Mediterranean Hegemon of Ancient Greece Chapter 1260: Entrance Ceremony (4)

But the Olympia representative didn't dare to shout. He hadn't forgotten the terrifying sight of the Daionian Army besieging the City of Olympia a few years prior. Fearing that angering Daionia in this public setting would bring another disaster upon Olympia, he settled for quietly reminding the delegates of the surrounding city-states, hoping to draw their attention and stage a joint protest against Daionia.

However, these delegates either remarked that the ceremony was meaningful and worth watching, or simply pretended not to hear him. Even those who agreed with him refused to explicitly commit to a protest. Under the watchful eyes and gentle reminders of the Daionian spectators and athletes, the entire venue gradually fell silent.

It wasn't long before the deep, resonant tolling of a bell reached the Main Arena——drawing solemn expressions from the Daionian citizens.

At the source of the tolling, the Hill of the Gods was already surrounded by a sea of devout followers of Hades. As the ninth strike of the bell faded, the elderly Praxinas emerged trembling from the Main Temple of Hades, holding high a torch lit by the sacred flame. The believers immediately broke into a reverent rendition of the Hymn of Hades, enveloping the entire inner city in their ethereal, melodious chanting.

Clad in a pure white tunic, Secilian stepped forward with a solemn expression.

"General, please hold it firm," Praxinas said gently.

Secilian didn't say a word. He simply gave a firm nod, solemnly accepted the blazing torch with both hands, and turned to sprint down the hill.

The Thurians stood shoulder-to-shoulder along both sides of the road, forming a living corridor that led straight to the Main Arena. Chanting the hymn, they watched in excitement as Secilian sprinted past with the torch held high.

Reaching the foot of the hill in no time, Secilian passed the flame to a waiting Tegetus, who then dashed off toward the next torchbearer...

...

"...And the final hero who will carry the torch into the Main Arena is Brutus Max. Once a Roman, he later became a Daionian Citizen.

"During the Greek War that erupted in the twenty-fourth year of the kingdom (370 BC), the Daionian Army and the Spartan Coalition clashed in a decisive battle on the Plain of Tegea. Following a sudden betrayal by the Tegeans, the First Legion—our primary vanguard—was caught in a pincer attack by the Spartan Coalition. The situation was incredibly dire, but the soldiers of the First Legion fought a bloody battle, withstanding the ferocious onslaught of the Spartan Warriors. They held the line until reinforcements arrived, ultimately turning the tide of the battle. However, the First Legion suffered devastating losses. While clearing the battlefield after the slaughter, medics miraculously discovered that Max still clung to a single breath of life.

"The detachment led by this First Legion sub-commander fought at the very forefront of the clash. Every single soldier in his unit died a hero's death, and the sub-commander himself fell at the very center of the phalanx, right beside their banner. A ring of dead Spartan Warriors lay scattered around him. He was drenched in blood, unconscious, and missing limbs. Through the tireless efforts of our physicians and the blessing of Hades, he finally pulled through...

"When His Great Majesty Davos heard of his deeds, he was deeply moved and immediately bestowed upon him the title of Hero of the Kingdom. However, his injuries were so severe that even when the Triumphant Return for the war was held a year later, he was unable to attend! But today, he will carry the torch and ignite the arena's altar with the sacred flame. This is to remind all of you here today: never forget that the blood and sacrifice of these Daionian soldiers paved the way for the establishment of the Greek League! They secured peace across the Greek Mainland! And they made this grand celebration possible today! Let us give our most devout thanks to warriors like Max!"

Thanks to several rehearsals, the experienced announcers managed the timing perfectly. Barely a moment after they finished speaking, a figure appeared at the arena entrance.

Brutus Max had once been a handsome Roman youth, and even now he was only in his thirties, but not a trace of his former appearance remained. His left cheek looked as if a massive chunk had been bitten out of it, taking his left eye with it. His right arm was gone from the shoulder down, and his left leg seemed unnaturally short, giving him a heavy, lurching limp as he ran. To look at him was a startling, almost frightening sight.

Yet the Daionian spectators stood up as one, their faces solemn as they clapped with all their might. Nearly half of them were Thurians, and almost every single one of them was shedding warm tears, weeping openly. Seeing Max couldn't help but remind them of their own family members who had been maimed or killed in the Greek War.

Moved by the sight, the envoys of the Greek city-states couldn't help but stand up and join the applause.

"A kingdom that so highly reveres the valor of its citizens is bound to have citizens who fight with unmatched bravery," Epaminondas sighed in admiration. "This is the true foundation of the Daionian Army's might!"

"Seeing this should put our minds at ease," Lycomedes agreed with a similar sigh. "As long as Daionia remains strong, the Greek League will endure!"

Among the very few who remained seated, Agesilaus was the most conspicuous. The announcer's speech had painted the Spartan Warriors as forces of sheer evil, yet the septuagenarian king felt no anger. Having lived long enough to see through the ways of the world, he understood the truth implicitly: the rise and fall of city-states was always a game where success makes a king and failure makes an outlaw. Had Sparta won the Battle of Tegea, the scene today would be entirely different. But because of the valiant resistance of countless Daionian soldiers like Max, the masterful military campaign he had poured his heart and soul into had ended in failure. Thus, as he silently watched the hobbling figure on the track, a tangle of complex emotions churned in his chest...

Davos and his family had also risen to their feet. Each of them wore a solemn expression as they clapped in silence. The eyes of Christoya, Cynthia, and the other women glistened with tears, and Aedi even let out a choked sob...

Plato and Xenophon, who had been arguing endlessly just moments before, tactfully fell silent. They were both well aware that Davos's adopted son, Adoris, had perished in the Battle of Tegea. Clearly, the torchbearer's entrance had forced the Daionian royal family to relive those painful memories.

Down on the track, however, Max was struggling. He wasn't merely missing limbs; beneath his white tunic, his torso was a canvas of grisly scars. The two most critical injuries were to his left and right lungs, both of which had been pierced by the spears of Spartan Warriors. The permanent damage had severely crippled his lung capacity, meaning that even mild, prolonged exertion left him painfully short of breath and struggling to keep going.

The organizing committee had noticed this issue early on and considered swapping him out for someone else. But Max had repeatedly promised Crotokatax that he would definitely complete the task. Following several successful rehearsals where Max had pushed through the pain, Crotokatax decided against replacing the person chosen to light the altar's sacred flame—a choice driven just as much by political factors as it was by personal sentiment.

But today was vastly different from a simple rehearsal. Surrounded by the gaze of tens of thousands of spectators and the roar of thunderous applause, the fiery atmosphere ignited the dormant passion in Max's heart—a heart that had endured a living hell for the past few years. He was carrying the hopes of the families of the hundreds and thousands of brothers who had died in Tegea. He was going to light this sacred flame, ensuring that their fearless souls would be praised by the people of the entire Mediterranean Sea!

His heart hammered wildly in his chest, and his pace instinctively quickened, expending vastly more energy than he ever had in practice. Max was gasping for air. His vision darkened, and his body swayed dangerously; with every lurching step, it seemed he might collapse.

Max continuously urged himself onward, fighting down the panic rising in his chest.

A sudden, profound silence fell over the arena. Every pair of eyes locked onto the swaying torchbearer on the track. Those final few dozen meters might have seemed short to the onlookers, but for him, they were an eternity.

Even Davos gripped the stadium railing, while Crotokatax's face was etched with unhidden anxiety. Up until now, the opening ceremony had gone off without a hitch. But if Max fell—or worse, if the sacred flame was extinguished—all their painstaking preparations would go to waste, and the Theonian Rugby Games' novel opening ceremony would become a laughingstock.

Yet even in that agonizing moment, Crotokatax didn't regret choosing Max for the honor. To cheer him on, and to steel his own nerves, he even found himself cursing in his head:

But the silent prayers of tens of thousands of Daionian spectators seemed to have no effect; Max's stumbling grew only more severe. Just as the crowd felt they couldn't bear to watch any longer, the youth standing at the head of the referee procession suddenly shoved his Wooden Placard into the hands of Chalcides behind him and sprinted toward Max.

A split second later, another youth holding a placard broke ranks and dashed after him.

The two flawless youths flanked the crippled but resolute veteran, supporting his weight as they jogged together toward the altar in the center of the arena. This harmonious sight instantly drew thunderous applause from the spectators outside the field, leaving the dark hopes of a tiny minority in the crowd entirely unfulfilled.