Rise of Aretian: The Roman War Priest

Chapter 11: Establishing the Republic (Part One)

Pandragón drove his feet into the soil with all the strength he had left, as if he meant to anchor himself to the land itself. The ground felt solid beneath him. Reliable. For a fleeting moment, he believed that if he stood firm enough, the world would have no choice but to hold him upright.

Time slowed.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was no distinction between man and weapon. No flesh. No steel. Only will.

His breathing grew shallow and controlled. The noise of the battlefield faded into something distant and dull. Shouting voices, clashing metal, even the vast sky overhead seemed to blur together. Everything narrowed. Everything aligned.

A single straight path stretched forward in his vision.

And at the end of it stood one man, calm and unmoving.

Ares Valen.

Then Pandragón moved.

He launched himself forward with everything he had, legs burning as his muscles screamed in protest. His boots tore through the dirt, ripping deep grooves into the ground behind him. The spear whistled sharply as it cut through the air, its edge carrying every last thing Sparta still possessed. Rage. Pride. Memory. Hope.

This was not simply an attack.

It was judgment.

Five steps.

That was all it took.

Only five steps separated him from Ares Valen.

At that exact moment, the young lord lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted in the air.

Ares Valen’s gaze sharpened instantly, like a blade pulled free from its sheath. The calm that had defined him moments earlier vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous. Focus. Absolute and merciless.

Deep within those steady eyes, Pandragón sensed it. Something ancient stirring. Like a beast that had slept too long and finally opened its eyes.

Veins rose across Ares Valen’s forehead, dark and pronounced, twisting beneath skin flushed deep red. Yet there was no wild fury there. No loss of control. His expression remained composed.

Terrifyingly so.

There was only intent.

Cold.

Final.

Then he roared.

The sound was nothing Pandragón could recognize as human.

It burst forth like thunder trapped inside flesh, dense and crushing, raw in a way that defied reason. The roar tore free from Ares Valen’s chest and erupted outward, immediately followed by a war cry so powerful it seemed to strike the world itself.

The ground trembled.

The air rippled and warped, bending as though struck by an invisible force.

The shockwave came next.

Pandragón never saw it. He only felt it.

It struck him before his thoughts could even form.

His mind went blank.

The world flipped.

His body was torn from the ground and hurled backward, as if a charging giant had smashed into him head-on. Blood burst from his mouth and nose, spraying into the air in bright arcs. Pain existed somewhere within him, but it felt distant and muted, swallowed by the overwhelming force that crushed his senses.

It ended in an instant.

And yet, it felt endless.

When Pandragón’s consciousness finally clawed its way back, the first thing he noticed was the cold.

Steel against skin.

A Roman sword rested lightly at his throat.

He lay flat on his back, staring up at a pale and indifferent sky. His arms refused to respond. His legs felt numb and foreign, as if they no longer belonged to him. Every breath burned, shallow and sharp, like fire scraping against his lungs.

“You lost.”

Ares Valen’s voice reached him calmly. There was no anger in it. No triumph. It carried weight, heavy and undeniable, as though reality itself had accepted those words as fact.

No mockery.

No celebration.

Just truth.

Silence settled over the battlefield, thick and suffocating, lasting no more than half a breath.

Then it broke apart.

“Holy Caesar!”

“Long live Caesar!”

“Long live! Long live!”

The Roman youth army erupted all at once. Cheers exploded upward like a storm breaking loose. Shields slammed together. Spears struck the ground. Thousands of voices fused into a single roar that felt powerful enough to crack the sky.

The Spartans did not move.

Neither did the native onlookers.

They stood frozen, staring.

Stunned.

That roar, the pressure behind it, the sheer impossibility of what they had witnessed, carved itself deep into their souls.

What kind of power was that?

Moments ago, Pandragón had been certain of victory. He had felt no fear. No doubt. If anything, he had believed himself in control.

And yet, it had ended like this.

With a single roar.

Slowly and painfully, Pandragón turned his head and looked up at the young man standing over him.

“Even now,” he rasped, his voice raw, each word tearing at his throat, “I do not understand what kind of power that was.”

He swallowed hard.

“But a loss is still a loss.”

The fire in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something heavier. Something deeper. An exhaustion that went beyond flesh and bone.

“From this day forward,” he continued, “Spartan warriors will fight for you.”

A murmur rolled through the Spartan ranks.

Pandragón exhaled slowly, as though forcing himself to remain standing even while lying broken on the ground.

“I ask only one thing,” he said. “Treat our women, our children, and our elders with kindness.”

Then, inch by inch, he forced his body to move.

Pandragón pushed himself upright.

He dropped to one knee.

The sound of armor striking earth echoed across the battlefield, louder than any cheer.

For his people.

For the blood and legacy of Sparta.

He bowed his head. A people who had treasured freedom above life itself now bent, not out of fear, but necessity.

Ares Valen watched him in silence for several long breaths.

Then he nodded.

There was something in his eyes. Respect, perhaps. Understanding.

He turned his sword and placed its flat gently against Pandragón’s shoulder.

“In the name of Caesar,” he declared, his voice carrying across the field, “lifelong ruler of Aretien, I appoint Pandragón as lifelong Tribune of the People.”

A wave of confusion swept through the crowd.

A tribune.

An ancient office from old Rome. One created to protect free citizens, even from those who ruled over them.

Pandragón’s breath caught in his chest.

Before he could respond, Ares Valen straightened and turned toward the gathered masses.

Something shifted.

Those who had fought beside him felt it immediately.

The atmosphere changed.

Authority settled over him like a mantle.

“In the name of Caesar, lifelong ruler of Aretien,” Ares Valen proclaimed, “I declare the establishment of Aretien’s republican system.”

His words rang out, firm and unyielding.

“All Romans and Spartans are granted the status and rights of first class citizens.”

Cheers thundered from both ranks.

“The residents of Wol Town are granted the status and rights of second class free citizens.”

This time, the reaction was very different.

Boos surged through the crowd. Faces twisted with disbelief and anger.

“This is injustice!”

“Why are we beneath them?”

“Our lord would never allow this!”

Ares Valen raised one hand.

The noise died instantly.

“All rights and obligations will be announced in due time,” he said evenly. “From this day onward, anyone who leaves Aretien without authorization will be considered a deserter.”

His gaze swept across the crowd, cold and precise.

“Those who flee will be pursued. Any resistance will be met with execution.”

A chill ran through the listeners.

“Deserters, prisoners of war, and criminals will be branded as slaves and stripped of all freedom.”

The decree was repeated for all to understand.

Romans and Spartans roared with approval.

Wol Town seethed in silence.

To them, this was not fairness. It was open discrimination. Second class free citizens were free in name only.

“If anyone disagrees,” Ares Valen said calmly, “you may speak now.”

His eyes hardened.

“I will allow you to leave freely.”

No one spoke.

No one met his gaze.

This sixteen year old lord had already proven himself through strength, courage, and terrifying command. Beyond Aretien’s borders lay endless danger. Savage lands. Monsters. Death.

Leaving meant dying.

What they did not know was that Ares Valen’s choice was not cruelty.

It was survival.

He could summon only Roman men. Soldiers. Farmers. Builders. If Roman civilization was to endure, integration was unavoidable.

Calculated.

Unforgiving.

The women of Wol Town would never willingly marry outsiders who spoke differently and lived by alien customs.

So first class citizenship became the incentive.

Slow.

Inevitable.

Pandragón finally had time to think.

Lifelong Tribune.

Romans and Spartans as equals.

A self declared ruler.

Understanding struck him all at once.

There was no Sparta anymore.

No Rome.

No Senate.

This young man was not restoring the old world.

He was forging something entirely new.

Ares Valen reached down and pulled Pandragón to his feet.

His eyes were steady. Honest.

“Pandragón,” he said quietly, “this world is vast. Larger than anything we ever knew.”

A faint smile crossed his lips.

“Why not let Romans and Spartans stand together and build an empire?”

His voice lowered.

“The legend of the three hundred Spartan warriors will reach every corner of this world.”

Pandragón trembled.

In his bloodshot, tiger like eyes, a flame reignited. Fierce. Burning. Unyielding.

For the first time since Sparta fell, he saw a future.

And in that future, the name Aretien would shake the world.