2025-12-10 22:31:55Thunder rolled—not from the clouds above, but deep inside Ares Valen’s mind. The prompts kept coming. Relentless. Mechanical. Cold. Like a clock that wouldn’t stop ticking, reminding him of every choice, every point spent, every decision that had led him here.
“Ding… Roman Youth Army, Team 3, successfully redeemed—4,500 points of War Glory consumed.”
“Governor’s Residence—2,500 points consumed.”
“Town Barracks—1,200 points consumed.”
“Town Streets—900 points consumed.”
“Wooden Wall and Training Grounds—1,620 points consumed.”
“8,020 catties of grain—8,020 points consumed.”
Each announcement landed like a boulder thrown into a still pond. The ripples didn’t fade—they surged outward, shaking the Tianyan Continent as if the world itself were breathing, quivering beneath some unseen hand.
Then light. Blinding, impossible light. Marble buildings descended from the sky, polished to perfection, reflecting the sun in dazzling bursts of light. Wooden palisades twisted and warped, solidifying into walls that could withstand any siege. Streets of polished stone appeared beneath clouds of dust. Whole structures—the kind seen only in paintings or ancient scrolls—existed. From nothing.
At the center of it all, a red wave surged forward. Four hundred eighty young men, Team 3 of the Roman Youth Army. They moved with a precision that made the very air tense, pride radiating off them like heat. Crimson cloaks whipped in the wind. Bronze helms shone like fire under the sun. Shields struck the ground in perfect rhythm, sending vibrations up into the crowd’s hearts.
The townsfolk and refugees froze. Mouths open. Hearts hammering. Magic? Gods? No. Something they couldn’t even name.
“G-Goddess of Light…” a woman whispered.
“They… they fell from the sky!”
“Kneel! KNEEL!” a man shouted, shaking uncontrollably.
And they obeyed. Kneeling. Trembling. Praying to powers that would never answer. But the “miracle” before them? Not divine. It was Rome.
Rome Reborn in the Wilderness
Ares Valen ascended the freshly formed marble stairs. His golden cuirass glinted in the sunlight, almost blinding him for a moment. He paused at the top, breathing in the astonishing view. Below him, chants of “Long live Caesar!” rolled across the square like thunder.
It hit him harder than any collapsing building. These weren’t units. Not at all. They were alive. Vibrant. Too real to be some game illusion. Every detail matched the Divine Hidden Warriors’ reports: the Senate, temple priests, teleportation gates, soldiers. All real.
But who had orchestrated this? Who had pulled the invisible strings? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Only the weight of responsibility pressed down on him. Heavy. Suffocating.
Below, Yaretian transformed. Refugee shelters became Roman frameworks. The Governor’s Residence rose at the street’s end, marble and immaculate, proud as if daring the world to challenge it. Barracks would house a thousand soldiers. The training grounds sprawled across half the town, soon to become the War God Plaza—where warriors would be forged in fire, blood, and sweat.
“In your name,” Ares Valen bellowed, voice carrying across the square, “these barracks shall be the Roman Youth Camp! And this training ground—the War God Plaza!”
“Long live Caesar!” the youths shouted back, voices crackling like wildfire.
Ares felt a pang he could not name. He was sixteen. Sixteen years in body, yet the years behind his eyes felt older than centuries. Watching them, he remembered laughter, chaos, foolishness from another life—college campuses, friends, reckless energy. All gone. Here, youth was sharpened, tempered, burned into soldiers. Fire and blood, nothing gentle.
The Price of Discipline
Outside the wooden wall, silence pressed down like a heavy hand. Ten militia deserters knelt in the sand, hands bound, faces streaked with tears.
Lucius stood over them, gripping the Sword of the War God. Stern. Unyielding. Yet behind his eyes, a flicker of sorrow lingered.
“Deserters are the shame of Rome! Decimation Law—EXECUTE!”
The sword rose. Fell. Heads rolled. Blood seeped into the sand. Roman blood. Roman hands.
Ares hesitated. They’re just militia…
Lucius’s words cut through doubt like steel. “General. Break the law, and Rome has no legions. Only armed mobs.”
And so the executions continued. Silence and terror intertwined with the heat of the setting sun. Rome was forged on bones. Tianyan Continent would learn the same lesson.
The Whisper of Trouble
Inside the town, awe clung to the air like dust. But whispers slid through the crowd like shadows.
“What is that ability? Forbidden magic?”
“Impossible. That child… he shouldn’t even be alive.”
Carmel, mustache twitching nervously, watched Ares with growing dread. Emiyas, beside him, stiffened, uneasy.
Then a small figure emerged. A girl. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. Trembling. Head down.
Ares slowed. “You are…?”
Her blue eyes lifted, lips quivering. Emotions tangled—fear, hope, grief. Then she leapt into him, sobbing violently.
“Beggar Prince… M-Meibao’s grandpa… they were killed by bad people…”
Her tears fell onto his armor. Her arms clung to him as if letting go would shatter her. Memories flooded his mind—not his memories, yet they felt real. The starving boy was saved by this girl and her grandfather. Without them, Wol Town would have claimed him long ago.
He stroked her hair gently. “Meibao… It’s okay. From now on, I’ll take care of you.”
Two lives. One promise.
The Nineteenth Prince Declares His Authority
Ares lifted his voice across the chaotic square.
“Listen! I am the Nineteenth Prince of Tyland! Royal House of the Purple Iris! Baron of Wol Town! Wol Town is gone—this is your home now, Aretian!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Carmel paled. Alive? Powerful? Changed? And he had witnessed it all. Terror gripped him like a vice.
He whispered a spell—jagged, forbidden. The air trembled as it left his lips.
“Death Coil!”
Black mist erupted beneath two Roman soldiers. Tendrils writhed, crushing, constricting.
“AHHH—!”
Bodies shriveled. When the mist cleared, only two decades-old corpses remained.
Ares felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. Magic. Deadly magic.
A Fool’s Final Mistake
Bang! Two black-cloaked mages smashed the wooden wall, creating a crude escape route.
“Heh… Emiyas, stay if you want. I’m leaving!” Carmel shouted, darting through the opening.
A cold wind brushed his neck. The world flipped. Headless, he collapsed. Blood sprayed like a crimson fountain.
A figure appeared beside him. Silver mask. Black armor. Twin daggers dripping with blood. Shadow made flesh.
“Death…”
Carmel’s head rolled away, dragged by a desert mouse into its burrow.
The remaining mages froze mid-spell. Limbs stiffened, fell to the sand. Dead. Silence returned to the desert.
Aretian—The Birth of a New Power
The Roman Youth Army tightened its formation. Refugees gaped. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Ares stood in the center. Marble buildings gleamed. Soldiers roared. Civilians trembled. Death lingered in the air like smoke.
Not long ago, he had been a starving boy wandering Wol Town’s markets. Now? Prince. Warlord. Rising power. Commander of Rome itself.
The world had no idea what was coming.
The sands whispered his name. The wind carried it. And Aretian’s heart—Roman resurgence—beat for the first time.
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Chapter 10: The Spirit of Sparta
Spartans. Just saying the word felt like shouting courage into the void. Proud. Unyielding. Legends carved into history like steel into stone. Thermopylae… that wasn’t just a battlefield; it was a crucible, a place where men became immortal.Xerxes, the Persian king, had inherited his father Darius’s ambition and then some. Three hundred thousand soldiers, a thousand warships, and the claim of a million men. Against him? Leonidas, with only three hundred Spartans, seven hundred Thebans, and six thousand allies from across Greece. Tiny numbers against an empire. Impossible odds. Yet for three relentless days, they held the pass. Sheer will. Discipline. Spartan fire. That was all it took. And the world remembered.Centuries and miles later, far from Greece, across the windswept plains of the Tianyan Continent, hundreds of Spartan slaves stood in chains. They were warriors still, though iron clinked around their wrists and ankles. Their hearts were weighed down more heavily than any meta
Chapter 9: The Governor’s Mansion and the Spartan Arrival
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Chapter 8: Oaths in the Dust, Shadows in the Sand
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
Thunder rolled—not from the clouds above, but deep inside Ares Valen’s mind. The prompts kept coming. Relentless. Mechanical. Cold. Like a clock that wouldn’t stop ticking, reminding him of every choice, every point spent, every decision that had led him here.“Ding… Roman Youth Army, Team 3, successfully redeemed—4,500 points of War Glory consumed.”“Governor’s Residence—2,500 points consumed.”“Town Barracks—1,200 points consumed.”“Town Streets—900 points consumed.”“Wooden Wall and Training Grounds—1,620 points consumed.”“8,020 catties of grain—8,020 points consumed.”Each announcement landed like a boulder thrown into a still pond. The ripples didn’t fade—they surged outward, shaking the Tianyan Continent as if the world itself were breathing, quivering beneath some unseen hand.Then light. Blinding, impossible light. Marble buildings descended from the sky, polished to perfection, reflecting the sun in dazzling bursts of light. Wooden palisades twisted and warped, solidifying i
Chapter 6: The Roar of the Thunder God
The 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…
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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