{Chapter: 58: The Gate Below the Colosseum}
Clank! Clank! Clank!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The deafening sound of metal striking metal echoed through the underground corridor, bouncing off the walls like the drumbeat of an impending catastrophe.
James stood before the colossal, iron-forged gate, his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. The heavy, reinforced metal door loomed before him like a monolith—cold, unyielding, and utterly indifferent to their efforts.
They had fought hard to get here. The skirmish above hadn't been especially fierce—numbers were on their side, and the cultists who guarded the perimeter had fallen quickly, most likely caught off guard. Still, blood had been shed, and several of his men had suffered injuries in the chaos. Now, deep below the shattered remains of the Colosseum, the final obstacle stood in their path.
A secret door, concealed in the lowest recesses of the ruined structure, crafted from a mixture of some unknown alloys. It was not ordinary steel—it was denser, colder to the touch, and refused to yield to even the most powerful of strikes.
Several of James's elite knights had taken turns battering it with all their strength. War hammers, maces, even enchanted weapons that had felled beasts larger than oxen. Yet the result had been the same—nothing. No dent, no crack. Only a faint puff of dust fell through the seams.
Due to the narrow terrain and being more than ten meters underground, too many people would actually be a hindrance.
The echoes of their effort lingered in the stale underground air. The sound that had emerged with each impact suggested the door was at least ten centimeters thick—possibly more. Trying to breach it by force would be a fool's errand. Time was running out, and every second they delayed gave the cultists below time to complete whatever profane ritual they were conducting.
James stepped forward, squatting down to inspect the stone floor. The dust that had settled during the hammering now lay thick, and the slightest breeze stirred it into dry, swirling patterns.
Judging from the sound produced when the hammer hits it, the thickness of this metal door is probably close to ten centimeters, and it is almost impossible to open it by force.
Then, a thought struck him.
"If we can't break it… maybe we can unmake it," he murmured.
"Sir?" one of the knights asked.
James stood and barked at a new order. "Drop the hammers. Get me crowbars and digging tools—anything that can tear into the stone. We're not smashing the door—we're pulling the wall apart around it."
The knights quickly obeyed, swapping out their heavy weapons for hoes, chisels, and pry bars. They began working at the seams around the doorframe, chipping away at the stone bricks and loosening the soil packed between the walls.
As they worked, a haze of dust began to rise, filling the air with a choking dryness. The ground trembled faintly with each chip of stone, and the sound of scraping metal was like nails on bone.
Behind him, a figure stepped closer.
Ciel, his trusted second-in-command and longtime friend, glanced up at the ceiling. "We're over ten meters underground," he said quietly, voice edged with concern. "Are you sure this won't cause a collapse? The whole damn tunnel could bury us alive."
James hesitated, his eyes lingering on the dust cascading from the ceiling above. A faint heartbeat of dread pulsed in his chest.
"I'm not sure," he admitted at last, his voice low. "But unless someone here has a better idea, this is our only option. We can't break through the front, and we can't go around. We either trust that this tunnel was built well... or we risk losing everything."
Ciel nodded slowly but didn't look convinced. Neither did the other knights.
Yet they pressed on.
Minutes passed like hours. The air became thick with sweat and grime. Small rocks clattered to the ground as the stone face around the gate was slowly dismantled. The effort was slow, tense, but eventually, the gate groaned—just slightly—and began to loosen within its cradle.
"Careful…" James whispered, holding up a hand.
Another pry. Another push.
Then—a dull thud. The metal door tipped inward, falling with a heavy crash onto the ground ahead. The dust that exploded from the impact billowed into the passageway, and for a long moment, no one dared to breathe.
But the walls held.
No cracks. No collapse.
James exhaled in relief, silently thanking whoever had constructed this place so long ago. "Move in," he ordered.
The group advanced into the chamber beyond, weapons drawn and senses sharpened.
The air turned colder.
Dampness clung to the stone floor, and the stench of blood—old and fresh—grew stronger with every step.
After a short descent, the tunnel widened into a vast underground chamber. Lit by eerie crimson torches that cast writhing shadows against the walls, it looked more like a forgotten temple than any human-made structure. The flickering light barely reached the ceiling, which arched high above them like the belly of a sleeping beast.
And then, they saw it.
A massive altar, crafted from black stone and veins of deep red crystal, stood at the center of the room. Around it, dozens of cultists in black robes chanted in a guttural language that clawed at the mind. Their hands were raised in a synchronized rhythm, palms glowing faintly with arcane symbols drawn in blood.
A river of crimson flowed from the altar, trickling down into a shallow channel carved into the stone floor. And strewn across the top—limp, pale bodies. Dozens. No—hundreds. Men, women, children.
James's stomach turned.
They were slaves. Gladiators and prisoners who had once been sentenced to die in the arena above. Their deaths had come early—and far more cruelly. Their throats had been slit with agonizing precision, and the pools of blood that surrounded their bodies were still warm.
Judging from the twisted limbs and claw marks gouged into the stone, many of them had still been alive when it happened.
Ciel turned his face away, muttering a prayer.
And atop the altar, barefoot and calm amidst the sea of death, stood a man with no hood, no mask.
James's heart sank.
"…Uncle?"
The man turned to face him, his expression unreadable. Silver hair slicked back, clothes of deep velvet and gold trim. There was no mistaking him.
Richard Woz.
A former general. A scholar. A man of wisdom and restraint. The last person James ever expected to find among cultists, let alone leading them.
"I don't understand," James said quietly. "Why would you do this? What possible reason could you have for… for this?"
Richard's smile was gentle—almost paternal. "James," he said, voice like silk over razors. "This is my last hope."
The words struck like a hammer.
The cultists fell silent, as if on cue. Their attention shifted toward the confrontation, but none moved to interfere.
James's voice cracked. "Is this… is this about Senna?"
The warm glow from the stained-glass windows dimmed as the last rays of daylight faded into the horizon, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor of the sanctum. The flickering light from the summoning circle's arcane symbols danced on the walls, illuminating Richard's face — not with triumph, but with the heavy burden of a father crushed beneath desperation.
For the first time, something flickered in Richard's eyes. Not guilt—something older. Something broken.
The smile that had briefly played across Richard's lips faltered, and his entire posture sagged under an invisible weight. His voice lowered, soft but laced with exhaustion and quiet sorrow.
"…Sure enough," he murmured, "I couldn't hide it from you."
There was no need to maintain appearances anymore. Not in front of James.
He took a step forward, placing his hand gently over his heart as if physically holding back the ache inside.
"You know, my daughter, Senna…" His voice cracked slightly at her name, but he pressed on. "She was born with a bloodline defect. It's genetic. Inherited from her mother."
His fingers curled into a fist. "We tried everything. Priests, holy waters, rare medicines, elixirs from the east, even experimental magical therapy. Nothing worked. And in the past two years…"
He took a trembling breath, then released it slowly. "I can feel it, James. She's fading. Every day, she grows paler. Every week, she spends more time in bed. Her laughter... it's becoming rare. Sometimes she looks at me, and I swear she knows the end is near. She's only eleven years old!"
Silence clung to the chamber like a shroud. Even the hum of dark magic around the summoning circle quieted, as if the room itself paused to mourn.
Richard continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I made a vow to her mother — that I would let Senna grow into a strong, healthy woman. I promised her a future, James. That promise is all I have left. And if I have to crawl through fire, beg beneath the feet of angels, or shake hands with the demons of the Deep Abyss to keep that promise…"
His eyes, once tired and weary, now burned with a fierce light. "Then so be it. That's what it means to be a father."
James opened his mouth, a dozen arguments on the tip of his tongue — appeals to reason, to morality, to faith — but none of them escaped. They dissolved before they ever formed. How could he speak logic to a man teetering at the edge of hope, clinging to his last thread?
Instead, he looked down at the glowing runes beneath their feet. The ritual was already in motion. The air smelled of brimstone and starlight. He swallowed hard and gave his final warning.
"…You should know better than anyone," James said, voice quiet, "demons aren't miracle healers. No matter what's written in old tomes or whispered by cults in the dark. They're manipulators. Liars. Takers. Once you let them in, they don't leave. If you abandon this now, I swear—no one will ever know. You and Senna can still live… even if it means watching her time run out."
A silence fell between them. Richard's lips twitched, but not into a smile. Into a grim, unshakable resolve.
"And what then?" he asked softly. "Should I sit by her bed and wait for death to take her? Watch her suffer one heartbeat at a time, just to die knowing I didn't do everything in my power to stop it?"