(Content Warning—This chapter contains graphic violence and gore. The reader's discretion is advised.)
"Too much sanity may be madness..."—Don Quixote, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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“Who do you think?” Sestius croaked, gasping for air.
Lucius felt the man's body shudder once before all struggle left it, growing slack and heavy in his arms.
CLANG!
Sestius’ gladius clattered on the stony ground, signaling his final surrender.
Lucius risked a shallow glance downward—just enough—because any further, and he feared he’d fall himself.
It took all his remaining will and strength to stay upright.
His gaze met Sestius’ blank stare, then it drifted to the angry scar peeking beneath the edge of the man’s eyepatch.
He recognized it.
It was a wound he had inflicted—a spar gone wrong, long ago.
And now…
The man died… standing.
It was also because of him.
Lucius replayed the chaotic last moments from only seconds earlier.
The feeling of his own gladius tearing across Sestius’ throat—slicing through the carotid artery—just as the traitor’s conspirator, whoever he was, stabbed him from behind.
It was a fatal exchange, sealed in blood.
Sestius succumbed first.
The man had only survived long enough to deliver his final, damning whisper—
And soon…
Lucius would follow.
He closed his eyes, accepting his inevitable fate.
His chest rose once, then faltered, each inhale weaker than the last.
He could feel it.
His body, too, was losing the power to stand.
He just wanted to rest.
And just like that…
Everything had ended even before the climax.
In the end, Lucius would never know the traitor who had struck him, snuffing out his life.
‘And besides… It’s not… important now.’
He would cease to exist.
That was the outcome.
That was all.
His knees buckled forward, and together, he crumpled with Sestius’ corpse, his own gladius clanging on the tunnel’s stone floor.
Their bodies tangled.
A mess of flesh and blood.
He just lay there, face down, wheezing for air, like a fish out of the water.
No other thoughts.
No other memories.
No flashbacks of the life he had lived for years.
There was only one question that continued to burn in his mind—
‘Did I do good?’
With a final, desperate effort, he heaved his heavy body, grunting and panting.
His chest pressed against Sestius’ still-warm remains as he tried, miserably, to crawl.
Warm blood flowed from his back, pooling beneath his chest.
He wanted to scream, but his jaw only clamped tighter.
‘It hurts!’
Halfway off Sestius’ body, Lucius strained his neck to lift his head back—just enough to glimpse at the flicker of movement behind Aegillius.
Lucius blinked, forcing his eyes to focus through the dim orange light of the tunnel, his vision already fading.
With the last of his strength, he sought his master’s gaze to see if he’d be proud of him.
If all his bruises and wounds, the badges of his honor, were enough to earn even a shred of recognition.
But…
‘—?’
All he could make out was a blurred figure standing still… and two vivid blue orbs… cold and hard.
‘Ah… so that’s what it is…’
Lucius managed a bitter smile.
The oath he tried so hard to protect had all been for nothing.
‘You’re so cruel.’
Then his eyes strayed to his last comrade.
‘My brother… protect our master…’ he tried to rasp—his dying wish—but the plea got stuck in his throat.
A dagger, fresh blood still dripping, was clutched in Aegillius’ hand.
His gaze was vacant.
Before Lucius could register what it meant, his strength ebbed, and he collapsed back onto Sestius' body, his face hitting the sticky floor.
He gasped for breath.
But instead of air, wet blood filled his nose and mouth—it bubbled, drowning him.
And then—
Just darkness...
His body trembled once as he breathed his last.
Now—
Only four people remained.
Two on each opposing side.
Three Praetorian guards and one—a figure of unearthly beauty—stood amidst the carnage.
Arrogance etched itself across the beautiful man's face as he watched the guard's body sag lifelessly.
‘Stupid until the end.’
A faint, wet gurgling sound reached him—frantic, slowing—and then it was gone.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
‘Can’t even do his job properly. Not a single one of them!’
Irritation creased his perfect features before twisting into an ugly sneer.
It was already a given that they ought to die for him.
He was their master after all.
Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.
‘I am their God.’
He looked down once more—not at the dead man, but at what remained—and decided that the guard’s life had already served its purpose.
His neck remained stiff, still trying to hold itself high even as everything else seemed to have fallen.
As if none of this had anything to do with him, as if he were reclining above his pulvinar , watching a performance, rather than standing ankle-deep in gore.
To him, this wasn’t a tragedy.
It was a show, a spectacle of some sort.
And he, of course, was the audience.
A bored spectator watching yet another pair of unlucky actors stumbling through their final scene for his amusement.
Because why shouldn’t it be?
He couldn’t even see faces anymore.
Not the dead men lying below his feet, not the traitorous guards frozen around him, not anyone’s.
‘They’re more like puppets, dancing to my own tune,’ he thought, his eyes narrowing through the dim.
Hell, he couldn’t even tell the color of the pungent fluid pooling around the dead bodies.
Only the way the torchlight shimmered on the liquid, white to black to gray, each shade devouring the other.
The only colors in his world.
Once upon a time, he knew more, but that was a long, long time ago.
Something pricked at his heart.
A memory.
It tried to creep in, but his thoughts—already loud, already mad, and already broken beyond repair—forbade it to come to light.
The memory got sucked down, down, and deeper.
‘To where all unwanted scripts belonged.’
He sneered again, already forgetting what he was thinking.
His dark robe—supposed to be crimson, or so he’d been told—now hung in tatters around his slim but toned form.
A pathetic testament from the ambush earlier.
His long, pale legs were marked with small scratches, black lines streaking them in jagged, ugly trails.
‘It’s blood.’
A wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to sway.
His stumbling feet, clad in elegant leather sandals, were polished to a warm sheen, but for him…
It only looked dull.
The golden diadem, its emeralds and rubies flashing gray in the dim torchlight, sat askew on his matted, blond-curled hair.
‘Right, it was supposed to be the color of the sun.’
It was a symbol of his status—his Imperial power.
His luminous eyes, which others described as the color of a clear blue sky—usually distant and imperious—were blind to all colors.
A secret he only knew.
They now blazed with raw, animalistic fury.
Small thin lips now curled in disgust.
Even the air he breathed reeked of filth.
The sweet myrrh he once favored had turned rancid in the stench of death.
It was now suffocating him.
SPLOTCH.
SQUELCHED.
SWISH—SWISH—!
He stumbled backward until his spine met the icy wall.
The rough stone bit into his sandals.
The slick floor—soggy and offensive—pressed warmth into his feet.
“Hah haa-ahh ugh!”
Suddenly, the guard before him—the one he believed to be his last remaining protector—turned and grabbed him roughly.
A knife bathed in black liquid, still dripping, now dangled from the man’s waist.
Without a word, the guard bound the arrogant man with a coarse rope.
Confused and dizzied, the self-proclaimed god shook uncontrollably as he watched his wrists being pulled together and tied tightly in front of him as he swayed like a drunkard, unable to stay upright.
His Praetorian guards—sworn to obey, yet now moving with minds of their own—were turning their blades against him.
‘Their Emperor!’
The one they served.
The one who owned their lives!
‘How dare they?!’
His eyes narrowed—raw anger tightening in his chest like a fist.
‘How dare they do this to me?!’
Still delusional.
His mind clouded.
He still didn’t see them as people—only tools to be used.
“This is blasphemy!” he screamed.
SWISH—SPLAT!
A guard forced him to his knees—so hard, he nearly collapsed onto the tunnel floor—knocking the breath out of him.
The cold, jagged stones scraped his skin, sending a jolt of excruciating sting through his body.
‘This humiliation!’ he seethed, biting his tongue—hard.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, but he refused to give his captors the dignity of a pained scream.
Instead, his glare sharpened—pure venom, burning his insides.
‘I’ll give this back to you all—a thousand fold!’
A dark promise of revenge.
“What do you all think you are doing?” he screeched.
The light from the torch struggled to penetrate the tunnel’s murk, but the glint of steel was unmistakable as more and more figures emerged from the shadows.
Finally—
It was time for them to reveal themselves!
The true orchestrators.
The masterminds behind it all.
One, two… ten.
Bloop — bloop, bloop —the sound of their sandals squelching through the blood as they advanced.
The delusional god thrashed wildly.
His bonds chewed into his thin wrists.
He looked around for someone—anyone—to free him.
But all he could see were his fallen guards.
‘Useless!’
He lifted his head and stared at the blurry faces of the three backstabbing guards now standing beside him.
‘Traitors!’
They held him down.
“Struggling is of no use…”
A voice he knew so well—the head of his guards, Marcus Arrecinus Clemens—broke the choking silence.
The man was a known coward, always hiding in the dark.
And yet, he, the benevolent Emperor, had still chosen to appoint Clemens.
To bully him.
To see the man squirm like a bug.
A fatal mistake.
Because who was squirming on the ground now?
Clemens' voice was flat.
Emotionless.
Like what he was doing was just another chore, not an assassination.
“Untie me this instant!” the Emperor demanded.
But his command fell on deaf ears.
“Obey me!” he screeched.
Normally, a tantrum like this would have these men scrambling to their feet and fulfilling his wishes.
But now...
“Why would he?” said another voice.
A chill swept through him.
It was…
A senior tribune of the Praetorians .
“... Cassius Chaerea…”
The Emperor spat the man’s name like poison in his mouth.
‘This snake!’
His bound hands clenched into trembling fists, nails digging into his palms.
“I AM YOUR EMPEROR!” he roared.
“I AM YOUR GOD!”
The guards remained silent, treating his yells like the buzzing of a fly.
“Down here…” Clemens muttered quietly, almost to himself.
“... you are nothing.”
The words tightened around his neck like a noose.
Then came the echo of a distant dozen footsteps above.
A thunderous cheer followed.
“A god?” Chaerea laughed joyfully.
“Listen. The people above are celebrating their god’s downfall—”
His voice held a trace of cruel amusement.
“I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL ALL OF YOU!!!”
The Emperor screamed until his throat burned.
He couldn’t stop the sudden outburst.
Veins throbbed, blemishing his smooth temple, as if they were threatening to pop.
But he was unable to do anything.
‘This—!’
He had never felt this powerless in his entire reign.
Helpless.
Pathetic.
“I’LL DESTROY YOU!” he continued to shriek.
‘This shouldn’t be happening!’
SPLASH.
For the first time in years, a flicker of something foreign seized him—fear.
Yes.
Fear.
Undeniable and true.
It twisted his face.
SPLASH—
Then a memory, buried under his rage, broke free.
SWOOSH—
A small boy.
Himself.
It felt as if he was a bystander watching from the edge of someone else’s life as he clenched his fist.
‘No! Don’t look!’ he screamed at the boy.
But the boy ignored him, he was staring at a detached arm near his little feet.
It still clutched a sword.
Bloodied.
Grotesque.
He knew what was gonna happen next… the boy would wail and wail, until he could wail no more.
That was how terrified he was back then.
And he still was.
STEP—
Another memory spun his head.
A small boy alone with a man inside a tent.
He felt his whole body going stiff.
‘No… no… no!’ he shouted, but the sound belonged to the memory, and he remained unseen.
The man’s eyes—odd, the color of fresh blood, like the liquid flowing from the severed arm.
And then the man’s merciless voice.
“Sshh,” the man hissed.
‘I don’t want to see this!’ he wanted to thrash something, but he was unable to do anything as the memory played in front of his eyes like it was mocking him.
He knew very well what was about to happen next.
‘NO!’ he screamed.
The man suddenly brandished a knife that flashed like lightning in the moonlight.
“If you tell…”
The man’s red eyes glowed.
“I will kill your father, your mother… and your siblings…”
It wasn’t the blade, nor the smile, nor those threats that rooted the boy to the spot.
He knew what it was.
It was the man’s eyes.
Even when he was smiling, his eyes held a cruel glint, near madness—but that was not what truly terrified the small child.
It was the raw rage and pain burning behind them.
The boy didn’t understand, but he knew what it was now.
“I’ll feel bad if you forget about me.”
Then the knife kissed the boy’s skin.
‘Uwaahh! It… it… it… hurts!’
Suddenly, the boy had become him.
“This is all your father’s and Rome’s doing, and therefore yours as well.”
He dared not breathe nor speak, he just stared, wide-eyed.
“Someone must pay—right?”
The man’s red eyes narrowed as he leaned his face closer to the boy.
“What shall I do to you, hm?”
“Hic…” he hiccuped, a sound that broke into a silent whimper.
“Oh, I know—”
The man pressed the knife deeper.
“I’ll leave you a wound... a curse.”
His cold voice froze his body.
‘Stop!’
“That’s my revenge.”
The man drew his blood.
‘Please stop!’
As the red spread, he blacked out—it was the last color he ever saw.
He was sure that was when his world went gray.
‘And maybe… also the reason I could no longer recognize faces.’
Even now, when all faces blur, that man’s eyes remained carved into his mind.
Even in his dreams.
And before the darkness took him, he could still hear the man’s last words…
“Even if I die, I will continue to curse you—even from Tartarus."
SPLASH!
Then just as quickly, it snapped shut—vanished—swallowed by his own wrath.
"I'LL DESTROY Y—!"
A man wearing a toga, a senator, cut off the Emperor’s bellow.
“This is for your madness!”
The first blade plunged into his side, then twisted.
" Hoc age! " (Take that!)
“Ahhhh!”
A searing pain tore another scream from him, it shot through his whole being, as if a hot iron had been thrust into his flesh.
This pain was unlike the shallow cuts he’d received earlier nor the memory of the sting on his knees.
It was deeper.
More personal.
“You forced our children to prostitute themselves in the Palatium! ”
Then, another blade, this time in his stomach.
A noble—from one of the ten great gentes that he didn’t recognize.
‘Nonsense!’
He tried to speak, but blood bubbled from his lips.
“Blegh... Urk…” he choked.
“You slaughtered our families, you demon!”
A dagger pierced his right shoulder.
“You coerced us to dine with you while our son’s bodies rotted outside your gates!”
A woman cried.
" Accipe ratum! " (Receive your due!)
This time, it was a man whose voice he knew too well.
One of his advisors, his childhood friend.
‘Even you?’ he wanted to answer.
‘Receive my due? What nonsense.’
Even his childhood friend had passed his judgement.
‘When did I ever do that?’
The litany of accusations continued.
" Repete! " (And again!)
Each blade was a record of his supposed cruelty.
Then, the final blow—from Chaerea himself, his voice came as a quiet-harsh whisper…
“This one…"
He could hear the senior tribune's crunching teeth.
"... is for every time..."
Warm, foul breath hit his face as Chaerea’s spittle sprayed across his cheek.
"... for every time you call me... effeminate."
The man spat every word.
Then, without ceremony, Chaerea shoved him to the ground after sticking his own knife.
SPLAT!
‘Ah, of course.’
His consciousness was already fading away, unravelling like a thread.
‘Ughh.’
Above, faint strains of sound drifted through the tunnel—cheering, stomping, crying.
A celebration.
Life carried on as death reigned below.
“The tyrant bleeds like any other mortal…”
Someone commented, followed by a ruthless snicker.
SQUELCHED.
SQUELCHED.
He tried to drag himself forward, helpless without the use of his hands, relying only on his knees and the trembling heave of his torso.
The mad god inched along the ground like a wounded worm.
A macabre trail of sticky blood followed him—
Until a sandal-clad foot stopped him from moving forward.
He weakly craned his neck, looking up, trying to make out the face above the sandal.
Blood blurred his vision, but through the haze, he saw him—a water for a dying man.
‘So... colorful...’
Warm honey-toned skin.
Long dark raven hair—tied loosely on his back.
Straight nose.
Strong well-defined jaw.
And those expressive green eyes full of something…
‘... almost unreadable…’
That was only if one did not look closely.
But the Emperor knew.
Of course he knew very well.
Those eyes looked steady and unreadable but if one observed intently—
A slight tremor passed through them.
‘There it is…’ he bit his lip.
Recognition struck him like lightning.
It was…
‘... Lepidus.’
The lover he thought had died many months ago.
“Y-you—!” he coughed, a surge of warm blood filled his mouth, unable to say more.
As an endless abyss drew a final curtain across his eyes, there was only one thought left in his mind...
'How?'
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