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.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Chapter 116: The Roman Sword (Part Two)
“Pila!”“Pila!”The command echoed again and again, tearing through the smoke-filled battlefield like a bell rung for the dead. It did not fade. It did not soften. It kept coming, heavy and relentless, until the sound itself seemed to press against the chest.What followed was not a charge.It was not a roar of men rushing forward.It was something worse.It was a storm.Days of fighting had bled the Senate legions dry. The ground told the story better than any report ever could. Bodies lay everywhere, some burned black, some cut apart, others frozen in strange positions as if death had caught them mid-thought. Numbers had dropped. Supplies were strained. Morale had been scraped down to something thin and bitter.And still, the enemy line burned.Ahead of the legions stood an unbroken wall of fire, bright enough to hurt the eyes and hot enough to make breathing painful. It moved when commanded, flared when threatened, and answered to one will alone. The beast-elf war shaman Shase stoo
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
You may also like
Totem Warrior
Cindy Chen26.5K viewsWorld Evolution
Zero_writer51.3K viewsWizard Of Cosmos
MadRain27.9K viewsSwordsman Chronicles: Art of the Sword
Kurt Dp.20.0K viewsBullied Hollowborn: My Tribrid System Awakening
Alexander Jackson624 viewsRise of Shaun Rodriquez, the Baron's Illegitimate Son
MadRevenant584 viewsThe Last Moon of Eldervale
FelconLee309 viewsConcealed Warriors
Hiko031.1K views