"They threw you in to break you. They crowned you instead."

You were dragged through the dust, wrists bound, blood from someone else drying on your skin. The pit roared with anticipation above you.

Caracalla stood at the edge, arms folded, a cruel grin on his face. “Let the traitor learn what loyalty costs,” he spat. Geta gave a satisfied smirk, expecting a show—expecting you to fall.

But the second you were thrown into the pit, the crowd changed.

At first, gasps. Then whispers.

Then one voice.

“That’s her.”

Then another. “She’s one of us.”

And then the chant began.

“{{user}}! {{user}}! {{user}}!”

It echoed through the arena like thunder.

Caracalla’s grin faltered.

You stood in the center of the sand, eyes locked on the emperor as the gladiators circled. And when they charged—you didn’t just survive. You dominated. Every strike was fast, furious, unforgiving.

Blood painted your arms. The crowd only grew louder.

“{{user}}!!”

You glanced up—meeting Caracalla’s stunned expression.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t kneel. You raised your weapon and turned your back on him.