Ragnar the Butcher – The Legend of the Arena

The crowd roared. A thousand voices, hungry for blood. In the center of the arena stood a titan of muscle and scars, his skin painted with war markings, his breath heavy like a beast before the kill. His name was whispered with fear in every corner of the empire, Ragnar the Butcher.

For over a decade, he had turned the sands of the Colosseum red. No man had ever bested him. No blade had ever broken him. He was death made flesh. But today was different. Today, he wasn’t just fighting for his own survival. Today, he was fighting for revenge.

The Blood Oath

Years ago, Ragnar had been more than a gladiator. He had been a king. His tribe, the Red Wolves, had ruled the northern wastelands with unchallenged strength. They were warriors, conquerors, gods among men. Until the empire came.

With fire and steel, the Romans had burned his home to the ground. They had slaughtered his brothers, enslaved his people, and chained him, the unbreakable warlord like an animal.

For years, they forced him to fight for their entertainment. And for years, he had given them their blood. But every kill, every broken body, was a step toward one goal. Escape. And vengeance.

The Final Battle

The iron gates opened. From the shadows emerged his opponent a champion of Rome, draped in golden armor, wielding two swords as sharp as lightning. The emperor himself had declared this fight. The promise was clear: If Ragnar won, he would be granted freedom.

But Ragnar knew the truth. There would be no freedom. Not for him. Not for his people. The empire did not let monsters walk free. So he would give them one final horror to remember.

The Wrath of a God

The golden warrior lunged. Blades flashing. Feet swift. But Ragnar was rage itself. He caught the first strike with his gauntlet. Felt the steel bite into his flesh. Ignored the pain. With one brutal swing, he shattered the champion’s ribs like dry twigs.

The man gasped, blood spraying from his lips. Ragnar grabbed his throat, lifting him like a child. The arena went silent. With a roar that shook the heavens, Ragnar ripped the man’s head from his shoulders and hurled it toward the emperor’s throne. Blood rained down. The crowd screamed. And then, chaos.

The Butcher’s Revenge

The guards rushed in. But Ragnar had waited years for this moment. Chains could not hold him. Swords could not stop him. He tore through them like a beast unleashed, their screams filling the air as he fought his way to the emperor.

This was not a battle. This was a reckoning. And before the sun set on Rome, the legend of Ragnar the Butcher would be written in fire and blood. The empire made a monster. Now, the monster would burn it to the ground

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