Chapter 10:
The underground pitch had become an execution ground.
Nero lounged on a makeshift throne of overturned lockers, his jeweled fingers tapping out a death march on the armrest. Around him, Decimus's guards formed a human cage, their swords glinting in the torchlight. The players stood frozen—half-dressed in their kits, their faces still flushed from the interrupted match.
Lucius felt the system scrambling for solutions:
[CRISIS MODE ACTIVATED
Immediate Threat: Forced gladiatorial football match
Survival Priority: Keep all players alive
Available Resources: 1 hidden dagger, 2 smoke pellets (emergency stash), 17 terrified athletes]
The emperor sighed dramatically. "Come now, Lucius. All this effort to hide your little games from me?" He picked up the abandoned football, spinning it on one finger. "When I only ever wanted to help."
The ball slipped, rolling toward the Briton chieftain. Without thinking, the warrior trapped it under his foot—a perfect first touch.
Nero's eyes lit up.
"Ah! There it is!" He clapped like a child at the theater. "That's what my imperial matches have been missing—real passion!" Rising suddenly, he spread his arms wide. "So let's make a proper show of it. Your best eleven against... let's say, my personal favorites."
A side door creaked open.
The Praetorian Select XI marched in—but not alone. Between each armored player strained a massive African lion, muzzled and chained, their golden eyes reflecting the torchlight.
The system's analysis was blunt:
[Opposition Composition:
- 11 elite soldiers (+7 Strength, +5 Aggression)
- 11 lions (Muzzled but +10 Intimidation)
Special Conditions:
- Chains will be released at halftime
- No substitution limit (because players might get eaten)]
Nikias made a small, pathetic sound. The Vestal acolyte began praying under her breath.
"First team to score five goals wins," Nero announced cheerfully. "Losers become cat food. Oh, and—" He tossed something metallic to Lucius. "You'll need these."
The key to the lions' muzzles clinked in Lucius's palm.
They had five minutes to prepare.
Lucius huddled his team in the corner, speaking through gritted teeth. "We play keep-away. No heroics, no attempts on goal until—"
"Until the murder cats are loose?" Vulso interrupted. "Brilliant plan."
The Briton chieftain cracked his neck. "I say we turn the beasts on them first."
The system offered a grim compromise:
[Hybrid Strategy Suggested:
1. Early Aggression: Score 2 quick goals before halftime
2. Defensive Collapse: Allow 1 goal to lull Praetorians
3. Second Half Chaos: Release lions near opposition]
The whistle blew.
What followed wasn't football—it was bloodsport disguised as sport. The Praetorians used their lions like living shields, the great beasts pacing alongside them as they advanced. Every tackle carried the threat of dismemberment; every pass was a potential death sentence.
Yet somehow, through sheer terror, FC Roma struck first.
Nikias—pale and sweating—intercepted a careless pass and lofted the ball to the Vestal acolyte (who'd disguised herself as a substitute). Her volley rocketed past the stunned keeper.
1-0.
The crowd of trapped players erupted. Nero giggled.
The equalizer came brutally. A Praetorian defender "accidentally" tripped Vulso, sending the big man sprawling near his assigned lion. The beast's paw—claws carefully sheathed—pinned him down as the soldier strolled in to score.
1-1.
Then, in the 44th minute—magic. The Briton chieftain faked left, rolled right, and unleashed a shot so powerful it tore through the netting.
2-1 at halftime.
As the teams staggered to their benches, Nero rose with a theatrical sigh. "How... pedestrian." He nodded to the beastmasters. "Release the entertainment."
The muzzle locks clicked open.
The lions didn't attack immediately.
They stretched first—great tawny limbs extending, jaws yawning wide enough to show glistening fangs. Then, as if by some unseen signal, they began prowling the pitch's boundaries, herding players toward the center.
The system's readings went wild:
[Lion Behavioral Analysis:
- 70% focused on movement triggers
- 20% interested in shiny objects (goals?)
- 10% chance of sudden murder]
Lucius grabbed the Vestal acolyte. "Your goddess protect those who protect others, yes?"
She blinked. "Vesta favors—"
"Good." He shoved her toward the smallest lion. "Sing to it."
To her eternal credit, the young priestess didn't hesitate. Her voice rose in an ancient hymn, hands outstretched. The confused lion cub (relatively speaking—it was still 300 pounds of muscle) sniffed her fingers.
Meanwhile, the game descended into surreal violence.
A Praetorian defender screamed as his own lion took sudden interest in his flapping cape. The Briton chieftain actually rode his assigned beast briefly before being bucked off. Vulso scored the third goal by kicking the ball off a lion's rump, the deflection fooling everyone.
3-1.
Then—disaster.
Decimus, lurking at pitchside, threw a chunk of raw meat onto the field.
Six lions converged at the center circle in a snarling heap. The resulting stampede scattered players like ninepins. In the chaos, the Praetorians scored twice in quick succession.
3-3.
Nero was beside himself with glee, literally rolling on the ground laughing.
Lucius checked the time—seven minutes left. His eyes met the Vestal's. She nodded subtly toward the emperor's box.
A plan crystallized.
At Lucius's signal, his team initiated "Operation Divine Distraction"—a play so audacious even the system hesitated to approve it.
The Vestal acolyte began chanting in earnest, her voice rising to a piercing crescendo. As the lions' heads swiveled toward the sound, Nikias and the Briton made a mad dash for Nero's box.
Not to attack.
To appeal.
"Divine Emperor!" the Briton roared, going to one knee. "We beg your wisdom!" He flung the ball at Nero's feet. "Who deserves victory—your mighty Praetorians, or these lowly players who have given their all for your entertainment?"
Nero froze, his hand hovering over the ball. The entire stadium held its breath.
Then—the most dangerous sound in Rome.
The emperor's bored sigh.
"Oh, very well." He flicked the ball back onto the pitch. "Five more minutes. If no one scores, we feed the Greeks to the lions for variety."
The mad scramble that followed would become legend.
Lions chased players. Players chased the ball. At one point, two Praetorians got tangled in their own chains while a Vestal virgin calmly dribbled past them.
Then—in the 89th minute—the miracle.
Vulso, bleeding from a lion scratch, launched a desperate cross. The Vestal acolyte—still singing—headed it toward Nikias, who scissor-kicked the ball directly into the path of the charging Briton chieftain.
The warrior didn't shoot.
He *thundered* the ball through the net, through the wall behind it, and possibly into the Tiber.
4-3.
The final whistle blew.
Nero left disappointed but amused—a dangerous combination. The Praetorians slunk away, their lions oddly docile after the Vestal's singing.
Only Decimus remained, his face a mask of fury. "This isn't over."
Lucius, leaning heavily on Nikias, managed a grin. "No. It's just getting interesting."
The system's final alert pulsed warmly:
[Achievement Unlocked: 'Dance With Lions'
Reward: +10 Team Cohesion
New Research: Tamed Beast Formations (Why stop at lions?)]
As they limped toward the hidden tunnels, the Vestal acolyte fell into step beside Lucius. "My sisters have decoded more scrolls," she murmured. "The ancients played football... with elephants."
Somewhere above them, Nero's laughter echoed through Rome's streets.