2025-12-10 22:31:31The 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 dedicated Junior Priests ever caught the attention of the gods. And Cress… she had it. She was chosen.
She reached for the scepter, hands trembling, and for the first time in years, her pale face seemed to glow from the inside out. Eyes wide with disbelief, lips quivering, she moved like every step carried centuries of hope. You could almost hear the universe holding its breath.
Ten Hidden Warriors knelt, voices low and precise, unwavering.
“Congratulations, my lady,” they said in perfect unison, “on receiving the god’s recognition and earning the title of Prosperity Priest.”
Ares Valen’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. So many words trapped inside him. None felt right. Finally, he spoke quietly, weighted with meaning.
“Congratulations, Cress…”
Roman tradition dictated a new name for those leaving the anonymity of the Hidden Warriors. They had no personal identities—only numbers. Pressed for time and borrowing from mythology, Ares Valen christened her “Cress,” after a goddess from ancient stories. Somehow, it felt… fitting.
The ritual concluded. Cress shed the black armor and heavy cloak, stepping into the plain tunica of a Roman priestess. Simple, yes—but her presence filled the room. Authority radiated from her, devotion shimmered in every gesture, and the divine connection was unmistakable.
“Priest!” she said, voice trembling, raw with emotion. A rebirth. Years of devotion realized in a single, sacred moment.
The ceremony had a cost. Blood loss left her staggering, knees threatening to give out. Instinctively, Ares Valen caught her before she hit the floor.
“General! Outside!”
Lucius, the infantry captain, barreled into the temple, sweat soaking his brow. He had urgent news—but froze at the sight of Ares holding Cress. Words failed him. He just stepped back, unsure if he should even breathe.
“Lucius… what is it?” Ares asked. One of the Hidden Warriors gently settled Cress on a cot and covered her with a cloak. Careful, respectful, precise. She was weak from the ceremony, not from injury. Rest would fix her.
“You need to see it for yourself… out there,” Lucius said, voice tight, eyes wide.
Ares stepped onto the marble platform. The sun beat down mercilessly. Heat waves shimmered off the yellow plains, creating a cruel mirage. His leg throbbed—a stubborn reminder from earlier skirmishes—but he ignored it. Every inch of the horizon demanded attention.
Inside the wooden palisade, 240 Roman farmers worked tirelessly, chopping trees along the Lannon River. Crude shelters, barricades, anything to survive. Summoning structures and units was one thing—but survival in the sun? Water, hunger, sweat—that was real, brutal, tangible work. Even with the river nearby, the heat pressed down on them all.
Ares waved a hand. A thin, moist mist rolled over the palisade. A small mercy. Brief. Temporary. But enough.
Lucius pointed to the horizon. Tiny black dots moved steadily across the sand. Humans? Or worse—half-beast creatures? They were heading straight for Aretian.
Ares activated his abnormal strategic mode. Yang Feng’s consciousness lifted, hovering above. Every movement, every threat, within a kilometer—visible. Like a hawk circling the plains.
“Strategic Mode—activate!” The mechanical voice confirmed.
The black specks advanced relentlessly. Most were human refugees, fleeing the Kingdom of Tyrand, the border towns of Vol. Faces he remembered… people tied to old regimes, old grudges.
Two stood out. Emias—a young swordsman, now a proper guard. And Kamel—a wiry, calculating man, dangerous. Emias had once served the mad prince, the previous owner of Ares’ body, but abandoned his post. Kamel… worse. He had seized taxes, sent men to kill innocents. Ares remembered clearly: Kamel had killed the former lord of this body.
“Everyone—run!” refugees screamed. Panic wove through every word. Tyrand soldiers tried to hold them off, bows raised, swords ready. Outnumbered. Exhausted. Desperate.
And the enemy? Terrifying. Towering, nearly naked, painted in vivid colors. They roared, screamed, hair flowing, cleavers dripping with old blood. They loved the fight. Pure, savage joy. Nearly unstoppable.
Ares snapped out of observation mode. Enough watching. Time to act.
“Prepare for battle!” His voice carried, steady and unyielding.
This wasn’t just fighting. It was survival. Resources, manpower, gold—all for whoever won.
“All units—prepare for battle!” Lucius shouted, drawing his short sword.
The Roman militia—120 strong—took their positions. Nine Hidden Warriors followed their new captain. Behind them, 240 farmers, armed with makeshift daggers, fell into line.
“General’s Guard—dismount!” Horses were valuable. But charging blind into the unknown? Suicide. Only seven mounted knights could risk it. Infantry would bear the brunt.
“Commander Mode—Level Two, activate. Two Command Stars—activate…”
“Combat Mode—Level Two, activate…”
“General’s Armor—activate…”
Light and machinery erupted around him. Gilded armor clinked into place. Crimson cloak draped over his shoulder. Golden horn at the waist. Sword of Mars in hand. Command radiated from him. Pain gone. Senses sharpened. A health bar of 200 blinked in his mind.
“Open the palisade gate,” he commanded, calm but firm.
“By command—open the gate!” Farmers surged forward. Gates groaned, giving way. Hundreds of refugees waited just beyond, ready to flee.
Ares scanned the plains, calculating, anticipating. The barbarian invasion had begun. And at its center stood the War Priest—himself—ready to turn divine power into Rome’s sword and shield.
Then a chill ran down his spine. The first war cries tore across the plains. Something felt wrong. This wasn’t a simple raid. Something darker lurked, hidden, waiting.
The war had only just begun.
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Chapter 116: The Roman Sword (Part Two)
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Chapter 115: The Sword of Rome (Part One
he moment the Roman gladiators waded into the river, the warriors of the Nami Sea Clan knew something had gone terribly wrong.It was not fear at first. It was instinct.The Lannon River churned violently as nets burst upward from beneath its surface, spreading wide like vicious flowers in bloom. One followed another. Then another. Soon there were too many to track. They overlapped and tangled, each knot placed with care, each line designed to trap, tighten, and pull a struggling body into helpless stillness.The fishmen charged anyway.They roared and surged forward, driven by numbers and confidence, believing sheer force would carry them through. It lasted only seconds. Nets snapped shut around limbs and torsos. Powerful bodies twisted in panic. Arms locked. Gills flared as breath failed. Thin strands of wire bit into flesh, slicing deeper with every desperate movement.The river filled with confusion and blood.The gladiators did not panic. They never did.They moved with calm, rut
Chapter 114 : Roman Gladiators
The soul was never meant to leave the flesh.That truth had been passed down through countless generations, spoken by priests, scholars, and warriors alike. A soul without a body was like a blade without an edge. You could still call it a sword, but it would never cut. Ares Valen had always understood this in theory.Only now did he truly feel it.And the realization came with fear.Something essential was slipping away from him, slowly but relentlessly, like sand running through open fingers. For the first time since he could remember, Ares Valen felt helpless.He could not move.He could not feel his body.The strength he had forged through years of war sacrifices, the brutal conditioning that had hardened his flesh and instincts, answered him no longer. His body might as well have belonged to someone else. He tried to command it, tried to force it to respond, but nothing happened.It was like shouting orders into an endless void.In the realm of the soul, physical power was meaning
Chapter 113 : The Tiger Guard Camp
The name Tiger Guard was never meant to impress anyone.It was not chosen for poetry, nor for pride. No bard had whispered it into existence, and no noble had polished it to sound heroic. The name existed for one reason only.It was a warning.Once the Tiger Guard moved, they did not stop. They did not slow down. They did not reconsider. They charged, hunted, and pursued like a tiger that had already chosen its prey and decided there was no other path left in the world. Retreat did not exist for them. Doubt was something other men carried.The Tiger Guard existed to destroy.Beneath the Dragon Banner stood a thousand men.They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, boots pressed into blood-soaked earth. No one spoke. No one shifted their weight. Their breathing was steady, measured, almost unnaturally calm. It was the kind of calm that only came from years of drilling and from seeing death so often that it stopped being shocking.A thousand breaths rose and fell together.A thousand heart
Chapter 112: The Breakthrough Battalion
By the time the Breakthrough Battalion finally forced their way beneath the Emperor Mammoths, they were no longer a thousand strong.Not even close.The battlefield had taken its price early, and it had taken it brutally.The first clash had been a nightmare made real. The kind of moment commanders pray never comes, and soldiers never forget if they survive it. Entire lines disappeared in seconds. Men were trampled into the earth, crushed beneath iron-plated feet, or thrown aside like broken shields. Some died screaming. Some did not even have time for that.It should have shattered the battalion.It did not.Those still alive did what soldiers have always done when retreat is impossible. They adapted. They learned fast. They moved forward because standing still meant death.Only when they reached the dark space beneath the mammoths, behind the thick pillars of their legs and under the massive shadows of their bellies, did the Imperial Guard finally discover a way to fight back.From
Chapter 110: The Formation-Breaking Battalion
The ground groaned.Not cracked. Not split apart. It groaned, deep and low, as if the land itself were alive and already regretting the nightmare about to trample across its back.A heavy tremor rolled through the battlefield. At first it was distant, almost subtle. Then it grew stronger. Strong enough to rattle armor plates. Strong enough to make teeth chatter inside clenched jaws.Dust lifted from the earth in thin sheets.Men froze.Then the sound came.“ROOOAAR!”Eleven Imperial Mammoths surged forward at the same moment.Not one after another. Not in a staggered line. They charged together, perfectly synchronized, like an army that needed no orders.It was the kind of sight that robbed soldiers of breath.Each step struck the ground with the force of a collapsing tower. Twenty two massive legs crashed down in merciless rhythm, sending shockwaves outward in widening circles. Stones leapt from the soil. Loose earth erupted into the air. Within seconds, a wall of gray dust swallowed
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