Rise of Aretian: The Roman War Priest

Chapter 2: The Divine Charge of the Sacred Julius

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 arguing with whatever force was guiding him. It had proven smarter than him in this world, and stubbornness had a steep price.

Suddenly, the ground seemed to vanish beneath him. His stomach lurched violently, as though gravity itself had turned traitor. His vision blurred, and he felt as if his very soul had been torn from his body, hurled into the sky. Panic gripped him for a heartbeat, but then the world snapped sharply into focus.

He hovered above the battlefield, a living map spread beneath him. Sand, dust, and tiny glimmers of motion stretched endlessly in every direction. He could tilt, rotate, and shift his perspective at will, though an invisible wall one kilometer out stopped him from seeing further.

The black shapes surged closer. Ares lowered his gaze.

“Rroar! Rroar!”

The sound hit him like thunder, rattling his chest. The battlefield shivered beneath the approaching beasts. For a moment, his control wavered—but he steadied himself.

Those were not humans.

Massive, green-skinned creatures charged straight at them. Each was a half-orc, towering and brutish, tusks jutting from savage jaws. They rode wolf-like mounts, enormous and hairless, far larger than any horse. Muscles rippled beneath their leathery hides as claws tore into the sand, throwing clouds with each stride. Their eyes glowed red—hungry, predatory, unrelenting.

“General!”

Lucius, the infantry captain, came sprinting toward him, shield raised instinctively. His face was pale, but determination burned in his eyes.

Ares drew in a sharp breath. “Everyone, battle positions!”

Clashing shields and clattering boots filled the air. One hundred twenty militia formed three tight rows, fear shining in their eyes, but their hands steady. For farmers pressed into soldiers, they moved remarkably well.

Then someone screamed, a tone of horror cutting through the chaos. “It’s cavalry!”

Cold sweat ran down Ares’s back. Town militia facing wolf-mounted cavalry—this was no drill. One mistake would be fatal.

The voice inside him stirred again, calm and commanding. “Let your essence guide you. The power within is yours to wield.”

Ares clenched his fists, feeling a surge of energy ripple through his body. Every ounce of fear burned away, replaced by focus. He rose slightly in his stance, and the world seemed to respond.

Light flared around him. When it faded, he was no longer on the sand. He sat astride a massive white warhorse, its muscles taut beneath him. Golden armor gleamed across his torso, etched with the soaring eagle of Julius. A crimson cloak whipped behind him, catching the wind like fire. His helmet, crowned with a red plume, settled on his head with perfect weight. A horn hung at his side, ready to command.

Panic melted away. Confidence surged. His heart beat steadily and strongly. He was a general—not pretending, not simulating, truly commanding.

The militia stared in awe. Lips parted. Legends of the Sacred Julius whispered through their minds, a god-touched commander whose blood carried divine favor.

Ares raised his gladius, sunlight flashing off the blade.

“Warriors! The Sacred Julius watches over us! Hold the line! Today, you become unbreakable!”

A wave of breath swept through the ranks. “Hu! Hu!” Fear hardened into resolve.

The howls returned, closer now.

The half-orcs finally emerged. Towering, savage, every muscle coiled beneath green skin. Their mounts snarled, claws digging into the earth. Even the most seasoned soldier might hesitate at the sight.

But behind Ares, eight heavy cavalrymen stood unwavering—the General’s Guard. Elite, loyal, unbreakable. Their purpose: protect the Sacred Julius. Death was no threat—it was honor.

Ares had to protect them too. His total force was minimal: one militia unit, eight cavalry, and the invisible Shadow-Hidden Assault Squad.

Across the field, the half-orcs slowed, puzzled by the disciplined Roman formation. They circled, eyes hunting, muscles coiled.

Ares acted. “Shadow-Hidden Squad, hold. Remain unseen.”

A faint acknowledgment whispered across the ground. They were perfect shadows, concealed entirely.

“Militia, tighten formation. Fall back slowly. General’s Guard, with me. When they charge, strike their right flank.”

Everything moved in precise harmony.

But instinct cannot be denied. The orcs were hunters, predators. They saw retreat not as a tactic but as prey in sight. Frenzied joy lit their eyes.

The wolf-beasts surged forward, claws digging, sand erupting beneath them. The earth seemed to tremble.

Then Ares lifted his hand, voice strong and resonant: “In the name of Jupiter, Lord of Heaven and Earth, Protector of Rome, let the divine mist descend!”

The Leadership Temple behind them shuddered, and a shockwave radiated outward. A colossal wall of white fog erupted across the battlefield, swallowing the half-orc cavalry entirely, leaving the Romans untouched.

Chaos erupted inside the mist.

“Where are they?!”

“My mouth—I can’t see!”

The wolf-beasts could still sense direction, but the riders were blind. Perfect.

Ares brought his gladius down. “General’s Guard, with me! Hit their right flank! Break their charge!”

Eight cavalrymen responded instantly, eyes blazing. No hesitation. Only devotion.

He plunged into the fog, senses heightened beyond human limits. Every heartbeat, every movement of his horse, synced perfectly. Combat instincts, riding skill, swordsmanship—all harmonized.

The fog thinned. Orcs emerged, two hundred meters from the militia. Ares angled left, slashing into their exposed flank.

Time slowed.

He rose in his saddle, gladius flashing, striking clean. An orc’s throat opened, and the rider fell.

But the wolf-beast lunged at him. He twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike. Claws scraped his horse’s flank, blood spraying. A red flash marked his vision—pain stabbed, then vanished as his divine focus absorbed it.

Behind him, cavalrymen skewered and smashed remaining attackers. The orc charge shattered.

Ares seized the moment. “Pull back! Regroup!”

The cavalry wheeled, but the wolf-beasts pursued with terrifying speed. Two men were thrown violently from their mounts.

Ares’ chest tightened. Retreat meant abandoning his men. Letting them die was unacceptable.

Something snapped inside him.

He wrenched his reins, turning straight toward the oncoming wolf-beasts.

“If soldiers sin by fleeing,” he growled, voice trembling with fury, “then a general who abandons his men—”

Sunlight caught his gladius, setting it ablaze.

“—is the most shameless creature alive.”

He charged into the teeth of death.