Far away, deep in the Arachis Desert of the Pratos continent, a vast army had gathered—no less than five hundred thousand soldiers.
Here and there, enormous wyverns hunted equally massive sandworms, keeping the beasts from approaching the encampment. The sight barely roused the sentries watching from behind the palisades, their eyes dulled by monotony.
The air rang with the loud roars of legionaries at training, the clash of steel, and the sharp commands of the draconarii—their elite dragon-riders and drill instructors.
Each legionary wore sturdy leather armor and sand-colored cloaks, ideal for desert warfare. Despite the army's massive size and the harsh terrain, the camp was organized with precision. It resembled a military city rising from the desert sands, where only the most disciplined warriors had a place.
The army comprised five legions, each numbering one hundred thousand infantrymen. Legions were divided into ten cohorts of ten thousand soldiers, each cohort into twenty maniples of five hundred. The chain of command flowed through consuls, praetors, legates, and centurions.
The hierarchy was strict and unbreakable. On the battlefield, should a maniple show cowardice or mutiny, the entire unit suffered the harshest punishment: decimation. Even the mention of the word sent shivers down the spine of every legionary. One in ten would be executed by their own comrades, chosen by drawing a black stone. It was a grim reminder of discipline's price.
At the heart of the camp stood a majestic rectangular tent with a sloped roof. Woven from heavy red velvet and adorned with golden trims, it proclaimed the authority and status of the man inside. At its peak fluttered a proud eagle standard. Above the entrance gleamed the golden letters S.P.Q.R.—Senatus Populus Quiritium Romanus—The Senate and People of Rome.
To step inside this tent was to enter the realm of power. Here, the most critical decisions of war were made. Simply setting foot within could elevate a man's status. The tent's imposing presence made it clear that only those worthy dared approach.
At that moment, a man clad in resplendent armor entered the tent. His lorica—chest armor—hugged his muscular frame, etched with ornate patterns. A crimson cloak billowed behind him like a flame, marking his high rank. His armor gleamed bronze under the desert sun, as if forged for a god.
And yet, this godlike figure sank to one knee before another man seated at a table.
The seated man continued shuffling through documents, ignoring the newcomer for a full five minutes.
He wore a plain white toga, worn from months in the desert, yet impeccably clean and neat. Nothing about his appearance stood out. He looked no older than thirty-five—short hair, a slightly crooked nose, a furrowed chin, and thin lips.
Were it not for the kneeling warrior before him, one might have mistaken him for an ordinary clerk reviewing reports for his superior.
At last, the man at the table glanced up. His gaze transformed him.
Though his features hadn't changed, they now seemed as though chiseled into marble—a relief from antiquity depicting wisdom and unyielding will. His high, noble brow and sharp, blade-like nose conveyed authority. His deep, piercing eyes were like dark lakes reflecting endless thought and strategy. His expression radiated pride and dignity, the product of countless victories.
"Marcus. Report." His voice was calm, emotionless.
"My consul," Marcus replied, his head bowed, "the campaign to conquer the Barbarian Plains proceeds successfully. Several chieftains have pledged loyalty, swearing eternal service under your command. They've sent their daughters as tribute, hoping to gain your favor.
"We doubt their sincerity. However, after a month of training, their warriors could prove valuable to our future plans."
"Names. Numbers."
"House Atreides has pledged 5,184 warriors and presented Cleopatra—rumored to be the most beautiful, intelligent, and skilled woman across the Barbarian Plains. House Farrah contributed 3,579 warriors. House Corrino sent 2,151. In total, 4,742 non-combatants arrived with them. They are currently quartered with the auxiliaries, awaiting further orders."
"Assign their warriors to the Fourth Legion. Varius knows how to train recruits. Keep them away from our supply depots. Otherwise, they are now Roman citizens. I will not tolerate unnecessary discrimination."
"At once."
"And our venture into the Empire of the Six Pillars?"
"Regretfully, our scouts returned empty-handed. Their movements were detected before they even neared the border. Most were eliminated before reaching the interior. Of twenty ships sent, only three returned, carrying a small supply of spices. They acquired none of the famed advancement pills."
"As expected." The consul's voice remained level. "The Empire of the Six Pillars is the oldest and most enigmatic. Though the Roman Empire is considered the mightiest human power, we must not let that status blind us. Everything we know about them comes from ancient texts and the words of the narrow-eyed themselves. Their security exceeds imagination.
"Except for their trading ports, our scouts can't penetrate the empire's heart. And what of Spartacus and Ford—the rebels?"
"No signs of unusual activity. They remain entrenched in their Industrial Empire, heads down."
"Do not underestimate them! Five hundred years ago, I personally fought under Crassus during Spartacus's rebellion. He started with five hundred warriors but gained over a hundred thousand within five years.
"Combining his charisma with Ford's genius, they achieved the impossible—declaring independence and defeating Rome's wealthiest man, forcing him into exile."
"The Senate views them as fattened sheep awaiting the butcher's blade."
"Idiots. Do they think Crassus was a fool who failed to crush the rebellion? He was a member of the Triumvirate—alongside Pompey and myself. Though young, I fought in that war. It remains the only conflict in which I tasted defeat."
"And the witches?"
"They continue warring with the Magical Empire, seeking revenge for ancient persecutions."
"Any news from the capital?"
"Pompey was reelected consul for a third term. Rumors say he prayed to Demeter during his inauguration. This year's grain supplies surpassed the quota. Artemis descended into the mortal world, her whereabouts unknown.
"Recently, a 'Child of Darkness' from Matthew's prophecy was discovered. Apollo intervened personally, but only managed to maim the child. A hunt is now underway."
"Stop. Tell me everything."
Marcus dutifully recounted every detail. Thankfully, he was well prepared—the topic wasn't classified among influential senators.
"You're telling me Adam Starlight crippled his own child at Apollo's command, yet allowed him to escape with Katarina and her family? And this happened because Katarina suddenly gained power equal to a Celestial?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"SON OF A WHORE!" The consul's calm shattered. "Does he even understand who Katarina is? She was his wife! Does he know nothing about her?
"Damn it, if only that magnificent woman hadn't fallen for that petty noble brat before I discovered her in the Roman Empire. I would've pursued her myself and done everything to win her favor.
"Damn it! I even supported that fool's appointment as governor to gain her trust—and he squandered my goodwill like a child spilling wine!
"How did the Senate react?!"
"They dispatched elite draconarii to track her, but she fled into the Magical Empire. The Senate broadcast the news to all human realms—even to the witches' continent—calling for the threat to be eradicated at its root. A hunt is underway. She cannot escape."
"FOOLS! Pompey—you've rotted your mind sitting safe in the capital. And Apollo! If you're going to act, see it through! Damn the gods, always meddling.
"Prophecy? What nonsense. Their actions only hasten its fulfillment. Damn it! Damn it!"
"Send our best agents immediately to find Katarina and her family. Aid them however possible. Convey my goodwill.
"If she refuses, eliminate her by any means necessary—even suicide missions if it comes to that."
"Understood."
Drawing a deep breath, the consul composed himself. "Accelerate the Barbarian Plains campaign. I want every tribe under my banner within five years. I will assume direct command."
"Yes, Consul!"
Calm once more, the man retired to his private chamber to don his battle armor. He gripped a short, deadly gladius, a weapon as sharp as his decisions.
Upon his head, he placed a laurel wreath—the eternal symbol of triumph and victory that had accompanied him through countless wars in Rome's name.
When he emerged, the entire camp fell silent. The roars of soldiers and clashing of weapons ceased as if swept away by a rising tide.
Within five minutes, the camp of five hundred thousand warriors stood in resonant silence. No man nor beast dared to make a sound. Even the desert wind held its breath.
The consul mounted a majestic red wyvern. The massive beast lazily lifted its head, raising the man who surveyed the camp with sharp eyes.
He raised his hand. The silence deepened until it was deafening.
Then he spoke just three words:
"VENI, VIDI, VICI."
I came. I saw. I conquered.
A thunderous roar erupted from the entire camp.
Every soldier raised his fist to the sky and shouted with all his might:
"AVE, CAESAR!"
"CAESAR! CAESAR! CAESAR!"
The chant rolled across the army like a living tide. Half a million voices became one song—a single name striving to tear through the heavens and claim its rightful place in history.