The Flame pulsed with light, an endless sea of information stretching before him.
Gaius leaned back against his chair, eyes scanning the holographic interface floating in front of him. The Imperium's central network, the Flame, was an incomprehensibly vast database, the heart of all sanctioned knowledge, carefully curated and filtered through countless layers of restrictions.
It was said that every word, every thought, every idea allowed to exist within the Imperium passed through the Flame.
If the Imperium was a body, then the Flame was its mind.
And yet, for all its endless knowledge, it was also a cage.
A well-decorated, brilliantly constructed cage, but a cage nonetheless.
Because not everything was meant to be seen.
He ran a search query. Imperial Gene Analysis Examination – Structure and Requirements.
A soft chime followed, and a notification appeared on the screen.
ACCESS RESTRICTED. AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: LEGATUS AND ABOVE.
Gaius narrowed his eyes.
Locked. As expected.
The examination was the single most important moment in a citizen's life, and yet, those who would take it were not allowed to know its full details. Only officers of the Imperium had access to its inner workings, the specifics hidden behind layers of classified restrictions.
Typical.
He exhaled through his nose, leaning back further.
It wasn't surprising.
But it was still irritating.
There were thousands of rumors about what the examination truly tested for—some said it was simply a measurement of talent, others claimed it was a death trial, culling the weak before they could even begin their true lives.
Gaius had no idea what the truth was.
But he would find out soon enough.
Instead, he redirected his search. News. Events. The war front.
The Flame shifted, pages of information flickering across the screen.
He skimmed through the headlines.
"Imperial Senate Declares Martial Mobilization in the Outer Ring—Hostile Activity Suspected in Sector Theta-32."
"House Aurelius Announces Victory in the Dawn Crusade—Bellum Incursion Repelled."
"New Developments in Bloodline Cultivation—House Valeria Unveils Genetic Enhancements for Next-Generation Legions."
The same patterns.
Politics. War. Advancements in the Imperium's never-ending quest for superiority.
Nothing new. Nothing unexpected.
Gaius closed the news feed, his fingers tapping absently against the desk.
He wasn't in the mood to read about politics.
Instead, he pulled up the Imperium's most-watched broadcast network.
The Colosseum Eternal.
The universe's greatest entertainment empire—a brutal, magnificent spectacle of war and combat, where warriors from across the galaxy fought for glory, wealth, and eternal renown.
It was more than a sport.
It was a religion.
The arena fights were the purest form of what the Imperium represented—strength, power, dominance.
He selected a match, the holographic display shifting into a live feed of a roaring colosseum.
The crowd was deafening, millions of spectators screaming in unison, the sheer scale of the arena stretching endlessly into the distance.
The camera panned down.
Two warriors stood in the center of the battlefield.
One was a beast of a man, covered in ritual scars, a towering figure wielding a massive warhammer infused with Qi-enhanced gravitational force. His name flickered across the screen—"Varak, The Orge."
His opponent was far smaller, but infinitely more dangerous.
A single-edged sword rested in his hands, his stance loose but unreadable. He was clad in simple black armor, unadorned, his face obscured by a half-mask. His name was displayed in golden letters—
"Lucien Astra, The Specter of the Arena."
Gaius recognized the name immediately.
Lucien Astra was a legend in the Colosseum Eternal—a warrior undefeated in over fifty matches, a swordsman whose blade was said to move faster than thought.
The two gladiators stared at each other in silence.
Then, the battle began.
Varak charged, his massive hammer crashing down with a force that shattered the earth, sending a shockwave rippling through the arena.
Lucien was already gone.
He moved like a phantom—fluid, effortless, untouchable.
Gaius watched, enthralled, as Lucien weaved through the battlefield, every step perfectly timed, every movement a whisper of death.
Varak roared, swinging again—but the strike met only empty air.
Then, a flash of steel.
Lucien's sword sang through the air.
One moment, Varak was whole.
The next, his body was cut into five perfect pieces.
The arena fell silent.
Then, the crowd erupted into madness.
Gaius leaned back, exhaling slowly.
That level of mastery... it was beyond human.
Even the best soldiers of the Imperium couldn't move like that.
It was the pinnacle of cultivation—where skill and power merged into something transcendent.
Something untouchable.
Something he would one day reach.
The match ended, and Gaius cut the feed.
Enough distractions.
It was time to train.
The training hall was empty when he arrived.
Perfect.
He stripped off his jacket, stepping onto the smooth black floor, feeling the artificial gravity shift slightly beneath his feet. The training room was automated, capable of adjusting to any combat scenario, equipped with gravity modifiers, Qi dampeners, and projection simulations.
But he didn't need any of that.
Not now.
He simply needed his blade.
He drew his sword.
The weight was familiar, comforting.
He exhaled. Then—movement.
He flowed through the Galaxy's Forms, his body shifting from one stance to the next. Each cut, each pivot, each feint—perfectly executed.
Faster.
His feet barely touched the ground, his strikes blurring through the air.
Faster.
His breath remained steady, even as his muscles burned, his body screaming for rest.
Faster.
His sword became an extension of himself, moving without thought, without hesitation—a force of nature, a blade of inevitability.
He lost track of time.
When he finally stopped, his body was drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.
He let the silence settle.
Then, a voice.
"You move well."
Gaius turned.
Standing near the entrance, arms crossed, was Odysseus Valor.
The younger son of Marquis Octavian Valor, watching him with an expression of mild curiosity.
The other noble sons were with him, lingering behind, some watching in amusement, others with veiled contempt.
Gaius said nothing, simply sheathing his blade.
Odysseus stepped forward, his posture casual, relaxed—yet undeniably powerful.
"Not bad," he said, tilting his head slightly. "For a commoner."
Gaius met his gaze, expression unreadable.
He wasn't stupid..
The nobles were measuring him.
Gaius had seen their kind before.
Predators.
Creatures of authority, trained to rule, raised to expect obedience.
And yet, Odysseus did not look at him with hostility.
Only amusement.
As if waiting to see how Gaius would respond.
So he did nothing.
He simply stared.
A long, quiet silence stretched between them.
Then, Odysseus smiled—a small, knowing smirk.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Without another word, he turned, walking away. The other nobles followed, their presence like a fading storm.
Gaius remained standing in the center of the training hall.
The weight of their presence lingered.
He exhaled slowly.