The first dawn with Spartacus in the ludus felt different. A new energy crackled in the air, a mixture of fear, anticipation, and barely concealed hostility. The recruits whispered amongst themselves, while the senior gladiators stared at the newcomer with calculating eyes.
Spartacus himself was silent. He sat alone at breakfast, oblivious to everyone's gazes. His face was a mask of cold composure, but his wild eyes constantly moved, scanning his surroundings, analyzing every corner of his new prison. In the training yard, the Doctore wasted no time. He seemed determined to break the Thracian's spirit from day one. "Here," the Doctore said, standing before Spartacus, his voice sharper than usual. "We do not fight like wild dogs. We fight with discipline. With technique. Show me your stance." Spartacus adopted a low, balanced stance, that of a warrior ready to face many opponents on uneven battlefield. "Wrong," the Doctore said flatly. "That's a stance for dying. Legs too wide, body too open. In the arena, against a single opponent, you'll be slaughtered. Correct it." The Doctore demonstrated the more upright, narrower gladiator stance, designed for one-on-one combat. Spartacus looked at the stance, then back to his own position. "This is what kept me alive," he replied, his voice hoarse. Crixus, watching from the sidelines with the other champions, scoffed. "Hear that? This beast tries to teach the Doctore how to fight."
The Doctore ignored Crixus. He stepped forward, picking up a wooden sword. "If you will not learn with words, you will learn with pain."
Without warning, the Doctore attacked. His movements were swift and precise. Spartacus, with his extraordinary reflexes, managed to parry. But the Doctore didn't stop. He attacked again and again, not with brute force, but with perfect technique. Each blow forced Spartacus into an unfavorable position. He used Spartacus's shield to block his vision, his foot sweeping at Spartacus's ankle. Within seconds, Spartacus was cornered. With a cunning pivoting move, the Doctore disarmed Spartacus and the tip of his wooden sword now pressed against the Thracian's throat. "On the battlefield, you may be a lion," the Doctore said, not even slightly out of breath. "In my sands, you are a student. And you will learn."
He stepped back, tossing the sword back to Spartacus. "Again."
As the drama between the Doctore, Spartacus, and Crixus became the focus of the entire ludus, Thomas saw it. An opportunity. All eyes were on the three giants. The guards, the recruits, even the working slaves, were all fixated on the brutal lesson unfolding. No one was paying attention to him. For the next few days, he capitalized on this distraction. He found gaps in supervision, conducting quick, silent transactions in the shadowy corners of the ludus. Each transaction yielded him the same reward.
{Intimate connection completed. Target: Slave (Category 1).}
{Life Essence gained: +2}
That night, in the darkness of his cell, as the tired, angry snores of Spartacus echoed from another corner, Thomas felt a cold satisfaction. His Essence was slowly accumulating. He hadn't felt any permanent increase in strength or speed yet. Instead, he was building up a reserve of energy, capital that he would one day use to buy true power. He would grow in their shadows, two Essence at a time.
The following days in the ludus settled into a new, more tense hellish routine. Spartacus's presence was like a large stone thrown into a calm pond, creating ripples that affected everyone. Training became more brutal, as the Doctore seemed determined to break the Thracian's spirit or crush him in the process. Crixus, on the other hand, trained with even greater fury, every movement a silent challenge to his new rival. In the midst of these clashes of giants, Thomas continued to move in the shadows. He performed his training, pushing his body to its limits, and quietly accumulated his precious Essence. He could feel a difference in training; not from stat increases, but because he now had an energy reserve to burn when he hit his limit, allowing him to train harder and longer.
One afternoon after training, as the slaves cleaned themselves in the baths, Varro approached Thomas with a small papyrus scroll in his hand. His face showed an expression rarely seen in this place: pure happiness mixed with longing. "A letter," Varro said, his voice trembling with emotion. "From my wife." He handed the scroll to Thomas. "I... I can read a little, but her handwriting... Would you?"
Thomas took the papyrus. This was an honor, a sign of deep trust in a place where trust could get you killed. He read the letter aloud, words of love from a wife to her husband, news of their son who had just begun to walk. Varro listened, his eyes glistening, a wide smile gracing his face.
"She's well," Varro whispered, more to himself. "They're well." "She's a strong woman," Thomas said, returning the scroll.
"Yes, she is," Varro agreed, looking at Thomas with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, my friend. I owe you."
That moment crystallized their friendship. Amidst the brutality, they found a flicker of humanity.
A few days later, Thomas saw his chance again. The chaos caused by Spartacus had loosened the ludus routine slightly. Lucretia seemed more distracted, and her oversight of her slaves was somewhat relaxed. Thomas saw Naevia walking alone in a quiet corridor, carrying a bundle of clean linen. He knew he couldn't approach her in the same way. Praise had already been used. He needed something more. Something that showed he saw more than just a slave.
He gently intercepted Naevia's path. The girl flinched, but her fear lessened slightly upon seeing Thomas's face. She remembered him.
"Naevia," Thomas called softly.
"Yes?" she replied, her eyes still wary.
Thomas glanced around, ensuring no one was watching. "I just wanted to say something," he said in a low, serious voice. "The Champion... his mood hasn't been good lately. His eyes are sharper than usual." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Be careful."
Naevia froze. Her eyes widened in surprise and a hint of fear. Thomas didn't mention Crixus's name directly. He didn't mention the incident from a few days ago. He simply gave a vague yet highly specific warning. A warning that showed he understood Naevia's situation without having to say it. He showed that he saw her as someone in danger, not as an object. The fear in Naevia's eyes slowly mingled with something else. Gratitude. Surprise. She looked at Thomas, truly looked at him for the first time.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Just one word, but its weight was immense.
She then hurried away, leaving Thomas alone in the corridor. Thomas didn't gain any Essence from that interaction. But he gained something far more valuable. He had just planted the seeds of trust in his Category 2 target. He realized that in this world, seduction wasn't about wealth or sweet words like in his old life. Seduction here was a long game built on an understanding of fear, and the offering of safety, however small. He had taken the second step in his dangerous game.