Rise of Aretian: The Roman War Priest

Chapter 9: The Governor’s Mansion and the Spartan Arrival

''Wow… this room is enormous.”

Meibao stepped into the newly completed Governor’s Mansion, and for a moment, she simply froze. The grand hall stretched upward, seemingly without end, empty yet vibrating with a quiet, commanding presence. Tall white columns rose from the polished marble floor to the vaulted ceiling, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns so delicate it felt as though the stone itself had been imbued with patience and life. Light flickered across the subtle bas-reliefs on the walls, painting the room in gentle shadows that danced like whispers.

Roman architecture wasn’t about decoration or mere beauty. It was about strength, clarity, and authority. Windows were rare, set high, allowing only slivers of sunlight to pierce the shadowy expanse. And yet, somehow, the mansion felt magical—suspended somewhere between reality and something almost divine. Every doorway and window wore a semicircular arch, softening the rigidity of the stone. Meibao tilted her head back. The ceiling seemed to vanish into shadow, as if the hall itself stretched toward the sky, endless and unyielding.

Then, sunlight struck. Morning rays poured through the stained-glass rose windows—twelve, maybe twenty-four—and the mosaics embedded into the ceiling shimmered like fire on water. Gold, crimson, sapphire. Everywhere she looked, color danced across the marble, moving with the shifting light. Meibao’s lips curved into a small, uncertain smile, but her chest tightened with a familiar pang. Memories of her grandfather hovered like dark clouds, tugging at her heart. Tears threatened, yet she forced them back.

“Meibao… from now on, I am your brother—your family.”

Ares Valen’s voice was calm, steady, a tether for her wandering heart. She was fourteen, her emotions raw and fragile, and she stared at him, disbelief and hope mixing in her wide eyes.

“Beggar Prince… is that really true?” Her small hands fidgeted, and her heart felt like a tiny boat caught in a storm.

Ares nodded. Warmth surged in his chest, odd and unfamiliar. Memories flickered across his mind—vivid, even though they weren’t truly his. He saw Meibao sharing her dreams, her fears, fleeting joys. Emotions that weren’t his—but now they were undeniable, visceral, unshakable. He reached out, brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

“Meibao… call me brother. Let me take care of you.”

His fingers lingered, light as a breeze, tracing her smooth skin. For a heartbeat, his gaze darkened—drawn to her with an inexplicable pull. Meibao froze, caught between instinct and trust. A soft blush crept across her cheeks, her neck warming in the dim sunlight.

“Priest—”

Criss appeared in the doorway, her golden staff etched with symbols of fertility and harvest. Ares flinched. What was happening? She was only fourteen… and yet—

“Criss… you’re awake,” he muttered, switching off his commander and battle modes. Exhaustion hit him like a stone, and he sank onto the mansion steps, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg.

“I heard there were intruders, so I came to see the priest,” Criss said, eyes sweeping over Meibao with curiosity and caution.

“She is…”

“She’s my sister,” Yang Feng said firmly.

The contrast was striking. Criss—mature, composed, elegant—stood beside Meibao, whose innocence shone like morning light. Two different kinds of beauty, side by side.

“Criss pays respects to the beautiful young lady!” Criss intoned, bowing ceremoniously. But her eyes lingered on Ares, searching. The glance he had shared with Meibao earlier wasn’t just protective—it was soft, warm, intimate in a way words could not express. Meibao mirrored Criss quickly, though questions bubbled in her mind.

“Brother… why is your armor gone? And… why can’t I understand her? She doesn’t speak our language.”

Ares felt a stab of guilt under Criss’ piercing gaze. “Meibao, this is Criss. Like my other subordinates, she comes from a distant land beyond our continent. Will you teach her our language?”

“Of course!” Meibao’s face lit up. Anything Ares asked was duty. Anything outside her home was an adventure. She carefully pointed to her nose and said her name slowly for Criss. Soon, through gestures, laughter, and patient repetition, two women from different worlds began to communicate. Meibao spoke her tongue, Criss hers—but understanding came like magic.

Ares observed quietly from the side, shaking his head with a wry smile. Friendship didn’t need borders.

But his mind never rested. Food, supplies, loyalty, security—every problem pressed in at once. System exchanges alone couldn’t sustain thousands. War Glory points were limited. Handing out rations personally risked dependency. Every decision demanded precision, foresight, and patience.

Roman peasants arrived, following Lucius’ orders, carrying simple tables and chairs. They arranged them neatly in the hall, giving it a lived-in, human touch.

“Your Highness!” Amyas called, hurrying behind Lucius, urgency in every step.

Ares Valen flipped through the Undead Notes, lost in thought. When he looked up, his gaze met Amyas’. Speak, it said silently.

“It’s like this,” Amyas began. “Before the half-orcs ransacked Vol Town, I buried Stimmi seeds with grain supplies. They’re the lifeblood of the people. I want to retrieve them.”

“Stimmi… crops that grow in the Yellow Sands?” Ares’ pulse quickened. He set the notes aside. Amyas froze. The aura of Commander Ares—the one that made soldiers’ knees weak—was gone. But the sharp intensity, the careful calculation, remained. Dangerous, even in ordinary clothes.

“They’re hardy,” Amyas continued. “Black-thorned husks. Little water is needed. Crops every two months. Sown once a year. Sustain the region.”

“Good… they must be retrieved. How many people?”

Amyas hesitated. Ares narrowed his eyes. Maybe trickery. Maybe loyalty. Either way, the mission would reveal the truth.

Meanwhile, Ares handled the empire’s subtle mechanics. War Glory points are exchanged for iron, diplomats, and trading posts. Contingencies stacked like chess pieces. Half a day later, a Roman diplomat named Cornelius arrived.

“Welcome,” Yang Feng greeted. Cornelius was tall, brown-haired, with deep-set eyes, wearing a red undergarment beneath a creamy toga. The folds were perfect—almost hypnotic.

“To follow ‘Holy Julius’ in conquering new lands is my honor,” he said, bowing slightly. Sharp, competent, professional.

After a briefing on Yaletion, Cornelius received his mission: with iron, coins, and royal authority, he would travel south, establish trade, and retrieve Stimmi seeds. Simple for a trained diplomat. Danger existed—but only if misfortune or ambition struck.

“Lucius, I promote you to centurion of the infantry. Select 100 Roman Youth soldiers to escort the caravan,” Ares commanded.

“Yes, General!” Lucius’ eyes blazed. The promotion rekindled fire and determination.

The caravan reached the God of War Plaza. Hundreds of shackled prisoners were unloaded. Among them, broad-shouldered Greeks, faces hard with pride and defiance.

“Respected Caesar, these Spartans are prisoners of war. Their city fell to our legions. As slaves—”

Ares shoved the fat officer aside. His gaze fell on the Spartans. His heart thumped like a drum.

Legends of the Spartans… even here, they were alive. Heroes unmatched in courage. Masters of battle, fearless of death. Proud, unbending. Their very presence radiated inevitability.

Ares Valen knew at once: these warriors would change everything.

And deep inside Ares, a whisper stirred. Destiny. A storm is gathering, ready to sweep across Yaletion and the continent.