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 143: The Martial War God
“They fled? The royal battle guard actually fled?”King Uhtred of Tyland stood upon the highest tower of Huana Duo, his hands resting heavily on the cold stone parapet. The wind tugged at his cloak and carried with it the distant clang of armor and iron. Around him gathered princes in jeweled robes, ministers with drawn faces, and noblemen who no longer remembered how to speak.Below the walls stretched a sight so vast that it seemed unreal.An ocean of soldiers.Nine hundred thousand.Their banners swayed like a forest of iron trees. The sky above them looked dimmed, swallowed by scarlet and gold standards that moved in steady waves. Sunlight flashed across polished armor in blinding bursts. The ground trembled under the synchronized march of countless boots. Even from this height, the sound was relentless. It seeped into bone and breath alike.“Father… what are we to do?”The eldest prince stepped forward, though his voice betrayed him. It cracked despite his effort to appear compos
Chapter 142: The Martial God Realm
The Weight of HistoryHistory remembers the War of the Gods as a distant blaze that burned too brightly and then collapsed into ash. When it ended, the world did not shatter. It changed. The old era faded, and what scholars now call the Age of Magic quietly took its place.In the present age of the Tianyan Continent, five beings alone are acknowledged as true Main Gods. They possess divine realms of their own and command the faith of uncounted millions. Their names are spoken with reverence and fear alike.The Dark Nether God.The Goddess of Light.The Martial God of Valor.The God of Adventure.The Holy Law God.Of these five, two stand far above the rest in influence. The Goddess of Light and the Dark Nether God receive the faith of nearly four-fifths of the continent. Their Churches, known as the Light Alliance and the Dark Alliance, spread across lands ruled by non-human races. They rarely clash directly, yet their rivalry shapes politics, wars, and destinies alike.Humanity, by c
Chapter 141: Wolf Cavalry Raid
“He is not my father. He is not my king. I hate him. And I hate that fool as well.”Ailina’s voice trembled in the darkness of the underground corridor. Whether the tremor came from anger or heartbreak, even she could not have said. Sometimes the two felt the same.She stood beneath flickering torchlight, no more than seventeen, slender and tall in a way that made her seem almost fragile. Her pale blue hair fell to her hips, catching the light like silver water against the damp stone walls. In another place, under a summer sky perhaps, she would have looked ethereal. Here, in the bowels of the royal palace, she looked like a caged star.If one observed her carefully, one might notice something familiar in the curve of her brow, in the sharpness of her gaze. A faint resemblance to the Holy Emperor, Ares Valen.“Ailina, do not speak that way.”The woman inside the cell stepped forward. Chains around her wrists shifted with a soft metallic sound. Though hardship had carved subtle lines a
Chapter 140: The Month of Harvest
Autumn arrived on the Tianyan Continent without ceremony.There was no warning. No grand signal. One morning, the air simply felt different. Cooler. Lighter. As if the world had taken a quiet breath and decided to change its mood.The wind slipped across stone walls and bare skin like cold water, gentle but persistent. It left behind a faint ache that crept into muscles and bones, the kind you only noticed after standing still for too long. Wherever it passed, green did not disappear at once. It hesitated. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, it surrendered to gold.Leaves loosened their grip on ancient branches and drifted down in lazy spirals, as though the land itself were shedding an old layer it no longer needed.“Dark Alliance. Dark God Realm. Three years.”Ares Valen spoke the words softly, barely louder than the wind. He repeated them once more, letting them settle in his chest.Three years.He stood alone on the highest balcony of the imperial palace, hands resting on the cold st
Chapter 139: Goblin Machinery
“The Eighteen Dwarven Principalities share a common enemy with you.”Dwarf King Ovgar’s voice echoed throughout the Holy Imperial Palace, deep and steady, like stone grinding against stone. Every word he spoke carried confidence, the kind that came from centuries of pride and a belief that his people still stood at the center of the world.“As long as you are willing to supply one third of your mithril production to the dwarves, the Holy Mountain of Light, the Alps, will be burned to ash. Five hundred thousand dwarven warriors will march at the front of your Holy Legion.”The declaration was bold. Heavy. Almost theatrical.It sounded convincing. Impressive, even.Ovgar spoke as if the matter were already decided, as though this alliance were a gift rather than a demand. He did not notice the brief change in Ares Valen’s expression. It was subtle, lasting no more than a heartbeat.Disdain.Five hundred thousand dwarves as a vanguard.At first glance, it sounded like an offer no empire
Chapter 138: Azure Blood
After Yana finally explained everything, the truth settled in.Not all at once.Not gently.It came like a slow pressure against the chest, the kind that makes breathing difficult before the pain even arrives.Ares Valen understood. Completely. And with that understanding came the sharp and deeply uncomfortable realization that he had been wrong. Not slightly wrong. Not misguided.Wrong in a way that could never be undone.The so called azure blood of the Naga sea sirens was never a racial blessing. It was not divine favor, nor a miracle gifted by the sea gods. It carried no glory. No honor.It was something far more fragile.Far more cruel.Azure blood was the maiden’s blood of a young Naga sea siren.Nothing more. Nothing less.Among their kind, it existed only once in a lifetime. One single moment that could never be repeated. The instant a sea siren surrendered her first night, the azure blood vanished forever. No ritual could recover it. No god could restore it. Once gone, it was
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