[@Sanity43217] - Asset Goal - ?
[@CorvianMERCDB] - Asset Goal - ?

The coliseum exhales at once.

Don clamps the strap, turns his hips, and becomes a lever. The shield thug leaves the ground, board and all, a brief black shape against the light. He hits flat and hard. The sound is ugly, a plank slapped on stone with meat under it. The board skitters away. The body does not rise. The nearest marshal is already moving, hand up, two fingers crossed for the lift crew. A pocket of the cheap seats howls. Others fall quiet in that sharp way a crowd does when it tastes the line between show and ending. [The Shield Thug is [b]dead[/b]]

Across the sand the dockside bruiser does the smart thing. He sees the throw coming and slides two steps on the balls of his feet. The body lands where he was a blink ago. He turns, hook low, and draws a thin groove in the sand with the point while he sucks a breath through his teeth and sights on Don. His shoulders bunch. That counter is coming, but not yet. [b][Incoming attack 5d2 vs Don][/b]

The knife runner tries to turn the tide in the gap. Varius reads the twitch, steps inside, and ends it. A clean line that opens the runner and folds him to a knee, then to the sand. His knives clatter and lie still. Green chalk smears the dust where his hand falls. For a second the crowd is all arms and open mouths, then the noise hits, bright and cruel. Varius feels the sting at his side rise again, a slow hot burn that spreads like ground pepper. It is not deep, but it bites. [The Knife Runner is [b]dead[/b]. Poison burns Varius once more, 3/5, before weakening]

Up in the boxes the Praetorian Prefect never moves more than a breath. His face is unreadable, a statue with a heartbeat. Grand Mayor Maffeo stands for a single clap of his staff on the rail, polite and pleased, then settles again to watch.

[b]“First blood claims its tithe,”[/b] the Announcer booms, voice deep as a drum. [b]“Red Team draws the opening howl. Green Team down two. Will a third stand to pay the balance, Otenzel?”[/b]

[center]Neco-Arc[/center]
[center][img]https://ik.imagekit.io/maxxo/Roman%20Neco-Arc.jpg?updatedAt=1759537611798[/img][/center]

On the tunnel lip Neco-Arc, now dressed as one of the centurions, explodes into motion like a firework with paws. [b]“That is a spicy suplex, my little violence coupon, nya. Buns in, fangs out. Do not headbutt the furniture again unless you mean it. You there with the sword, good job making him hold all that regret, nya. But watch the spicy knife juice, that is a simmer. Drink water. Punch air. Do not lick the wound. Not hygienic. Coach orders.”[/b]

The cat plants tiny feet on the rail and conducts the cheap seats like an orchestra. [b]“Red, Red, Red. Clap clap clap.”[/b] Then it cups paws and hisses stage loud toward the last Green. [b]“Come on, Fisher Price Poseidon, show us your hook book, nya. But do it where the [i]camera [/i]can see.”[/b]

Sand whispers under every step. The bruiser eases into his coil, eyes flicking between Don and Varius. The marshals drag the fallen by their ankles, swift and practiced, and the gong stays silent. The drum keeps time. The next choice belongs to Red.