Mr. McMuscle Armstrong signed the fight roster on a Tuesday and bragged about it Wednesday to anyone who would listen. He was shirtless, as always. He told the men at the bunkhouse he would be the one to drop the monster gladiator. He told them about The Avalanche, his finishing move, where he let his full weight crash down on a man's chest. The men kept eating. One of them stood up and left without finishing his bowl. Armstrong took that as jealousy. He walked to the arena that afternoon to see his name posted. The path passed the memorial stone outside the gates, a tall slab carved with the names of every wrestler the gladiator had buried. Armstrong counted to twelve and stopped counting. He laughed once and slapped the stone like it was an old friend's shoulder. Twelve fools who didn't know how to fall right, he said to no one. He did not read the names. Further in, bolted above the gladiator's gate, hung the warning sign — a snarling beast head ringed in iron, the words GLADIATOR BEAST stamped in yellow. Behind that gate, Armstrong could hear something breathing. Slow. Heavy. He told himself it was a trick of the wood. He had never watched the monster fight. He had heard stories and decided the stories were exaggerated. In the equipment yard he stopped at a heap of broken gear — split blades, dented helms, a cracked shield with a handprint pressed into the dust on its face. Armstrong studied it like a map. Swords meant the monster fought reckless. Helms meant the monster fought high. He decided the monster lunged. He decided he would step inside the lunge and drop The Avalanche on its ribs. He nodded at the pile as if it had agreed with him. A short man stood near the wall, watching. Bare chest, dark pants, arms folded. Armstrong knew the face from posters. Champion Kevintor Neverloss, six titles, no losses. Armstrong puffed up and asked if the champion had come to learn something. Kevintor looked at him a long moment. "You've never seen him fight." It wasn't a question. Armstrong started to answer. Kevintor cut him off. "He doesn't lunge. He walks you down and folds you." Then, flatter: "Don't go in tomorrow." He turned and left before Armstrong could brag back. Armstrong stood alone with the broken gear and the sound of breathing behind the gate. He told himself the champion was jealous, same as the rest. He went back to the bunkhouse and slept on his plan. At dawn he would walk into the ring expecting a lunger. The monster would not lunge. Armstrong did not know that yet, and he had stopped listening to anyone who did.