Rise of Aretian: The Roman War Priest

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 like dry leaves caught in a sudden gust. Whispers rose into a low, uneasy murmur that grew into a swell of fear and disbelief.

“A dark mage,” a Shadow Warrior said, his tone calm, unwavering, like a judge delivering a sentence. “A practitioner of forbidden necromancy.”

For two years, Carmel’s identity had hovered over the town like a shadow, silent, suffocating. No one had dared speak of it openly, yet all had felt its weight pressing down on their shoulders. And now, the truth was out, exposed like a wound. Worse, far worse than anyone had imagined.

A crisp, mechanical chime echoed in Ares Valen’s mind.

Ding… Killed one mage. Reward: 5,000 War Glory points.

The temptation was immediate, almost tangible. But Ares Valen resisted. His newly claimed territory was fragile; indulgence now could unravel everything he had worked for. These points would be better saved for the unknown horrors that surely lurked just beyond the horizon.

“Priest, sir.”

A Shadow Warrior stepped forward, carrying Carmel’s possessions: a few bottles, some jars, scattered gold coins, and a peculiar badge forged from mithril and gold. A thorned flower framed by crossed longswords over an iron-blood shield—it was unmistakable. The emblem of the Purple Thorn Royal Family. On its back, faintly engraved: The Nineteenth Prince.

Ares Valen’s eyes narrowed. That badge belonged to the original owner of his body. A past long buried, clawing its way back into the present with teeth sharp enough to draw blood.

Among the items was a worn sheepskin booklet, titled Undead Notes. Flipping through it revealed nothing remarkable. The other trinkets—bottles, jars, minor charms—were equally mundane. He handed them back to the Shadow Warrior and lifted his gaze, cold and unreadable.

Amyas stood before him—stiff, pale, sweat glistening on a forehead so clean it almost hid the scars beneath. Marks on his wrists, neck, and cheek caught the sunlight, faint proof of brutal training and battles that had left permanent imprints on his body and soul.

Ares Valen’s face remained cold, carved from stone. Mercy had no place here.

“Why didn’t you run?”

The question cut deeper than any blade. Amyas’s breath caught. Around him, five Shadow Warriors loomed, invisible yet tangible, their silent pressure closing in like steel jaws.

“I… can’t escape,” he said quietly.

Amyas swallowed, eyes steady. “I sensed them.”

Ares Valen’s brows knit. Even he needed the temple’s secret arts to detect Shadow Warriors—the faintest, nearly imperceptible ripples in the air. And yet Amyas…

“How?”

“When I circulate my battle-qi,” Amyas explained, voice low but firm, “I can feel killing intent within two meters. I knew five were locked on me. Running blindly would’ve been suicide.”

Battle-qi. The term carried weight in Ares Valen’s mind, a reminder that the world was bigger, stranger, and far more dangerous than he had yet understood.

His gaze hardened, cold as steel.

“Amyas. Any requests? Last words?”

He offered respect. A man who faced death calmly deserved that. Amyas shook his head slowly.

“No, Your Highness. I broke my oath. If I must pay, I accept it.”

“Don’t kill Brother Amyas!”

A tiny, fragile voice pierced the tension. Meibao, trembling, tears streaming down her face, clutched her dress as if it were the last lifeline in the world.

“The Beggar Prince would never kill people… Brother Amyas saved me! Please… please don’t!”

Behind her, other refugees stepped forward, pleading. Amyas had saved them from orc raids, barbarian attacks, and the merciless cruelty of fate itself. Even when Carmel had insisted they be abandoned, Amyas refused.

Ares Valen felt a tug at something unfamiliar, a ghost of memories tied to the body he wore, faint but insistent.

“Amyas,” Yang Feng said, voice firm but no longer cold, “for Meibao’s sake—and for the townspeople—you are forgiven. Go.”

The Shadow Warriors relaxed immediately, opening a path. Amyas stepped through Yaletion’s gate—but froze.

Where could he go now?

He had betrayed a prince. Lost the trust of nobles. Born a commoner, scorned from birth. No home. No master. No direction.

Slowly, he turned back. He knelt.

“Your Highness,” Amyas said, voice steady, eyes burning with the fierce determination of youth. “Please… let me swear loyalty again. Let me reclaim my honor.”

Ares Valen paused. Trust, once broken, cannot be repaired by a single kneel.

“If you insist,” he said finally, deliberate, slow, “then start over… as an ordinary soldier.”

Amyas bowed deeply, accepting without hesitation.

“But know this,” Ares Valen added, voice sharp as steel, “I have not forgiven you.”

He turned, cloak brushing the ground, leaving Amyas kneeling in a mixture of bitterness and hope.

Later, in Yaletion’s barracks, Brann, an infantry officer, stared at Yang Feng’s badge as if it were a dagger aimed at his throat.

“G—greetings, Your Highness!” He nearly dropped his spear. That badge was no mere ornament; it carried authority, power, and consequences for defiance.

Ares Valen waved his panic away.

“Your unit will join Yaletion’s Roman Youth Camp. First Archer Formation. Any objections?”

“No, Your Highness!” Brann snapped to attention, relief barely contained. “It’s an honor, sir.”

Inside, he exhaled quietly. If not for this prince, he would be dead. The northern expedition had left countless officers ruined, corpses scattered across the desert sands.

“At ease,” Ares Valen said. “Explain everything.”

Brann hesitated, then poured out the story—hesitation giving way to frustration, shame, and disbelief. They had crossed thousands of miles of scorching yellow sands to fight the orc kingdom of the Behemoth Plains.

Before even reaching the plains, plague swept the Northern Frontier Legion. Commanders fell. Orders collapsed. Chaos spread like wildfire.

Then came the Minotaurs. Two thousand of them, towering three meters tall, each carrying a totem pillar thicker than a man’s torso. Moonless night. Their breath steamed white in the darkness. Their roars shattered morale before a single sword had been raised.

The infantry crumbled. The cavalry fled first—three thousand riders abandoning seventy thousand infantry. Brann’s thousand-strong unit? Barely two hundred remained.

“After the cavalry ran,” Brann said bitterly, “half-orc clans broke their oaths. Ambush after ambush… we were slaughtered like cattle.”

Ares Valen listened, expression hard, unyielding. Survival instinct was understandable—but cowardice could not infect the Roman legions he was forging.

“So, when you finally remembered your duty,” he said dryly, “you ran straight into berserkers.”

Brann flushed. “Y—Your Highness…”

Ares Valen sighed. Brann had no strategic genius, survived mostly by luck, but he wasn’t cruel—and he had experience. Misreading the silence, Brann straightened immediately.

“Your Highness… after seeing you defeat those berserkers with a single shout… I knew. You are destined for greatness. Following you is an honor.”

Ares Valen did not respond. But Brann was not alone. Every surviving native in the camp felt the same awe.

The Beggar Prince had changed. His presence commanded attention. His strength demanded respect. His decisions carried weight. Even silence could crush a man’s will. Under his leadership, strange, miraculous things were already happening. Fate seemed to bend, reshaping around him.

As evening shadows stretched across the town, Ares Valen surveyed the battered archers who had survived the Yellow Sands nightmare. Weak, traumatized, chaotic—but salvageable.

With Roman doctrine, Roman training, and Roman iron… he could rebuild them.

They would rise again—not as cowards fleeing darkness—but as the Desperate Legion, reborn from dust and fire.

Somewhere far beyond the horizon, a storm gathered. Fate had begun to awaken, stirring like a living thing, ready to test all who stood in its path.