2025-12-10 22:31:45The northern plains stretched endlessly. Barren. Empty. Relentless. The wind cut across the yellow sand, carrying tiny whirlwinds and the desperate cries of men fleeing for their lives. “Everyone hurry—get inside the village up ahead!” someone shouted. Like water bursting through a broken dam, the survivors surged forward, stumbling over the uneven ground. Panic drove them. Instinct drove them. Fear made their legs run faster than their minds could catch up.
Among the crowd ran Emiyas. Once, he had been a palace guard of the Kingdom of Tyrande. Now, every limb screamed for rest. His lungs burned. His muscles protested with every step. And yet, he did not slow. Discipline was carved into his very bones, stronger than iron, deeper than pain. Around him, others dropped shields, weapons, even shoes. Not him. He ran in chainmail, silver rings clinking softly with each stride. For an ordinary man, it would have been unbearable. For Emiyas, it was nothing.
“There… was no village here before…” A flicker of doubt, quick and fleeting as a sparrow, crossed his mind. But there was no time for questions—not here, not now. In this desolate frontier, survival was not about thinking. It was about reacting. Fast. Correctly.
Three forces dominated these lands: the barbaric Luen Tribe, marauding half-orc clans, and scattered humans barely clinging to life. The figures ahead were human. That was enough. Emiyas didn’t hesitate. He sprinted toward the open palisade, his boots kicking up sand and dust.
“Emiyas.”
The voice cut through the wind—cold, raspy, unnerving. Kamel. “There are troops inside that palisade. Something’s wrong.”
Two black-cloaked figures trailed the mage, their movements stiff and unnatural, stalking like predators on tiptoe.
Emiyas glanced at Kamel, calm but brimming with disdain. “Honorable Dark Mage Kamel, if you don’t want shelter, go ahead. Run to the First Fortress. I won’t follow.”
Two years of forced cooperation had taught him one thing: Kamel was dangerous. Remorseless. A fugitive of the Holy Church’s Inquisition, hiding in the prince’s retinue to conduct god-knows-what dark experiments in this forsaken wilderness.
A humorless, icy chuckle followed. “Hehehe…”
Emiyas ignored it and pushed harder, sprinting toward the gates, each breath sharp and ragged, heart hammering like a war drum.
Inside Aretien
“Hurry! Move aside! Let them in!” Ares Valen barked, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.
The town militia moved swiftly, forming a passage three men wide. Refugees poured into Aretien, trembling, terrified, clinging to the rough wooden walls as if the splintered planks could save them from certain death.
But the barbarians were close. Their roars tore across the plains, echoing off the distant hills. Every few seconds, another scream shredded the air, another body hit the yellow sand. Crimson stains spread, stark against the sun-baked earth. These weren’t men. They were monsters. Muscles knotted like twisted ropes of steel, eyes wild, faces smeared with blood. Some had long braids matted with gore. Others casually dangled human heads from their belts, trophies of slaughter.
Ares Valen’s jaw tightened. The fight had begun.
The First Clash
“Town militia—shields up! Advance!”
Clatter—clatter—clatter. A hundred twenty militia moved as one. Shields overlapped like ironwood, spears angled outward like deadly fangs. They marched toward the barbarians, who were too busy in their killing frenzy to notice the disciplined advance.
Ares had taken a grave risk by rescuing the archers and light infantry. Without them, defending the flat, open plains of Aretien would have been suicide. With them… maybe, just maybe, he could hold the line.
And then he noticed it. Among the refugees, faces that didn’t belong—suspicious, calculating. Hidden Ones, he realized. Silent. Lethal. Waiting. Always waiting.
“Shields—thrust!” Spears shot forward. Barbarians dropped, heavy thuds echoing across the field. Victory? Not yet.
Then—a roar. A sound that shook the ground and rattled teeth.
The barbarian chieftain had noticed the formation. Horned helmet gleaming, towering above the rest, he beheaded another victim before fixing bloodshot eyes on Yang Feng’s troops. “Raaahhh!”
Scattered barbarians abandoned their trophies, converging on the intruders. Even the earlier refugees gave Ares a pitying glance before staggering toward the palisade. They knew what was coming. And so did he.
The Transformation
“Formation—retreat!”
Their goal had been achieved. But the chieftain sensed the prey slipping.
“Roooar!” The ground trembled beneath him.
Then it happened.
Bodies swelled grotesquely. Muscles bulged like iron. Veins writhed beneath the skin. Height surged from two meters to over three. And then—a blur.
“Ahhhh!” A militia soldier was ripped apart by a barbarian who had been dozens of meters away just moments before. Instant acceleration. Berserk. Pure nightmare.
“Roar! Roar! Roar!”
More afterimages tore through the formation. Screams erupted. Shields shattered. Men flew like rag dolls. Ares’s mind raced. These were not men… not beasts… monsters.
The militia line collapsed. Time to act.
He activated the skill buried deep in his War Priest bloodline:
War Ritual Skill — War Roar!
Blue veins bulged along his temples. Muscles tightened beneath golden armor. His grip on the War God’s Sword trembled with raw, unbridled power.
“UWAAAHHH—KILL!”
A shockwave erupted—not merely sound, but force, physical, explosive, sweeping outward and flattening everything before it.
Thunder on the Battlefield
The chieftain took the first hit. Like a hammer. Blood erupted from eyes, ears, nose, mouth—seven openings at once. He was thrown into the air, twisted grotesquely, and crashed down. Mind gone.
Ares lunged. The War God’s Sword gleamed like a cold star. One strike—flesh and bone fell like wet parchment. Blood arced through the air. The chieftain split in two. His spirit drifted faintly into the blade, eternally bound.
The front lines shattered. Berserkers tumbled, dazed, unconscious, hurled aside.
“Kill!” Ares charged through the carnage. Blood boiling. Mind ice-cold. Commander Stars is enhancing him. Every Roman technique unleashed: swordsmanship, grapples, brutal cuts. Limbs flew. Weapons shattered. He was no longer human. Thunder God reborn.
Collapse of FanaticismThe Luen Tribe had worshipped the Thunder God for generations. Now… legends had come alive. Ares, clad in golden armor, roaring with divine fury. Fear replaced frenzy.
The first barbarian fled. Then dozens. Then hundreds. The formation dissolved. Both armies collapsed, retreating in opposite directions.
Ares froze. “…They ran?” Barely twenty dead. Nearly a hundred capable fighters, and they fled.
No time to dwell. Horn blown. Militia shattered, fleeing without looking back.
Then—whoosh. Arrow. Berserker dead. Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh! Archers returned, raining vengeance. Blood, screams, the plains painted red.
AftermathDing.
Battle result: Narrow Victory
Enemies eliminated: 97 special infantry Town militia casualties: 61 dead, 49 wounded Town militia strength increased to Level 2 Reward: 9,800 War Glory Enemy chieftain slain: Bonus 10,000 War Glory Influence increased: 1-StarAres exhaled. Relief and exhaustion washed over him. The world was insane—but at least the rewards were real.
“Enter exchange interface.”
City of Rome — Military ExchangeA holographic interface unfolded:
Leader: Roman Senate
City: Rome (Large) Population: 120,000 Public Order: 165% Growth: +7% Resources: Gold 140,000, Food 300,000, Iron 100,000Units available:
Peasants – 39 squads (500 War Glory) Town Militia – 20 squads (1,000 War Glory) Roman Youth Army – 10 squads (1,500 War Glory)Buildings available:
Governor’s Residence – 2,500 Town Barracks – 1,200 Wooden Walls – 720 Town Market – 700 Town Streets – 900 Blacksmith – 700 Training Grounds – 2,100 Horse Ranch – 3,500Ares considered his options. Expand too fast, and the town dies. He chose:
Exchange: 3 units Roman Youth Army
Build: Governor’s Residence, Barracks, Streets, Wooden Walls, Training Grounds Convert remaining resources into foodAretien would rise—or fall.
And as the wind howled across the plains once more, one truth rang out clear: the Thunder God had returned. And the world would never forget.
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The corpse hit the sand with a dull thud, and tiny clouds of dust spiraled into the cold wind, glinting faintly under the dim sunlight. Its black veil slipped off, revealing a face so still it looked as though it had been stolen from a grave. Silence blanketed the crowd, heavy and suffocating, until a scream cut through it like a blade. Sharp. Piercing. Impossible to ignore.“That’s… my husband!”A refugee woman crumpled to her knees. Her cheeks were streaked with dirt, tears carving dark rivers through the grime. She pressed her hands to the ground as if clinging to it could keep reality from collapsing entirely. Her eyes were wide, frantic, staring at the body as though sheer willpower could undo what had already happened.“I buried him myself… two days ago! How—how is he here?” Her voice trembled, faltering under the weight of disbelief.Another veil was lifted. This time, a skull, pale as bleached bone, grinned grotesquely at the onlookers, as though mocking them. Gasps scattered
Chapter 7: The Rise of Aretian and the Return of the Nineteenth Prince
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Chapter 6: The Roar of the Thunder God
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Chapter 5: Divine Ascension and the Barbarian Siege
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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