spoke in crisp Latin laden with natural authority. "Come to feast your eyes on the crippled state of a beast fresh from the jaws of beasts?"

Claudia did not answer immediately. Step by step, her rough hem brushed against dried blood on the stone floor. She knelt on one knee beside the stone ledge, within arm's reach of him.

Beneath the yellowish light slipping through the iron bars, her alabaster skin contrasted sharply against the bloody, pitch-black wounds across the general's bronzed shoulders.

Claudia pulled out the jar of herbal ointment and linen strips. Her long, slender fingers did not tremble as they touched his hot, blood-matted skin directly.

"Don't move," she whispered, her voice gentle yet ice-cold. "Unless you want these wounds to gangrene and rot you away in this cell before tomorrow night's game."

Jabari narrowed his eyes. The touch of a Roman woman’s soft, cool fingers against his open wounds caused the muscles across his shoulders to bunch. Yet he did not move, nor did he utter a single groan as the bitter ointment bit deep into his flesh.

Slowly lowering his gaze, he observed her meticulous movements. From her hands skillfully washing away dried blood before binding the wound, down to her delicate, composed face masking a dark abyss behind brown eyes.

"You move with great practiced skill," Jabari murmured, a faint undertone of mockery threading his words. "A senator's respected wife knowing how to cleanse the wounds of a southern captive... How many times have you done this?"

Claudia’s fingers froze for a fraction of a second on the linen, but she instantly tightened the knot.

"In this Rome, to survive the beatings of those who hold power, anyone must learn to bandage themselves," she lifted her head, her gaze meeting his with unflinching directness. "You are not the only one bearing scars under this roof, Jabari."

Jabari’s heart subtly shuddered. Deep within those dark brown pupils, he saw neither contempt nor the feigned compassion of the ruling class, but the ruthless kinship of the damned.

The cell lapsed back into a suffocating silence. The steady dripping of water onto stone measured out time.

Jabari tilted his head slightly, his broad back pressing flat against the stone wall. His dark eyes—deep as the Kavanu night—pinned her delicate face, peeling away every layer of the obedient mask she wore.

"Tell me, matron..."

His voice lowered, carrying an invisible weight like a southern sandstorm sweeping through the cramped vault:

"You risk your life, sneaking medicine and food down to this foul-smelling hole... Is it out of harmless pity for a dying man, or are you searching for a blade you can wield?"

The question was blunt, sharp as a sword piercing every veil.

Claudia looked into those eyes—the eyes of the general who refused to bow. She knew that any lie or evasion now was utterly meaningless before a man like him.