2025-12-10 22:32:22Spartans. 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 metal. You could see it. The fire dimmed but was not extinguished.
Ares Valen stepped forward. Eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. Silence fell under that gaze like the calm before a storm. He spoke slowly, deliberately. Every word struck like a hammer.
"From childhood, leaving parents behind,
Trained by wolves in the wilderness. A golden helmet upon the head, A white wooden spear in hand; A red cloak drapes the body, A bronze shield was gripped in the arm. Three hundred warriors guard Thermopylae, Ten thousand fierce men hesitate to advance. Their deeds resound in the enemy camp, Persian nobles everywhere were struck with awe. Standing firm against the raging waves, Sparta is the ice at the poles."Even hardened eyes softened. Years of toil, discipline, relentless struggle—they felt the surge of old pride again. Tears came unbidden. Some thumped their chests, letting grief and pride crash together in one raw, guttural howl.
“Leonidas, my king! Look at Sparta now!”
And then… one figure drew Ares’s full attention. Towering. Massive. Like a statue come to life. Seven feet of muscle, beard thick, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. Calm. Terrifyingly calm. Every step is deliberate. Every breath controlled.
“You, foreigner, stirring Spartan blood—what is your intent?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. Commanding. Unyielding.
Ares felt the familiar surge—the tickle of battle intuition. Commander Mode. Two-star general aura. Magnetic. Unmovable. He stepped closer. Not threatening. Precise.
“Spartans, tell me your names.”
The words struck Pendragon like a hammer. The others tensed. Ready. Always ready.
“I am Pendragon!” His roar shook the air. “Descendant of Leonidas—Sparta!”
“Sparta.” The word rolled off his tongue like a war cry, a promise. His chest swelled with pride. Blood-red eyes glinted. Power radiated from him.
“Roman Youth Army! Javelins ready!” Centurion Lucius barked, gladius drawn.
A hundred Roman youths lifted weapons, aiming at the shackled Spartans. One false move and it could be a massacre.
“Lucius!” Ares’s voice cut like steel. “Lower your weapons. Now! These are warriors, not slaves. Free them.”
Pendragon didn’t flinch. His pride remained unbroken.
“This world isn’t Greece anymore,” Ares continued, tone firm but respectful. “No Sparta. Only the Tianyan Continent. Join me, or walk your own path.”
A Spartan could not be coerced. Death, threats—they didn’t bend him. Only respect, strategy, and subtlety spoke their language.
Nearby, a pudgy Roman merchant named Altoia spun around. He thought chaos was an opportunity. Deceived by the Senate, he had left Rome hoping for wealth, influence, maybe even wives. Yaletion smashed those hopes against reality.
“Pendragon!” he shouted. “Caesar’s mercy is vast! Look at the weak—the elderly, women, children—starving, unarmed! The Yellow Sands will swallow them if you do nothing!”
Pendragon’s chest rose and fell. Ignore himself? Sure. Ignore the warriors beside him? Maybe. But the innocent? The vulnerable? Never. Duty, not choice.
Ares looked at the merchant. “And you are?”
“Respected Caesar,” Altoia said, bowing, eyes glinting with ambition. “I am Altoia. Merchant. Financial overseer of this caravan. These Spartans were purchased at great cost from the Roman slave market.”
Ares nodded. The man maintained control through cunning, exploiting weakness to preserve strength.
Sparta, as it had been… gone. Pendragon exhaled, bitter acceptance in his chest. For now, he would serve the Roman cause. Yet defiance still blazed in his eyes.
“Spartans do not obey the weak,” he said.
Ares smiled faintly. Compliance under duress wasn’t respected. To earn Spartan honor, he would have to face Pendragon head-on.
Chains removed. Spartans freed. Two hundred strong Yaletion farmers joined the caravan. Lucius led the Roman Youth soldiers. Diplomat Cornelius accompanied him. Guided by locals, they set toward Glonwa, a northern fortress city of the Tyrande Kingdom. The name Yaletion would echo across Tianyan.
Dusk. The sun bled molten gold and crimson across the Yellow Sands. The last rays flickered like fire across the sand. Perfect stage for the battle to come.
The God of War Plaza, once just a training ground, now swelled. Roman soldiers, refugees from Vol Town, freed Spartans. Shadows stretched long, twisted together, anticipation thick in the air.
“Ding… Battle Mode activated! General’s armor online!”
White light engulfed Ares. Roman general’s armor materialized around him, gleaming, imposing. Pendragon faced him. Spear, shield, every muscle coiled, every sinew a spring ready to strike.
Pendragon’s childhood had been brutal. Scorching summers, freezing winters, hunger, and combat with wolves. By seven, enrolled in the agoge. Barefoot in the snow. Sleeping on reed mats. Eating coarse food. By twenty, forged into a weapon. Discipline. Unity. Excellence. Phalanx forged in fire.
He roared and charged. Spear strikes—block, catch, thrust—fluid, precise, deadly.
Ares dodged, countered with diagonal arcs of his short sword. Clang! The spear rebounded like a coiled tiger. Every strike demanded perfect timing, reflexes honed to razor edge.
“Sparta—hu!” The freed Spartans erupted in raw cheer. Roman Youth soldiers shouted back: “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!”
Ares’s mind raced. Pendragon was a storm. Brute force, agility, precision. Standard Roman techniques? Not enough. He needed subtlety, finesse, controlled power. War God Sword? Too lethal. War Roar? Controlled, precise, enough to subdue without killing.
“You are strong,” Ares said, admiration in his voice.
“And you’re not bad yourself,” Pendragon shot back, eyes locked.
Spartan spear mastery at its peak. Mind forgetting hand, hand forgetting spear. Fluid, relentless. Even Leonidas had reached only the second level: hand forgetting spear. Pure skill. Pure will. No tricks.
The duel had begun.
Ancient Spartan discipline versus modern Roman mastery. Not just victory, not just survival. Honor. Legacy. The spirit of Sparta itself.
Across the golden sands of Tianyan, every eye watched. Every heart raced. Every soul knew: this was a battle that would be remembered for centuries.
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Chapter 10: The Spirit of Sparta
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
Chapter 9: The Governor’s Mansion and the Spartan Arrival
''Wow… this room is enormous.”Meibao stepped into the newly completed Governor’s Mansion, and for a moment, she simply froze. The grand hall stretched upward, seemingly without end, empty yet vibrating with a quiet, commanding presence. Tall white columns rose from the polished marble floor to the vaulted ceiling, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns so delicate it felt as though the stone itself had been imbued with patience and life. Light flickered across the subtle bas-reliefs on the walls, painting the room in gentle shadows that danced like whispers.Roman architecture wasn’t about decoration or mere beauty. It was about strength, clarity, and authority. Windows were rare, set high, allowing only slivers of sunlight to pierce the shadowy expanse. And yet, somehow, the mansion felt magical—suspended somewhere between reality and something almost divine. Every doorway and window wore a semicircular arch, softening the rigidity of the stone. Meibao tilted her head back. T
Chapter 8: Oaths in the Dust, Shadows in the Sand
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
Chapter 7: The Rise of Aretian and the Return of the Nineteenth Prince
Thunder rolled—not from the clouds above, but deep inside Ares Valen’s mind. The prompts kept coming. Relentless. Mechanical. Cold. Like a clock that wouldn’t stop ticking, reminding him of every choice, every point spent, every decision that had led him here.“Ding… Roman Youth Army, Team 3, successfully redeemed—4,500 points of War Glory consumed.”“Governor’s Residence—2,500 points consumed.”“Town Barracks—1,200 points consumed.”“Town Streets—900 points consumed.”“Wooden Wall and Training Grounds—1,620 points consumed.”“8,020 catties of grain—8,020 points consumed.”Each announcement landed like a boulder thrown into a still pond. The ripples didn’t fade—they surged outward, shaking the Tianyan Continent as if the world itself were breathing, quivering beneath some unseen hand.Then light. Blinding, impossible light. Marble buildings descended from the sky, polished to perfection, reflecting the sun in dazzling bursts of light. Wooden palisades twisted and warped, solidifying i
Chapter 6: The Roar of the Thunder God
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…
Chapter 5: Divine Ascension and the Barbarian Siege
The statue of Jupiter erupted into blinding light. Not just any light, but the kind that made your eyes sting and your chest skip a beat. From the marble base, a wooden scepter wrapped in golden stalks of grain floated slowly toward Cress, as if it had a mind of its own. Then—just like that—the gash on her wrist vanished. Poof. Gone. Smooth, flawless skin, no trace of injury. Well… except for the stubborn pool of blood spreading across the marble. Without it, you’d swear she’d never been hurt at all.The title of Prosperity Priest carried weight beyond imagining. Rome’s people, their safety, the abundance they relied on—it all funneled through this office. Now, with Cress stepping forward and Ares Valen standing as the War Priest, two of the three pillars of the Roman Temple had been claimed. The Bacchus Priest—the embodiment of revelry and battle frenzy—remained a shadowy mystery, waiting to appear.Becoming a full priest? Rare doesn’t even begin to describe it. Only the most dedicat
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