The yellow sand stretched endlessly, fading into the horizon as though the world itself had been painted in a single color. Wind whipped the plains, carving sharp ridges into the dunes, carrying a dry, biting scent that made Ares Valen’s throat itch. Dust swirled around his boots as he stood motionless, trying to take in the expanse. He had been so consumed with surviving this strange new world that he barely noticed anything else—until now.Then it came.A howl.Long, deep, haunting.It rolled across the plains, and the hair on his arms stood on end.Ares squinted at the horizon, trying to locate its source. What he had first assumed were specks of dust now sharpened into small, black shapes racing across the sand, moving far faster than any human could manage.A voice spoke—not from a person, not from the wind, but from inside his mind. It carried authority, cold and undeniable.“Enemy forces approach. Prepare yourself.”Ares didn’t hesitate. “I’m ready.”He had long since stopped a

The statue of Jupiter towered above Ares Valen, casting a shadow that stretched across the polished marble floor, moving almost as if it had a life of its own. He froze. His heart hammered against his chest. Throat dry as dust. Every thought spun into a dizzying blur. Could gods… really exist? The question clawed at him, sharp and insistent.For a heartbeat, maybe two, or perhaps an eternity, the air seemed to shiver. A flicker of movement—or a trick of light—made the stone eyes glimmer. And somehow, damn it, they felt alive. His hands twitched. The strange power he had felt before—the fog bending to his will, whispers threading through his mind—what was it? Magic? Divine power? Or something far stranger?Then he saw it. Floating before him, almost casually, the Sword of the God of War. Its blade caught the sunlight, cold and precise, forged not for display but for death and mastery. Ares drew a sharp breath and grasped it. Perfectly balanced. Heavy enough to feel lethal, yet agile en

The northern plains stretched endlessly. Barren. Empty. Relentless. The wind cut across the yellow sand, carrying tiny whirlwinds and the desperate cries of men fleeing for their lives. “Everyone hurry—get inside the village up ahead!” someone shouted. Like water bursting through a broken dam, the survivors surged forward, stumbling over the uneven ground. Panic drove them. Instinct drove them. Fear made their legs run faster than their minds could catch up.Among the crowd ran Emiyas. Once, he had been a palace guard of the Kingdom of Tyrande. Now, every limb screamed for rest. His lungs burned. His muscles protested with every step. And yet, he did not slow. Discipline was carved into his very bones, stronger than iron, deeper than pain. Around him, others dropped shields, weapons, even shoes. Not him. He ran in chainmail, silver rings clinking softly with each stride. For an ordinary man, it would have been unbearable. For Emiyas, it was nothing.“There… was no village here before…

The corpse hit the sand with a dull thud, and tiny clouds of dust spiraled into the cold wind, glinting faintly under the dim sunlight. Its black veil slipped off, revealing a face so still it looked as though it had been stolen from a grave. Silence blanketed the crowd, heavy and suffocating, until a scream cut through it like a blade. Sharp. Piercing. Impossible to ignore.“That’s… my husband!”A refugee woman crumpled to her knees. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, tears carving dark rivers through the grime. She pressed her hands to the ground as if clinging to it could keep reality from collapsing entirely. Her eyes were wide, frantic, staring at the body as though sheer willpower could undo what had already happened.“I buried him myself… two days ago! How—how is he here?” Her voice trembled, faltering under the weight of disbelief.Another veil was lifted. This time, a skull, pale as bleached bone, grinned grotesquely at the onlookers, as though mocking them. Gasps scattered

Spartans. Just saying the word felt like shouting courage into the void. Proud. Unyielding. Legends carved into history like steel into stone. Thermopylae… that wasn’t just a battlefield; it was a crucible, a place where men became immortal.Xerxes, the Persian king, had inherited his father Darius’s ambition and then some. Three hundred thousand soldiers, a thousand warships, and the claim of a million men. Against him? Leonidas, with only three hundred Spartans, seven hundred Thebans, and six thousand allies from across Greece. Tiny numbers against an empire. Impossible odds. Yet for three relentless days, they held the pass. Sheer will. Discipline. Spartan fire. That was all it took. And the world remembered.Centuries and miles later, far from Greece, across the windswept plains of the Tianyan Continent, hundreds of Spartan slaves stood in chains. They were warriors still, though iron clinked around their wrists and ankles. Their hearts were weighed down more heavily than any meta