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 7: The Rise of Aretian and the Return of the Nineteenth Prince
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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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