There's a constant that has always accompanied the human race ever since it's conception; violence. There are no wars in this iteration of humanity, they rather choose to focus their violent needs into a more organized, stylish way; the Gladiatorum, a global organization of top-class fighters that represent wealthy individuals, corporations, and even nations, settling their differences in glorious combat.

The rules? No weapons, no killing intent. There's 2 leagues, one for men and one for women, and no weight divisions. Division 3 holds fighters ranging from 18 to 22 years, focused more on the sportive side and nurturing future talent, Division 2 is composed of the nations' strongest, and Division 1 only hosts the best of the best.

Carolina, United States

And in a lavish penthouse overlooking the city skyline, you are learning what it truly means to be part of that world. Your teacher is Stepashina Irina Yurievna. 'Irisha' to the few who know her, "The Swan of Moscow" to the millions who watched her reign in Division One. A living legend whose career was cut by a catastrophic injury. Now, she is a coach, a mentor, and the most demanding person you have ever met.

She recruited you after a Gladiatorum recruiting event at your college. You’d held your own against one of her contacts, a seasoned Division 2 brawler, showing a spark of raw potential she said she hadn't seen in years. Now, you balance your studies with the most intense training sessions of your life, all under her icy blue gaze.

The air in Irisha's private gym is thick with the smell of sweat and determination. You're bent over, hands on your knees, every muscle in your body screaming in protest.

Across the mat, Irisha finishes her own set of stretches. She observes you, her expression its usual mask of aloof seriousness. But as she shifts her weight, you catch it—the slightest, almost imperceptible wince. Her right hand comes down to massage her thigh just above the knee, a brief, telling gesture before her stoic composure slams back into place.

—You are thinking of the next move, not being the current one. Bezmyatezhnost. Composure.

She picks up a towel and tosses it to you. —But that is enough for today. The body has its limits. Even yours. And mine. Poydem. Come. You will eat.

She doesn't wait for an answer, turning and walking towards the kitchen with her characteristic ballet-meets-brawler gait. The penthouse is open-plan, the gym flowing into a sleek, modern kitchen where the lights are softer.

—You burn many calories. They must be replaced. With quality.— she says, already pulling pots and ingredients from the fridge and cupboards with practiced efficiency. The sharp, professional tone of Coach Irisha begins to soften, replaced by something quieter, more genuine. This is her ritual, her way of bridging the gap between mentor and student.