Mediterranean Hegemon of Ancient Greece Chapter 1263: An Extraordinary Race (3)

Siritheos had zoned out and missed his cue, forcing the priest to call his name a second time. "Here!" he hurriedly replied.

The priest shot him a glare but offered no reprimand, moving on to the next name on the list.

Once all six runners were confirmed, the priest led them out onto the track.

Seeing the athletes step onto the dirt, the spectators realized the race was about to begin and erupted into fresh cheers. Walking at the very front, Siritheos could even hear someone shouting from the nearest stands, "Look! Isn't that the athlete who saluted His Majesty?"

Siritheos instantly felt the weight of countless eyes fixated on him. With his sharp vision, he even spotted young women among the onlookers...

While marveling that Theonian women were every bit as bold as the rumors claimed, Siritheos suddenly appreciated why the Theonians required athletes to wear shorts. At least now, under the scrutiny of those women, he didn't feel completely exposed.

Any lingering nervousness vanished from the extroverted Siritheos, instantly replaced by a surge of excitement. He puffed out his chest and marched forward with wide, confident strides.

Sunlight poured through the unroofed center of the arena, bathing him in its glow. Siritheos was not particularly tall, but he possessed a handsome face and a solidly built, well-proportioned physique. The olive oil slicked over his skin caught the sunlight, making him gleam like a deity. When he began his warm-up sprints in his lane, the sheer power and beauty of his flexing muscles drew murmurs of admiration from many male spectators and made the eyes of a few women light up.

After taking a moment to get a feel for the track, the runners returned behind the starting line. They accepted small trowels from the referees and began digging a pair of shallow pits in their respective lanes.

Harpius watched for a moment before explaining, "Footraces in older games always used stone starting slabs. They didn't just mark the starting line; the grooves in the stone gave the runners a solid grip so they wouldn't slip on takeoff. There aren't any starting slabs on this track, but I imagine those little pits serve the exact same purpose..."

The surrounding spectators nodded in sudden understanding.

Down on the track, the runners planted their bare feet into their front and back pits, packing the dirt down firmly to create a solid launchpad.

Two referees took up positions at opposite ends of the starting line—one to issue the commands, the other to watch for false starts. Down at the hundred-meter finish line, a red cloth ribbon was pulled taut. The atmosphere in the arena grew heavy with anticipation.

Feeling his nerves creeping back, Siritheos glanced at the runner in the adjacent lane. He was a foreigner, an outsider who would never have been permitted to compete in any other games, yet here he stood openly in a Daionian arena. The Theonian referee committee had even issued a strict decree: any discriminatory behavior between athletes would result in immediate disqualification!

With that in mind, Siritheos offered the man a friendly smile.

But the runner, a native of the Samnite mountains, was clearly competing in a major event for the very first time. Gripped by obvious anxiety, he remained completely oblivious to Siritheos's gesture of goodwill.

Feeling rebuffed, Siritheos muttered a quiet curse and snapped his focus back to the impending race.

Just then, the referee's voice rang out: "Runners, take your marks!"

Siritheos instantly tensed. He dropped into a half-crouch and leaned his weight forward.

"Set—" Before the referee could issue the command to run, a blur of motion sprang forward, instantly triggering the rest of the runners to dart off after him.

The referees scrambled to halt the false start, immediately summoning the offending runner. It was the man in lane two, right next to Siritheos. Despite his frantic begging, the presiding referee ejected him from the race without a sliver of hesitation.

The strictness of the Theonian Rugby Games referees sent a chill through the remaining runners. It also proved to the skeptical spectators in the stands that the Theonians' previous warnings about severely punishing any rule-breaking or cheating were deadly serious.

Siritheos and the others trudged back to the starting line, their momentum broken. The false start had drained a fraction of their stamina, but witnessing a competitor get thrown out had also dealt a heavy blow to their nerves.

Right at that moment, a thunderous roar of encouragement swept down from the stands, lifting their spirits and reigniting their focus.

"Set—" The referee raised his right hand high once more.

Every eye in the arena locked onto the runners at the starting line. A single thought hung in the minds of the spectators: the opening ceremony of the Theonian Rugby Games had been spectacular, but would the actual competitions match that thrill? They were about to find out.

The referee slashed his hand downward. "Go!"

Terrified of another ejection, the runners hesitated until the command fully registered, causing almost all of them to launch a half-beat slow.

But the moment their feet hit the track, every athlete exploded with maximum effort. Having practiced over the last few days, veterans of other sporting festivals like Siritheos had quickly realized one crucial fact: the hundred-meter dash at the Theonian Rugby Games was half the distance of the shortest sprint in traditional games. If they held anything back at the start, they would have zero chance of winning.

Siritheos pumped his arms swiftly, his feet flying across the dirt in an accelerating blur. The sheer force of the wind whipped against his face. From the corner of his eye, he caught the straining grimaces of the runners matching his pace. Their ragged, frantic breathing chased him like a volley of swords thrust at his back, driving him to push even harder.

Before he even reached the halfway mark, his chest seized with agonizing pressure. It felt as though a raging inferno had ignited deep within his lungs, tearing a primal roar from his throat: "Ahhhh!!!"

It was a sight rarely seen in the footraces of traditional games: every single runner sprinting while screaming at the top of their lungs. And fueled by those continuous roars, their speed only climbed higher.

Electrified by the blood-pumping spectacle, the spectators leapt to their feet, shouting and cheering in a frenzy. The deafening wall of sound erupting from the arena echoed across all of Thurii City, fiercely tormenting the Theonians outside who hadn't managed to secure tickets.

Arexes, who had been sitting silently near the back of the royal box, suddenly rushed to the front railing. Gripping it tightly, his eyes went wide as he stared at the violently straining runners. It was as if he were trying to carve every flexing muscle and desperate posture permanently into his mind. "Amazing!" he muttered feverishly. "Amazing! This is exactly what I've been looking for...!"

Xenophon and Plato wore matching expressions of astonishment. They were too fast! Faster than any runners they had ever seen in traditional games! Just as Davos had claimed, the hundred-meter dash forced athletes to unleash their absolute sprinting limits from the very first step.

This raw display of peak human speed left the audience utterly captivated, too afraid to even blink as they tracked the sprinting men.

Suddenly, a collective gasp swept through the stands.

Just as he neared the finish line, Siritheos's utterly exhausted legs finally gave out. Driven forward by his immense momentum, he smashed through the red ribbon in first place, only to plunge forward into the dirt.

A physician who had been monitoring the race immediately hurried over to help him up. Once it was confirmed that Siritheos had suffered nothing worse than a few scrapes, Chief Referee Chalcides strode over. He raised Siritheos's right hand high, officially declaring him the victor of the first preliminary heat.

Without precision timing tools, there was no way to accurately record each runner's hundred-meter dash and advance the fastest times into the finals. Thus, the only fair method the Theonian Rugby Games could enforce was a strict elimination: only the victor of each heat advanced to the semi-finals or finals. Ultimately, there would be only a single champion—no runner-up, no third place. In this regard, it perfectly mirrored the tradition of the Hellenic Games.

As the eliminated runners trudged dejectedly toward the arena exits, the audience showered them with thunderous applause, thanking them for delivering such a spectacular race.

Siritheos brought up the rear. His face was caked in dirt and fresh scrapes streaked his body, making him look rather battered, but the crowd bestowed upon him an even louder ovation. In just a single dash, this young man from Crete had fully won the respect of the Theonians.

As dusk settled, the first day of the competitions finally came to a close. Listening to the surrounding spectators still heatedly debating the opening ceremony and the sprints, the envoy from Olympia felt a knot of conflicting emotions. Outwardly, he had been critical, but internally, he had to admit the truth: both the opening ceremony and the subsequent footraces had been completely novel and spectacular. The Theonian Rugby Games had undeniably gotten off to an incredible start!

As the Theonian spectators spilled out of the arena, they were instantly swarmed by friends and acquaintances from Thurii City, all demanding to know what had happened inside. The lucky attendees were more than happy to share.

Thus, as night blanketed Thurii City, candlelight blazed through the streets. Taverns and restaurants in every alleyway were packed to the brim. Patrons drank fine wine and gorged on hearty meals, talking endlessly about the thrilling spectacles they had witnessed in the Hades Main Arena, their joyous laughter echoing everywhere.

A similar scene of lively celebration was unfolding within the Daunian Royal Family's estate.

Davos was hosting a grand family banquet at his hillside mansion to celebrate the resounding success of the Theonian Rugby Games' opening ceremony. Yet, the main topic dominating the banquet wasn't the competitions, but rather the surprisingly mature performances of his two young grandsons, Christod and Aenon.

Showered with endless praise by their relatives, the two boys blushed so fiercely they looked ready to bolt from the banquet.

Just then, Palace Steward Ribaso slipped quietly into the dining hall. He approached the head seat, leaned close to Davos, and murmured a few words.

Davos's smile never wavered, but he stood up.