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B3 Chapter 5: Lord Help Us

B3 Chapter 5: Lord Help Us

King Gerald looked out over the splendid ballroom before him. Handsome men and beautiful women decked out in the most fashionable finery money could buy. Bright colors that flickered between shades as one looked, puffy shoulders that were dwarfed only by the wearers’ even more voluminous hats and skirts, enchanted corsets that shrunk waists to rather infeasible proportions… Truly, this group of nobles had taste.

Yet despite the number that had gathered and the wine that flowed so freely, the king’s mouth was set in a thin line. He was frustrated.

Of those he’d invited to this event, only about two-thirds of them had shown up. Two thirds! It was absolutely ludicrous. Who would dare decline an invitation from the king?

Evidently, a lot of people. While all of his most favored subjects and the most popular nobles from around the kingdom had all obviously dropped everything to come, he noticed a particular lack of participation from the western nobles. The few that had attended were easy to pick out by their out-of-date and less splendid clothing. Many wore military uniforms or simple formal dress, as if it were an important meeting or funeral rather than a joyous occasion of celebration and merriment. It was completely out of touch. Almost as if they didn't care what the court thought of them. 

Even their attitudes were dreary. They seemed to take no enjoyment in the food or drink, partaking only as though by necessity. They hardly even danced. The more cultured nobles tended to avoid them, lest their bright finery be dimmed by the dark cloud that seemed to hang about them. Thankfully, these absolute killjoys seemed just as content to keep to themselves. They simply gathered near the edges of the room, talking quietly amongst themselves.

Gerald had never felt so humiliated. The lack of attendees was bad enough, but the actions of these nobles was a clear insult. They didn’t even pretend to be excited or enjoy themselves. Given how openly they spurned his hospitality, he honestly felt as though they were even worse offenders than those who hadn’t come at all.

He clenched his fist. In his head, drafts of scathing letters to the families were already in the process of being drafted. Maybe some would find their enemies suddenly enjoying a bit more favor and power than they had been previously. Others would be stripped of their titles outright. It would give him more to assign to some of his more loyal supporters. There were several unlanded gentry who looked quite fabulous and had great palates for wine. They would surely do better at maintaining his image out in the west than these fools.

And if anyone complained… well, his advisers would find additional reasons to justify his actions. They always did.

The king downed the last of his wine. A servant appeared at his elbow and began refilling the glass almost before it had touched the arm of his throne. He gestured toward the musicians to indicate that he wanted a different song. Something more upbeat to combat his foul mood.

“I am no bride of Mars, nor bound to Vesta’s name,

Yet last night, I bore the sword of steel and flame.

Do not speak of fate or right and wrong—

Just hold me in your arms ‘til I am strong.”

He nodded in approval. The words indicated that the song wasn’t exactly of the highest class, but that was forgivable. The tune was quite catchy. Gerald even found himself tapping his foot along to the beat as it continued to play.

[Corwyn Pass has been seized by the Ur-Thrak’mar Coalition!]

The slam of the king’s fist against his throne cracked through the room. Silence spread through it like a wave. The music, the conversations, the clinking of glasses… no one moved a muscle.

Gerald ground his teeth. That damned duke. After everything he’d done for the man, all of the leniency he’d shown, all of the opportunities to rectify things and improve his standing… this was his repayment.

Gerald paid little mind to military matters. They didn’t interest him, and he found them best left to his advisers. Yet even he knew of Corwyn Pass. It was a position so well fortified that it could be held indefinitely by even a small force. It was one of the safest, easiest posts for a soldier to be stationed in the kingdom. For it to fall…

This was betrayal. Plain and simple. 

“Duke Redcliffe…” He growled. The stem of his wineglass creaked threateningly in his grip.

“Is something the matter, your majesty?”

A man stepped forward from the silent crowd. He was fashionably dressed in a brilliantly blue overcoat, its surface rippling with silver embroidery. An eye-catching red hat contrasted with his clothing stylishly in a clear understanding of the current fashion. A large, silver feather from some undoubtedly rare and expensive bird protruded from its top and added no less than a foot to his total height.

Marquis Morozov doffed his cap and bowed low, smiling placidly. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

The nobles began to titter all at once, a hive of bees buzzing at the development. Marquis Morzov’s territory bordered Redcliffe’s, and the two had historically never quite gotten along. Especially considering that the two families often found themselves competing in the silver market, as the fine metal was a major export for both.

More importantly though, the noble was quite highly favored by Gerald. He was a social man who had done an excellent job in always maintaining the king's regal image. He did whatever he was told. It was as simple as that.

The king looked down at Marquis Morozov. “Ah, duke. Indeed. My advisors tell me how dedicated you are to the betterment of the kingdom.”

Morozov inclined his head a little further. “You flatter me, your majesty.”

That was exactly what he was doing. But the point was not to stoke the duke’s ego. Rather, it was to ensure that the task set before the man would be properly framed as the treason it truly was.

“However… it seems that not all are quite so dedicated to Novara. Your neighbor in Redcliffe seems to have betrayed not just me, but Novara as a whole.” Gerald’s face twisted with disgust.

The news caused quite a stir among the gathered crowd. Lords and ladies tittered to each other with obvious astonishment and disapproval. The western nobles in particular saw their expressions darken and sour even further than before, but Gerald paid them little mind.

“That simply cannot be allowed to stand.” Marquis Morozov agreed. “What would you have your loyal servant do?”

“Arrest him. Immediately.” Gerald ordered without hesitation. “Bring him before me to answer for his crimes.”

His order was met with a simple smile and a nod. “Of course, your majesty. It shall be done. I will recall the rest of my men from the battlefront to apprehend the duke. Although, if you wish for the matter to be taken care of most expediently… I do know of some mercenary companies in the area that may be able to set out as early as today.”

“Yes, yes. Do what you must. Just take care of it. My advisers will provide you with anything you need.” Gerald waved a dismissive hand. He didn’t care for the details. He just wanted Redcliffe taken care of.

With one more deep bow and a flattering smile, Marquis Morozov hastened out of the ballroom. As disappointing as it was to see one of the more popular guests leave so early, it was excusable. He was seeing to important matters, after all. At least someone took his orders seriously.

Gerald let out a sigh before relaxing back onto his throne. Now that the issue was taken care of, he felt as though he could once again enjoy the gathering. The sounds of merriment began to slowly return until the party was once again in full force, with music, wine, and conversation flowing freely. The topic of Redcliffe’s betrayal was on every tongue as the freshest bit of gossip in the court. He had always been suspicious, some said. It would be a relief once he was gone, said others. All agreed that Morozov’s dislike of the man had proven even more right than any of them had expected.

The king looked forward to having his head.

***

Tiberius walked into the tent to find Duke Redcliffe already inside. The man stood off to the side, leaving the small desk and chairs at its center unoccupied.

The duke turned at the sound of his entry and bowed low. "Emperor Tiberius."

The man spoke the title as though it were an unfamiliar taste on his tongue, one he wasn’t certain whether he liked. But the fact that he used it at all indicated quite clearly that he knew his standing in this meeting.

Tiberius nodded. “Duke Redcliffe.”

He strode around the table to sit, then gestured to one of the chairs across from him. At the motion, the duke nodded and took a seat. A moment later, the tent flap burst open once again to admit the purple and gold-clad form of Marcus the bard. The bard bowed deeply as though to reinforce the dramatic nature of his entrance.

“Emperor Tiberius! Ah, and Duke Redcliffe! It’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust that your family is well?”

The man smiled disarmingly as he quickly moved to occupy the second guest chair. The duke, for his part, remained guarded. “They are well. More importantly, though, they are safe.”

Marcus’s grin widened. “Wonderful. I am beyond pleased that everything seems to have worked out.”

The emperor sighed internally at the man’s antics. In a way, he supposed he should be grateful. Marcus was one of the few whose actions and demeanor hadn’t changed in the slightest in the past day or so. Perhaps it was because he’d always treated him as an emperor from the start, rather than Legatus. On one hand, it was grounding and familiar. On the other hand… well, it was still Marcus. Tiberius still had no love for the foppish bard, but he had proved his usefulness and loyalty many times over. This very meeting was evidence of that.

Tiberus cleared his throat before Marcus decided to pursue any more small talk. “Duke. We have much to discuss.”

Duke Redcliffe nodded. “Indeed. It seems that we do.”

“You have decided to side with Rome.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” He grimaced. “As loath as I am to admit it, I have little choice in the matter. My hand has been more or less forced—both by you and my… former liege. A fact you seem to be acutely aware of.”

Tiberius snorted. “An honest man. I can respect that. Regardless of your enthusiasm about the matter, I trust that I will not need to remind you of the consequences should we fail.”

“Quite. I have a vested interest in your success. It seems the only way to ensure my head doesn’t find its way to the chopping block—the only way that doesn’t involve fleeing the country outright, anyway.”

The man spoke the truth. Based on Tiberius’s understanding of the situation, the duke had already been in rather hot water before deciding to take Rome’s side. Backing their attempt to conquer Novara may well be the only way out he had.

Of course, that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t try and betray Tiberius afterwards. Rather, he was quite certain that the idea would cross his mind at some point or another, if it hadn’t already. Which was why he’d be taking plenty of precautions and keeping a close eye on the man.

“Then it appears we are unified in our aim.” Tiberius declared. “Now then… we must discuss the matter of your fealty.”

B3 Chapter 4: Set Apart

B3 Chapter 4: Set Apart

The shimmering wall of text appeared before Tiberius. His status was now a familiar sight after all the time they’d spent in this world. Yet its contents had changed drastically.

The first thing he noticed was his new class. Emperor. A single, simple word. Yet one that carried the weight of an entire empire behind it.

He wanted to investigate the class further, but found himself distracted by the second major change to his status. His experience pool. Rather than the unfathomable millions that he’d grown used to seeing, the amount required for him to level was now a mere four hundred. It was practically nothing.

Tiberius felt a spike of alarm shoot through him. The disappearance of the “group” and “individual” designations beside his skills only heightened the sensation. Had his class change severed his connection with the Legion so completely? Was he now no better than this world’s normal inhabitants?

He closed his eyes and focused. He felt at the web of ephemeral strands that extended out from him, invisible yet present all the same. Most of them led back toward the camp. But a few stretched across the countryside, likely leading toward his scouts and other Legionnaires canvassing the area.

Tiberius frowned. It seemed that his connection hadn’t fully been severed, at least. That was good news. But did they feel different from before? And what of the other benefits? Would he still maintain access to the Legion’s shared skills and stamina pool?

He’d need to investigate both. But first, his attention turned to his class.

[Emperor (Mythical): The ultimate leader of Rome. An emperor’s legacy is built on the successes and failures of his empire.

As Emperor, you are in charge of Rome’s military, citizens, and territory. Skills and titles related to the management of your territories and forces will have an increased effect. Conquering territory will yield additional benefits. You may draw on the power of your empire to accomplish your goals. All glory to the Emperor!]

Focusing on the class gave Tiberius a few insights as to its nature. It lined up fairly well with what he already expected—emperors of ages past were judged based on the abundance or poverty of their people and the success of their conquests, after all.

He had already claimed the title long ago, when they’d first arrived in this world. But something about seeing it reaffirmed here and replacing his title of Legatus… It made him realize once again the magnitude of the task he’d set before himself. It was nno longer something he simply called himself. It was recognized in truth, by the elves, the people they’d conquered, and even the System now.

It simply reaffirmed what he’d said to his men. He could not afford to be a leader of them only. He was the leader of Rome—of all its legions and citizens, now and into the future.

The mythical rarity of the class was interesting as well. It was no surprise, as the System had included that detail in its announcement. Yet it was a rarity that neither Marcus or Claude had ever heard of. Even the class of [King] was known to be of legendary rarity. It meant he was even less sure what to expect when it came to leveling—either its requirements or its rewards.

Tiberius filed that away as another matter to look into. However, he decided that this would be something for him to discover on his own. No matter how eager those around him would be to hear every detail of his new class. Sharing information about the Legion was one thing. About the Emperor? That was a clear path to being deposed. Especially if the title was as transferable as it had been in Rome.

He felt the burden of his newfound responsibilities settling on his shoulders more acutely as he read over the rest of his status. Despite the change to his skill slots, he luckily seemed to retain both the skills themselves and the levels he’d earned so far. That was not a boon he’d expected, given the elves’ experience with their class change. Still, it was not one he’d complain about.

Focusing on the section, Tiberius decided to check what other skills were available to him.

[You have new skill evolutions available. View available evolutions? WARNING: After viewing, unassigned evolutions will be permanently lost!]

He grunted. Another welcome surprise.

Available Skill Evolutions:

[Commanding Presence] (Uncommon) -> [Regal Bearing] (Rare)

The decision to take the evolution wasn’t a difficult one. [Commanding Presence] was at quite a high level due to his near constant use of the skill, so an improved version of it would be a great boon. Not to mention that it seemed quite fitting.

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Regal Bearing] (Rare) - Lvl 0.]

Instantly, he felt his spine relax ever so slightly. His posture remained straight and tall, yet his shoulders lost some of the stiffness he’d associated with maintaining that appearance. The result was far more comfortable without losing any of the presence he’d come to cultivate.

It also felt somehow more… flexible. As though he were not just a military leader, but a leader of the people as well. Perhaps that was the intent.

After accepting the evolution, Tiberius took a moment to skim through his list of available skills. If its comically monstrous size was any indication, he still seemed to have access to the entire collection that his Legion had earned. Although hidden among them were a few new additions that caught his eye.

[Forest Walk], [Woodsong], [Soulstag Riding]... When he spotted a skill named [Elven Agility], he became certain. It wasn't just his Legion's skills he had access to. It was both of them.

The discovery opened up a whole host of new possibilities—ones that he’d need time to explore more thoroughly. If this happened every time they stood up a new Legion, then Tiberius may well find himself in possession of a list that encompassed every skill under the sun.

Granted, he could still only slot ten, and he’d need to level each one himself. But having his pick of even just the high-rarity ones meant that he had quite the advantage over even his Legionnaires.

He resolved to interrogate Sylendor about the options and have the elf curate a list of skills that might be relevant to Tiberius and his new role. In the meantime, he would only change a few of his skills that he didn’t see himself using anytime soon. Starting with [Coordinated Bulwark].

In all honesty, the skill never saw much use even as Legatus. But now that he was an emperor? He didn’t see himself joining a shield wall again anytime soon. If it became necessary, then the empire itself would likely be so far gone that he deserved to fall in battle.

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Diplomacy] (Uncommon) - Lvl 0.]

Tiberius tried to flex the skill and frowned. Although it would ostensibly be useful, [Diplomacy] didn’t quite feel like what he was looking for. Still, it was a start. It would have to do until he had more thoroughly looked through his options. Then, he’d make sure to replace it and any other skills that he didn’t particularly need.

But that could wait until after they’d conquered Novara. After all, that was when his duties would undergo their most significant shift. Right now, emperor or not, he needed to focus on leading Rome’s military to victory.

He moved on for the moment. Tiberius had already spent a not insignificant amount of time at the class stone, and there were other matters for him to see to. The last thing he checked on were the new titles that he’d been granted.

[Imperator: Recognized emperor of the Roman Empire. Provides a stat increase to all legionnaires under your command equal to 25% of each of your stats.]

The title struck Tiberius as somewhat strange. The text had similarities to his title of Roman Emperor, which he’d earned long ago. In fact, the term “Imperator” was often used as a title for an emperor. It made him wonder why the System seemed to distinguish between the two.

Nevertheless, its effects differed and would likely prove quite useful during this campaign. The stat increase had potential to massively increase their capabilities, especially if he was now able to level more quickly. And if it truly did improve his skills’ effectiveness to such an extent… Perhaps he’d need to adjust his sooner than anticipated.

[Expansionist (I): Conquer a small amount of territory. +20% to charisma.]

Expansionist, while straightforward, was also quite welcome. He would never turn down an increase to his stats, especially not charisma. He quite looked forward to seeing it grow even more powerful.

Notably, it seemed that he hadn’t lost the titles he’d accumulated while part of the Legion. Though whether or not he’d continue to gain more alongside them or even gain the elves’ titles remained to be seen.

Taking one last look at his status, Tiberius withdrew his hand and turned toward the camp. The first groups of elves were already making their way toward the class stone, stopping to salute him on their way. He nodded to them as he passed before putting them out of his mind. After all, he had a duke to meet with.

***

Marcus pressed his palms together, holding them in front of his face. His voice was patient. "So. Let me make sure I understand this correctly.”

“Shoot.” Grand Mage Claude replied absently as a floating cloth polished some of his dragon’s scales.

“Rufus was your dog?"

“Yes.”

“You polymorphed your dog… into a dragon.”

“If by polymorphing him into a dragon, you mean revolutionizing the entire field of [Transmutation] by developing a method to bypass the inherent magic resistance of dragons that would normally prevent any spell from affecting them, while keeping both it and the dog's personality intact afterward, then… Yes, yes, I did.” The mage’s tone was flat and he even had the gall to roll his eyes. “Youth these days. No appreciation for the efforts their predecessors went through… And you put it in such an unflattering light, too!”

Marcus barely held back a sigh of consternation. While the information should have made him feel even more terrified of the old man, it really just made him tired. At this point, he honestly should have expected something so absurd.

“Was this before you began to specialize in [Weathermancy]?”

“Oh yes, well before that. It was after I’d spent a good while exploring [Illusion Magic] and before my [Divination] kick a few centuries back.”

“...But why?”

Claude cocked his head in confusion. “What do you mean, why? Have you never had a pet before?”

“I have!” Marcus defended himself. Well. He had, in a sense. If the stray cats he’d shared his scaps with counted as pets.

“Then you should understand.” The Grand Mage crossed his arms. “Even for someone like me, there’s only so long I could extend his life with potions and the like. And at a certain point healing won’t do squat. So since I was already working on the problem… Well, he made for a perfect test subject once I was close to perfecting the spell.”

“...Do you ever intend to turn him back?” Marcus asked, eyeing the massive pink beast. Its forked tongue lolled out of one side of its mouth.

“Nope!” Claude gleefully informed him. “Turns out, that part’s a lot harder. Turns out polymorphing something into a dragon, hard as that was, is still a lot easier than polymorphing a dragon into something else. It would take me a lot more time to get that part working, and to be honest? I was getting bored of studying [Transmutation] by that point anyway. So I moved on.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Marcus hummed. He didn’t even need his skills to recognize that the man wasn’t telling the whole truth. If he  would go to that level of trouble for his dog, then he wasn’t likely to risk losing his pet by undoing the transformation. And he was certain that the “fun” of having a pet dragon factored into his decision, too.

“And, er, Rufus… He doesn’t mind his new form?”

“Oh, not in the slightest!” The mage patted the dragon’s haunch affectionately. “He absolutely loves flying. The only issue is, well, I perhaps wasn’t as strict as I should have been when training him. His recall was never great, and once his perspective changed, well… he has a bit of a hard time recognizing where he’s not supposed to go. And what he’s not supposed to eat. And that not every tree is a stick that should be pulled out of the ground. It’s a work in progress.”

It was an unexpected admission of the ancient wizard’s own shortcomings. Still, Marcus did feel as though he were underselling the problem a bit. The fact that Rufus had singlehandedly made horses unusable in the eastern marches was no small matter. It made him wonder if the “dragon’s” activity around this area was also to blame for the suspicious lack of trees across the entire area.

After interrogating the Grand Mage for a bit longer, a messenger interrupted their conversation. Whatever news he brought was interesting enough to draw the man’s attention away from both Marcus and his dragon, and he quickly set off—likely to conduct an interrogation of his own on some poor group of elves.

Marcus didn’t particularly mind. He already had plenty of material to work with. With a bit of effort, the story of the bond between an ancient mage and his trusted companion could be turned into a heartwarming tale with comedic undertones. Especially if he included the rather unintentional consequences of Claude’s actions. In fact, this kind of thing would play particularly well with children. Especially if he turned Rufus into a recurring character throughout multiple stories, ones rife with misunderstandings about friendly fiend and its accidental antics…

Marcus started humming a little tune as he worked out some of the details. But before he found time to write down the ideas springing into being within his head, another messenger approached. And this one was for him.

The Legionnaire almost saluted before catching himself and coughing into his hand. “Bard Marcus. The Emperor requests your presence.”

Marcus nodded. “Well, I’d best not keep him waiting. Lead on, friend.”

The pair moved through the camp at a brisk walk. It was not an unexpected development. Given that it was his actions that brought the Duke of Redcliffe to their side, Marcus thought it was only reasonable for him to be present. Evidently Tiberius agreed.

He found himself rather looking forward to the meeting. He could only hope the duke felt the same.

B3 Chapter 3: A Structural Reorganization

B3 Chapter 3: A Structural Reorganization

The Legion made a little less progress than Tiberius would have preferred before making camp. It meant that they would likely need to push harder the next day, possibly even to the point that their last fortifications wouldn’t be finalized until the sun had set. But it was an acceptable tradeoff. The newfound speed at which his men could erect a well-defended camp beggared belief, and its quality had jumped to levels he never would have considered possible in their old world. Besides, with his scouts confirming that all major forces were accounted for in the area, there was little chance of them being caught unawares and exhausted.

As for what was so important that it demanded such a course… That was simple. They needed a class stone.

Of course, Tiberius didn’t slow the entire army’s advance just for the sake of his own curiosity. He honestly had planned to put off checking his status for another day or two, when their planned march would naturally take them near one. But that had gone out the window when he’d seen the elves’ speed—or rather, their slowness.

He hadn’t expected the new Legion of elves to keep pace with a fully [Warpath] enhanced Legion, of course. But he’d expected their stats or skills to make them reasonably fast. Yet it didn’t take long to realize that, despite their best efforts, they were falling behind.

The elven Legatus, Sylendor, hurried toward Tiberius. His face was pale as he stopped, snapping a precise salute. Behind him lay the tiny town of Aubern, which stood unnaturally silent. The arrival of such a massive force had understandably frightened most of the populace and sent them scurrying to their homes. Although there was no shortage of heads peeking over the walls and out of windows to gape at the mythical elf.

“Emperor. It is just as the [Appraisal] indicated. The System… I don’t understand how or why, but somehow… I have been reduced to a level one.”

Tiberius nodded. Even if Sylendor didn’t understand, he certainly did. The blinding light that had consumed the elves when they’d sworn their allegiance was a familiar sight by now. It was the same light that had erupted from his own men upon activating their classes and every time they leveled. 

“I see. Give me a full report.”

The Legatus did as he was bid. Every word he spoke only further confirmed Tiberius’s suspicions. The acquisition of group skill slots, the massive experience required to level, the legendary [Legionnaire] class… The elven army was no longer just a group of legionnaire pretenders. They were a Legion.

The revelation raised some questions about what might happen to others who joined a Legion. Would their levels and skills, too, be reset? Or would they be made to match the level of the Legion itself? What about auxiliaries who joined?

He shook his head. There were too many questions, and they weren’t yet ready to answer them.

Despite Sylendor’s barely concealed horror at the sudden drop in his men’s combat power, Tiberius was unconcerned. True, they would go into the coming conflict without the skills and stats they’d relied on for so long, as both had reset to their baseline values. But Tiberius saw those things as crutches. He’d seen how effective his own men were as fresh level one’s. Losing the advantages of most of their System-enhanced abilities would show the strength of the elves’ fundamentals. If they were strong enough, those skill levels would return quickly enough. If not… then perhaps it would be the incentive they needed to redouble their training. Starting with [Marching].

After hearing out Sylendor’s report, Tiberius issued a few general orders to the man. Namely, that [Marching] must be assigned as a Legion-wide skill. The others he left to the man’s judgement. As tempting as it was to insist on [Shield Wall] as well, the elves’ fighting style didn’t lend itself quite so well to the skill’s use. Besides, giving the man free rein would be a good test to see what kinds of abilities and tactics he placed value on.

He also made sure to share some of the basic information about how the [Legionnaire] class worked. While the elf still seemed a little shaken over the changes, hearing about the massive shared skill pool and stats gained per level seemed to mollify him somewhat.

Sylendor looked toward an aide of his own as he took notes before nodding to Tiberius. “I must meet with my officers to decide on the best course of action. Then we will have our men assign their own skills. By your leave, emperor?”

Tiberius nodded and waved the elf away. He watched as Sylendor began hurrying through the camp.

There was one more reason that the elves’ resetting levels didn’t bother him. It meant that they might be considered less of a threat, yes—but they would also be less of a threat to him as well. If their new Legion had ended up being more powerful than their human one, in stats, skills, and levels… then perhaps Tiberius’s reign would end before it had ever begun.

The deep snap of a ballista firing filled the air. Tiberius glanced up in time to see a bolt as thick as a spear shoot through the sky. A blur of pink darted after it a few seconds later, letting the projectile gain just enough distance that the dragon had to actually pump its wings to catch up. The massive beast caught up with the bolt and snatched it out of the air, gripping it gingerly between massive jaws.

“Good boy, Rufus! Bring it!”

The magically-amplified voice of the Grand Mage rang across the camp. Tiberius could do little more than shake his head. Admittedly, the sight of such a mighty beast chasing down the weapons like a dog running after sticks was an entertaining sight. And from a few offhand comments the mage had made, it seemed that the resemblance was no coincidence. It also had apparently made him an enemy of every single other dragon alive for what they saw as an inexcusable insult. That last part he’d told Tiberius while laughing, as though the ire of an entire race were a rather entertaining joke.

The implications were worrisome, to say the least.

Tiberius eyed the ancient mage as his dragon landed beside him. He'd understood since meeting the man that, despite his appearances, Grand Mage Claude was no limp-wristed, doddering scholar to be trifled with. He was the most powerful individual they had yet to encounter in this world, and by a wide margin as well. Tiberius had no doubts that the man would be able to bring an entire nation to its knees by himself if he so desired, even without the aid of his monstrous pet.

The fact that Claude seemed to desire nothing of the sort was a rather fortuitous development. Rather, the old mage seemed to desire nothing more than to pursue his research in whatever subject currently interested him—and right now, that subject was the Legion.

It was a blessing in many ways. The more Tiberius learned about the old mage, the more he was incredibly grateful that they weren’t enemies. He doubted that even their forces would be able to stand against him. Not for another dozen or so levels, at least.

But even without Grand Mage Claude adding his combat power to their own, he had already proven his worth several times over. It was clear enough from Gaius’s enthusiastic reports on the men’s skill development as of late. The levels were rolling in even faster than ever before, and some of the ways the men had managed to stretch and bend their skills were honestly astounding.

This march was only the latest example. The strange path they’d left in their wake had only become more obvious and conducive to travel as they moved. Tiberius thought he’d even seen the beginnings of paving stones appear underfoot a few times after the mage gave the frontmost cohort some visualization exercises to try out. If that ability continued to develop… Well, perhaps the Legion wouldn’t need to expend much effort in maintaining their empire’s roads after all.

His thoughts, and his enjoyment of Claude and his pet “playing”, were interrupted as Gaius strode toward Tiberius. The newly-appointed Legatus drew himself up tall and saluted, perhaps a little more stiffly than he used to. “Emperor Tiberius, sir. The camp is in order. All the men are accounted for. As for the duke, his men arrived not too long ago. The man himself is requesting a meeting with you.”

Tiberius nodded. “Good. Have him escorted to the command tent once his own forces are settled. I have a few matters of my own I must see to first.”

Gaius saluted and turned away. He had hardly taken two steps before an officer was at his side with some other matter that demanded his attention. The sight was admittedly a little disorienting. It felt strange for Tiberius to not be the one taking charge of such things, as though he were somehow neglecting his duties. Even though they were no longer his to see to.

He sighed. For the moment, he had a bit more time to himself than he quite knew what to do with. But he supposed he should enjoy it while it lasted. All of that time would certainly go up in smoke the instant they reached Novara’s capital.

At least it seemed as though both Gaius and the Legionnaires were taking the transition well. Of course, the new Legatus leaned on Quintus and his experience quite a bit, but that was only to be expected. It was one of the reasons he’d left his Primus Pilus in the position, after all.

Although he was interested to see who Gaius would choose as his own Tribunus Laticlavius now that the position was open. A few of the officers were already clearly vying for the spot, and some were clearly more suited than others. But he would hold his tongue and refrain from giving advice unless Gaius asked for it.

Best to let the boy figure things out himself. Even though Tiberius had promoted him earlier than expected, that didn’t mean he couldn’t still give him tests.

Tiberius began to make his way into the tiny town, his guards flanking him the whole while. The duke would have to wait. Now that the camp was all settled, there was one matter that he’d put off for long enough already—the matter of his own class change. And considering that the class stone would likely soon be overwhelmed by elves looking to review their own statuses, it would be best for him to visit it sooner rather than later.

Not that anyone would dare make an emperor wait in line or anything so silly. But he did not want his own activities to interrupt an otherwise well-coordinated operation if he could avoid it.

He stepped toward the class stone, his guards scanning the surroundings for any threats. His hand made contact with the obsidian monolith. A ripple of golden energy rushed up its length before bursting into a sparkling cloud of embers that danced just beneath the stone’s surface. The motes of light rushed down to suffuse Tiberius’s hand as though caught in a whirlpool, rushing through his fingers and up his arm. He flashed briefly with golden light as words materialized in the air before him.

Information:

Name: Tiberius Rufius Maro

Age: 54 (LIV)

Class: Emperor (Mythical)

Level: 4 (IV)

Experience:  0/400 (CD)

Stats:

Strength: 12 (XII)

Dexterity: 11 (XI)

Constitution: 14 (XIV)

Charisma: 21 (XXI)

Wisdom: 15 (XV)

Intelligence: 15 (XV)

Free Points: 0

Titles:

Born to Rule

Born to Conquer

Bonds of Brotherhood

Conqueror of Towns

Roman Emperor

Bane of Cats (III)

Bane of Spiders (II)

Bane of Ghouls (IV)

Boss Slayer (I)

Craftsman (III)

Blood on Your Hands (II)

Titanslayer

Warforged (I)

Baron

Imperator

Expansionist (I)

Skills:

[Logistics] (Uncommon) - Lvl 41

[Swordsmastery] (Rare) - Lvl 3 

[Rallying Cry] (Uncommon) - Lvl 22 

[Keen Eye] (Uncommon) - Lvl 35 

[Paths of Victory] (Rare) - Lvl 7

[Warpath] (Rare) - Lvl 6 

[Coordinated Bulwark] (Rare) - Lvl 3

[Military Leadership] (Uncommon) - Lvl 69 

[Inspiring Oration] (Rare) - Lvl 3 

[Commanding Presence] (Uncommon) - Lvl 62

B3 Chapter 2: Lost and Found

B3 Chapter 2: Lost and Found

Marcus pumped his legs to the absolute limits as he sprinted toward the cloud of dust on the horizon. Based on the few brief questions he’d asked on his way out of Hausten, it seemed that the Legion had only recently mustered their forces to march on Novara’s capital. Still, given the speed that their marching skills allowed them to travel at, even a small head start was liable to leave the [Royal Bard] in the dust. Even if his own [Running] was nothing to shake a stick at.

Yet to his astonishment, catching up to the army as they marched didn’t take nearly as long as he’d feared. He didn’t even have to wait for them to make camp—he was making up ground as they moved.

It was only a few hours later that he discovered why. Rather than the red and gold forms of Legionnaires, the first thing he set his eyes on was a sea of armored elves clad in shades of the forest. The columns of pointy-eared men moved in unison with the lithe grace that one would expect of their kind. Yet they didn’t move nearly as fast as Marcus might have expected. They moved fast, to be sure, but they clearly lacked any sort of marching-related skill like the Legionnaires ahead of them had. Though the Romans did seem to have slowed their own advance to accommodate.

As Marcus adjusted his path to follow the army, he noticed something else as well. It felt somehow easier to follow along behind the mass of soldiers than to run on his own. It was as though there was a tailwind at his back that urged him on. And the path itself…

He looked down at his feet and frowned. Just like the last time he’d marched with a group of Legionnaires, they left quite a distinct path in their wake. The dirt behind them had been trodden down until it formed a well-packed dirt trail. Which made some amount of sense until one realized that it was all dirt. There was no trace of the grasses or any other vegetation that should have been trampled underfoot.

Marcus took a moment to check behind him. The path stretched on for a few hundred feet before, inexplicably, disappearing back into perfectly normal grassy plains. As though the pristine path hadn’t even been there in the first place.

He blinked and shook his head. One more oddity to look into later.

Marcus redoubled his efforts to sprint past the line of marching elves. Their aloof, steely expressions and the unwavering set of their eyes on the path ahead made it clear they had no desire to talk. These were professionals, beautiful in their stoicism and unwilling to abide any distractions. The Legion, however, were a different story.

“Is that the bard I see?”

“Hey! Marcus!”

“About time you showed up! What kept you? I was starting to think that some woman had finally managed to tie you down for good!”

“And I thought… that you lot were trying to… sneak off without me noticing.” He tried to muster a retort between panting breaths. “Or is there some other reason you ran off like lovers after an ill-advised tryst?”

“Ran off? This is merely a casual stroll, friend. It hardly feels like we’re marching at all.” A familiar voice called over. “Luckily for you. You look as though even this pace is set to make you keel over.”

“Ah! Cassius!” Marcus grinned. The shout turned more than a few heads in Marcus’s direction. Evidently, there was no shortage of Legionnaires by that name among the group.

His fellow theatrically-inclined friend returned the grin as Marcus fell into step next to him, slowing his pace to a quick jog. “Cassius, my good man. It’s been a while.”

“I’ll say. It seems as though you’ve been too busy to visit our cookfire as of late. A pity, I have a few stories I’ve been meaning to run by you.”

Cassius was one of the few Legionnaires who truly seemed to appreciate the arts as Marcus did. For that reason, the [Royal Bard] had been more than happy to provide feedback and advice to his more militant counterpart, in exchange for tellings of some of Rome’s own stories. Of course, such conversations had been lacking recently between how busy each man had been. But perhaps this was a good opportunity to catch up on a few things.

Marcus took a moment to recover his breath before answering, appreciating the fact that he was able to find a familiar face this far back. “Ah, well, you know how it is. Legatus Tiberius has kept me busy. Or rather, should I say Emperor Tiberius?”

“Ah, you saw that as well.” Cassius nodded sagely. “Right. It did say that it was a System-wide announcement.”

“What exactly happened?” Marcus pressed. He’d known that the man had claimed the title of emperor before, of course. But for the System to not only confirm it with a class change, but one that deserved a global announcement… He’d never even heard of a mythical class before. Not outside of stories, of course. They were the realm of, well… myth. Obviously.

“Well, let me tell you…”

The man launched into quite the dramatic retelling of a scene from earlier in the day. How the elves had pledged fealty to Tiberius and Rome, Gaius’s promotion to Legatus, the twin eruptions of light from their new allies and the emperor himself… It was all very cinematic. And frustrating.

As Cassius concluded his tale, Marcus could only curse and spit on the ground with frustration. “Gods damn it all. I swear, I take half a day to myself after a long time traveling and a job well done, and I miss something like that?!”

“The gods do indeed have a sense of humor.” The Legionnaire chuckled. “Fortunately for you, I was paying attention. Perhaps I’d be willing to work with you to refine the tale?”

“Ugh, please.” A jeer came from nearby. “So long as it makes it shorter. I swear your retelling took almost as long as the thing itself.”

“You’re certainly one to talk, Agrippa.” Marcus retorted. “I don't think I've ever heard a man retell the same long-winded tale of losing at dice so many times. Truly, I thought you were practicing to be a bard yourself.”

“I'm telling you, I was cheated!”

Marcus spent the next couple of hours getting every detail he could out of Cassius. They did end up with the beginnings of a ballad about the event, even among the constant heckling and unasked for feedback of the Legionnaires around them. But before long, it came time for the army to stop and make camp—albeit much earlier in the day than Marcus had expected.

By the time the rear part of the column arrived, the Legion's standard fortress of a camp was already nearing its completion. Tall walls of sharpened logs from who knows where stood behind deep trenches. Behind them, cookfires sent swirls of gray smoke into the air and heralded the coming of that precious resource for any soldier—food.

Marcus talked with Cassius for a while longer before bidding the man farewell. He then made his way through the camp and toward the command tent. Best to let Gaius and Tiberius know that he was here, just in case he was needed. Besides, perhaps if they weren't busy, he could get additional information about recent events. 

Yet as he walked, he spotted movement outside the camp. There, atop one of the hills, a group of figures seemed to be gathering. Frowning, Marcus shaded his eyes and peered closer. Not just any figures. Cavalry. Hundreds of mounted fighters armed with spears and swords, each astride a horse of their own.

That made his eyebrows rise. Marcus immediately began looking around for the nearest centurion. He couldn’t imagine that no one else had spotted the group. And yet no one seemed to be reacting to their presence.

“Excuse me!” Marcus jogged up to a brawny, athletic Legionnaire. The plume of his helmet indicated that he was indeed a centurion of some sort. The fact that his armor was of far finer make than he'd seen on any Roman so far only confirmed it.

The centurion turned to face him with a stoic frown, and Marcus found that he recognized the man. Quintus. The Primus Pilus of the Legion, the first centurion… and one that wasn't particularly well-disposed towards him. Still, like him or not, surely the man would not complain about a report that was for the good of his men.

Marcus pointed in the distance. “It seems that we have guests of some sort. Are they expected?”

Quintus raised an eyebrow at the bard's sudden appearance, then turned to follow his outstretched finger. The man nodded. “Ah. They are likely the troops of Duke Redcliffe.”

“Redcliffe you say?” At that, Marcus broke out into a wide smile. “By your lack of concern, might I assume that they are counted as allies, then?”

The centurion grudgingly nodded, confirming Marcus’s suspicions. He let out a light laugh. “Ah, wonderful! It seems that diplomacy was worthwhile after all!”

“In this case.” Quintus admitted.

“Although…” Marcus peered again at the group. “Will they be really able to help?”

“Hmph. Given that we lack cavalry of any kind, even a few hundred of such forces can be exceedingly valuable. And my understanding is that these are not the totality of his men. Simply his personal guard.”

“Ah, that’s not what I meant.” Marcus clarified. “It’s less about their number. It’s more about the fact that they’re on horses. The last time I saw horses in this area…”

As if on cue, a pink dot appeared on the horizon and began to grow with alarming speed. A few Legionnaires stopped what they were doing to point it out, calling to their superiors in alarm. Yet despite the looming threat that they all knew was careening toward them, the camp maintained its order.

Interestingly, Quintus seemed relatively unperturbed by this as well. The centurion calmly turned toward a messenger. “Find the Grand Mage. Inform him to handle his… pet.”

Marcus’s eyes widened as the messenger flashed away. “Pardon me… did you say pet?”

Something blue and white streaked into the air from elsewhere in the camp. Marcus watched as it rushed to meet the dragon, whose not-so-distant form had been noticed by the increasingly nervous cavalry unit below. The massive pink creature began to dive, its scaly maw opening wide to reveal a yellow-orange glow within—

“RUFUS! No! Leave it!”

The words rang out across the plains like the crack of a magically-enhanced whip. Grand Mage Claude interposed himself between the dragon and its would-be prey below. It pulled up short, flaring its wings wide to halt its descent before flapping in place before the ancient wizard.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to eat people’s horses, boy? It’s impolite!”

The dragon’s head visibly drooped in disappointment. A thin trail of smoke escaped its nostrils as it sent an almost pleading look toward the mage. Marcus’s jaw fell open at the sight. He’d known that the Grand Mage was powerful, and he could maybe accept that such a man had made a dragon his pet. But this…

It was only a moment later that Claude led “Rufus” back down toward the outer perimeter of the Legion’s camp. The dragon shot a longing look back toward the duke’s calvary, only to be rewarded with a quick swat on its snout by the mage.

Marcus couldn’t help himself. He had to see this thing up close.

As he rushed out the nearest exit to the camp, he found the Grand Mage standing beside his pet, scratching its brow ridges with obvious affection. The beast’s tail lashed from side to side, plowing furrows in the earth nearly as deep as Marcus was tall.

“Good boy, Rufus! Oh, I’ve missed you so much…”

Marcus just stared.

B3 Chapter 1: Ready to Roll

B3 Chapter 1: Ready to Roll

Devin Redcliffe stood atop the tallest guard tower in Corwyn Pass, a letter in hand. The icy winds that hissed about the mountain peaks bit at his skin like a nest of angry vipers, seeking out any patches of skin that had been foolishly left exposed to their attacks. Yet at this point, the wind’s assault hardly phased him anymore. After so long stationed in this gods-forsaken place, the cold had proven the least of his concerns.

He read over its contents again. His father’s instructions to pull back and leave the pass behind had come as a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Devin and his men had been protecting this pass ever since they’d left the duchy behind, which was far longer than he’d care to think about. And despite the fortified and advantageous position they found themselves in, defending it had proven to be anything but easy.

Corwyn Pass was supposed to be an assignment of much honor and glory. It should have been flush with men and support from the king, its men never wanting for fresh weapons, new armor, and the best choice of supplies. After all, this pass was the most straightforward way into Novara in the far west. It led directly onto the plains beyond and, from there, it was only a short march to the kingdom’s capital. There were plenty of other places that one could try to attack and enter Novara. But if this pass fell…. Well, the rest of the warfront wouldn't matter.

Yet as Devin looked out over his men, who busied themselves with preparations for the retreat, he saw a different story entirely. Breastplates that bore more dents and scrapes than stretches of intact metal. Empty quivers hung alongside swords and spears that might as well have been serrated for all of the notches they bore. Even their hand wrappings had been cobbled together from the tattered remains of banners and even Novara’s flag, as they’d worn holes in the last pairs of gloves among them. 

This was no honor assignment. It was a punishment. At least, that was what their almighty king had decided. It was the only explanation for why every shipment of supplies had steadily dwindled until they’d ceased altogether a few months back. It was the reason why the only men before him were ones from his family’s duchy, not from elsewhere in the kingdom. And it was the reason why Devin felt little regret about leaving it behind.

If he’d been feeling a bit more charitable, Devin might have been willing to entertain some alternative explanations. After all, despite the importance of holding this position, the odds of the orcs actually breaking through were incredibly slim.

The pass was nearly two dozen miles of narrow trail that wound through the mountains, cramped enough that no more than five men could march abreast—or four orcs. Walls ran up and down its entire length, the steep mountain making the task of reaching their base a fool’s errand. And that was without the regularly spaced outposts. Each could stymie the opposition’s advance up the pass with felled trees or rockfalls or frigid water that would turn the path to ice.

Given all of that, then perhaps the lack of supplies and men were a strategic tradeoff. Perhaps they were more desperately needed elsewhere along the warfront. But he doubted it. Not with this king.

Devin shook his head. Despite the absolute slaughter that this pass was, the endless tide of orcs never ceased making attempts. Every day they'd come screaming with the dawn to batter their way through. If rocks blocked their charge, they hauled them away. If bodies blocked the pass, they climbed over them. It was never-ending.

Occasionally, they would manage to make some real progress. Lately, they’d been managing to make their way a few miles into the pass with worrying consistency. But Devin would always be able to rally his troops and push them back, using their superior positioning to his massive advantage.

The onslaught was such that he’d managed to reach level 25 during his time here, an absolutely unheard-of accomplishment, with many of his men boasting impressive levels as well. Yet that was merely a side effect of the constant fighting they endured. Still, he wouldn’t complain. Not when it had allowed them to stretch their food and rations much further and kept them from starving.

Devin sighed heavily. Novara truly had made efforts to ensure that they were not taken unawares by their longtime foes. Even in his current and unenviable position, he and his men were still able to push the orcs back day after day. Yet each time, they made it a little further. Each time, they had to be a little more conservative with the traps and roadblocks they set. Each day, the men were left a little more exhausted, their bellies a little more hollow as they went to do battle. And with the way things were… it was only a matter of time until something gave.

The clanking of metal drew Devin from his thoughts. One of his men approached, saluting as he came to a halt. “Sir. The men are ready.”

Devin nodded. “Understood. We wait until the morning assault comes. Then, we give these orcs their parting gift.”

“Yes, sir!”

Despite the man’s seriousness, Devin couldn’t help but note the faintest hint of relief on his face. And no wonder. He wasn’t the only one eager to leave this place behind them.

Devin turned back to regard the pass. Even if his father really was really looking to rebel against the King—a course of action which Devon wholeheartedly agreed to at this point—he had no desire to leave the pass open as it was. The idea of retreating with no defensive measures made him feel a little sick to his stomach. To let their foes simply march unopposed straight to the capital? No. That was a step too far. Especially since such a move also risked him and his men being taken unawares during their retreat.

Luckily, there was one more defense that Corwyn pass boasted. A bit of a last resort.

All along the mountainside, a collection of [Mages] and [Miners] had long ago set enchanted spikes into strategic locations in the mountainside. When activated, they would bring several tons of rock down, filling the path and crushing anyone unlucky enough to be on it.

While he held no illusions that even this would dissuade the orcs and their assaults, he was certain that it would slow them down. Who knows? Maybe it would be enough that, if their coup was successful, they'd have a chance to return and reclaim the pass before the barbarians began to pour through in earnest.

The thought of the orcs running wild through the plains, burning and raiding as they went, was almost enough to make Devin hesitate. But he shook it off. If such a thing came to pass, then the blood was not on his hands. He’d done his duty. He’d manned his post for longer than any man before him—longer than any reasonable person could expect, given their situation.

But they had been abandoned. Their king and country had left them to die—a slow death, but a death nonetheless. That was not a fate that he would willingly consign his men to. It was time for them to go home. Though perhaps he could send out runners to warn the locals and ensure they had time to prepare and evacuate, should the worst come to pass.

With the final preparations in place, all that was left to do was wait. Luckily, the orcs didn’t make them wait long.

As soon as the sun broke over the distant horizon, he heard it. The distant sound of war chants in a language foreign to his ears. They filled the air with a driving, steady rhythm, one as inexorable as a heartbeat. One that Devin had grown far, far too used to hearing.

The sound grew and grew until the orcs finally came into view. A long line of green-skinned barbarians, their bulging muscles wreathed in leathers and furs and bone from monsters and animals alike. Warpaint adorned their faces in shades of black and red, their eyes red with battle lust. Not a single one of them seemed affected by the cold—an effect of the chants or some skill, no doubt.

Devin waited for the column to make it further up the pass. Once he saw its end, he drew a horn from his belt. He set its wooden mouthpiece against his lips and blew, the sound reverberating through the mountains as he empowered it with [Voice of Command].

A sharp series of cracks echoed up and down the mountain range as his men activated the spikes. Then, a moment later, it began.

A low rumble filled the pass, growing in volume and intensity until it drowned out even the orcs’ chants. The very cliffs themselves began to shift and move, crumbling down toward the trail. The process accelerated, and soon, boulders the size of houses rolled and tumbled down onto the approaching army’s heads.

Despite the danger, the orcs did not flee. They faced the rocks head-on as though they were merely another opponent, charging forward and battering at them. As though stone were just another army to be felled before their axes and blades.

Yet their efforts came to naught. In the span of a few heartbeats, it was over. A hush fell over the mountains, its peaks silent but for the ever-hissing wind and the soft tinkle of a few small stones. Not even a single voice called out from beneath the rubble.

Devin looked at the results of the avalanche and grimaced. It would not hold for nearly as long as he’d hoped. He’d seen the orcs clear out rocks with enough efficiency that he held no illusions that this would be a permanent solution. But still, it would have to do.

He turned his back on Corwyn Pass and faced his men. “Our work is done here. Now… we march for home.”

B2 Epilogue

B2 Epilogue

A crumbling throne room hung within the inky black void, its pure white marble a beacon that shone amidst its infinite darkness. Within were arrayed a circle of seats arrayed around a central brazier, each in various states of disrepair. Most were recognizable, and some even bore some resemblance to their former glory. Yet the same could not be said of the bare and plain space that housed them.

But rather than degrading further, the thrones were being… rebuilt. Slowly but surely. As though their erosion was being played in reverse.

A tall man in resplendent golden armor strode through the partially reconstructed archway leading into the room. The dimly flickering flames of the brazier reflected off his chiseled musculature, every line of which seemed as though it had been painstakingly honed by tens of thousands of hours of battle. A cape of red blood fluttered behind him, its edges tattered and torn.

Mars held himself tall as he strode forth. As much strength as he’d regained, it still took a conscious exercise of his will to maintain his form like this. But not as much as it would have before. Each day, it became easier and easier to exercise his power. And each day, the constant trickle of faith and recognition that rose toward him from oh so far below grew. Soon, something such as this wouldn’t even require effort.

He turned to take in the sight of his own throne. A row of tall spears with polished wooden shafts formed its back, while its base was ringed with a line of rectangular interlocked shields. The entire piece was made of polished black iron and wreathed in olive branches. 

It was a relatively simple thing, compared to the others. Functional and impressive without being overly indulgent. It suited him.

“Brother!”

A voice called out to him in greeting. The young man sat perched atop an ornate throne of his own, its golden surface shining with depictions of dancing women, archers, and laurels. Even in their partially reformed state, their beauty would have inspired awe and jealousy in even the greatest living artisans.

He lounged with one leg crossed atop the other. A cheeky half smile played across his features as he looked Mars up and down.

“It’s been a long time.” Apollo’s lilting voice filled the throne room with its melody. “And you’re looking well indeed. I suppose those Legionnaires of yours have been feeding you well, eh?”

Mars grunted. Despite the lightness in his tone, he could sense a faint undercurrent of strain there as well. It seemed that Mars was not the only god expending effort to be here.

“Brother. I am surprised to see you here so soon.”

Apollo shrugged. “Honestly? Same here. It seems like the locals have taken quite the shine to me. Evidently, they have a bit more appreciation for the finer things in life than the soldiers do.”

The sun god flashed Mars a smile, indicating that he meant no offense. It was understandable. He knew that the Romans found Mars to be the god that embodied their ideals the most, so obviously he would be the benefactor of the greatest following—and see it spread more widely. And while Apollo was the god of archery, his favorites had always been the poets, musicians, and artists that dedicated their works to his name. They tended to be among his more devout followers.

“Something troubles you.”

It was a statement of fact—one that caused Apollo to sigh and place his chin in his hand. “Aside from the realization that I’ve been asleep for who knows how long? I suppose. It’s about one of the mortals down there. One that’s quite close with your little army of followers.”

“Ah. I know the one.” Mars nodded.

“Really? That’s it?” Apollo raised his head and quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say about the man responsible for bringing the Legion to this world? For beginning the chain of events that allowed us to reawaken?”

Mars simply shrugged. In truth, he had some amount of respect for the mortal. Though cowardly and foppish in many ways, he had on more than one occasion displayed a surprising amount of bravery. Combined with his willingness to fight alongside the Legion when necessary and seek out their battles… While Mars by no means favored the man, he would say he was one of the better ones outside of his own circle of worshippers and adherents.

Apollo tsked with mock disappointment. “Ah, well. I suppose that I can’t expect you to share my appreciation, given your opinions on mages. Although even you must admit he has been quite entertaining to watch.”

“I much prefer to observe the exploits of those warriors among the Legion. Though he has had his moments.” Mars begrudgingly admitted.

“He certainly has a flair for the dramatic. His love of stories, of epics and legends across time, drives him toward conflict like a moth to a flame, desperate to touch that which would consume him.” The god sighed. “It’s making me begin to fear that he’ll get himself killed. That would be a tragedy—and not the satisfying kind. Not yet, at least.”

Apollo slid down from his opulent throne to stand. As he unfurled, the incomplete nature of his form became more obvious. His crossed leg had been hiding a large gap in his knee, while the side of his head appeared to still be in the process of reforming. Fine cracks spiderwebbed across his skin, their edges shimmering with divine light as he moved.

Mars reached out and clasped his brother's shoulder—both for support and reassurance. "I do not believe his thread is so ready to be cut. He has a greater role to play. Have faith, brother."

The sun god smiled at the inside joke they’d long shared. “Oh, I won’t fret over him like a mother goose—I can assure you of that. I simply don’t want to lose such a source of entertainment. Especially not when he’s just started to make sacrifices to me. After all, he could be a wonderful follower.”

“My men will not allow him to fall so easily. They have taken quite the liking to him.” The god of war crossed his arms. “Besides. Would not the god of prophecy be able to know of such things?”

“Yes, yes.” Apollo waved him off. “It seems like such a superfluous matter to dedicate my energy to, precious as it is. Though I suppose I have been gaining quite a bit more as of late… Ah, why not.”

The god's eyes flashed like twin suns. His gaze pierced through Mars, looking beyond his brother and into the unseen realm of fate itself. His voice turned solemn and booming, its strength causing the room itself to quiver.

“With war as his muse,

And his life set to lose,

The father of the age’s great tale.

He shall live to behold

Catastrophies yet untold,

A fate he will soon bewail.”

The words carried the weight of prophecy to them, a prediction and a decree at the same time. Yet their contents also made Mars feel as though they might have been a curse as well.

Apollo blinked, his eyes losing their glow and returning to their normal golden color. “Ah. There we go. I suppose he’ll survive after all! We’ll have plenty more entertainment from him yet, then.”

Mars shook his head. "Considering your words, I doubt he would prove quite so enthusiastic about the prospect.”

“Oh, they rarely do. But you know how it goes with mortals.” Apollo tapped the side of his nose. “Our favorites are not our favorites because they live easy lives. Rather, it’s because they are so interesting. And well, interesting is hardly what most mortals pray for."

"That's because they pray for so many things."

A booming voice echoed through the half-formed room, causing both gods to turn. A regal and well-muscled man stood beneath the entry arch. The pure white of his beard and countless wrinkles were a testament to his age, yet it did not affect his bearing or stature. He stood tall with his shoulders back and his head held high as he strode into the room.

It had been a long time. Too long. And even though the nimbus of power that hung about the figure like a cloud had diminished significantly, he was still unmistakable.

"Father." Mars and Apollo stepped apart as they greeted Jupiter.

The ancient Titan regarded his two children with a critical eye. Even from here, Mars could feel his divine presence filling the room with crackling intensity. Despite the fact that Mars still had more followers and therefore more divine power, there was a certain potency to Jupiter’s own that was undeniable. His domains were more encompassing and more fundamental than any god that Mars could think of—at least, the ones that still lived. Even among the maybe that had split the land in their absence.

Mars looked his father in the eye and nodded. "Rome is rising again, father."

Jupiter nodded. His mouth thinned, not in displeasure, but rather in concern. It was a familiar expression, one that Mars recalled seeing more and more as the last years of the empire had drawn near, just before they had gone into their long slumber. "Indeed. It rises. But will it continue to do so? Or will they find themselves crushed by the weight of the task before them?"

“Is that not up to us?” Inquired Apollo. The other two gods glanced his way. “If they are to reach their full potential, then they will need assistance. The other gods of this world have already shown quite the willingness to put their thumbs on the scale against them. That predilection will only grow as they—and we—gain more power and influence.”

Mars snorted derisively. "The gods of this world are petty things. Usurpers who hardly warrant the title. Huran, Orbed, Silvane… Every one that ever dared to defy us has been cast down, erased from the annals of time and the minds of mortals. No matter how our battles shook the heavens, no matter how many stars were destroyed, we emerged victorious.”

“Be that as it may.” Jupiter rumbled. “The fact remains that, in our current state, they cannot be ignored. While we have slept, they have consolidated their power and influence. Even those mortals who claim to preserve the ways of Rome have long ceased their worship. Those few who know our names treat us as mere curiosities and historical figures long dead, not living deities. They have turned back to their old gods, those of the druids.”

“It’s hard to blame them. It’s not as though we’ve been particularly communicative.” Apollo pointed out.

“That will change.” Mars countered. “No, it is already changing. Already there are those among the elves who spread our influence. And that influence shall only grow as they continue to fight alongside the true Romans.”

Jupiter hummed. “And what of the gods they already worship? Surely you will not be satisfied to share a place in their hearts beside another god of war. And the druidic gods were no small foes, even at our full strength.”

“They will convert.” Mars’s statement brooked no argument. He clenched his fist. “They will bend the knee, both to Rome and to us. If not, then they will die. It would not be the first time that Rome has put an end to the druids—in this world or the last. And I suspect that Neptune would be more than willing to assist if there is a need to drown them all in the sea once again.

“As for their gods… We will crush them again if we must. Or they will submit to you. Our family can always grow in size and in strength both, but we will never be defeated."

Jupiter snorted. "While I admire your confidence, I must remind you of the precarious state of things. As they stand, this rapid expansion is dangerous. Rome has only just established a foothold in this world. It would be more prudent to conquer the smaller areas around them and convert the masses, establish themselves and train additional troops for a few years. Only then should they set their sights on the kingdom itself. An approach such as this… It is a danger to both their own existence and ours."

Mars shook his head. His father had always been more prone to more measured approaches, though he’d also been known to have his moments of more impassioned anger. Still, the amount of caution he counseled was unlike him. Perhaps time had not been as kind to Jupiter as he’d thought.

“They will prevail.” He said simply. “They have no choice. Anything less than this would give the usurper gods a chance to rally their own followers and smite this nation while it remains in the cradle—something that I suspect they will attempt regardless. No, they must grow strong, and quickly. Then no one will dare challenge them.”

Jupiter blew out a long breath. The exhalation rattled the floating bits of reforming debris around them, causing them to quiver in place. Then, he locked eyes with Mars.

“I hope you are right. For all of our sakes. For if you are not… then I suspect our return shall be short-lived indeed.”

B2 Chapter 72: Onward

B2 Chapter 72: Onward

Tiberius looked out over the assembled troops as they cheered, their eyes filled with fire. The fireworks overhead shook the air with each thunderous detonation, coloring the sky in fiery hues.

The System had caught him off guard with its offer of a new class. But considering what he hoped to achieve, refusing it would have been foolish. Even if it meant that he’d needed to move ahead with his plans much sooner than expected.

He spared a glance toward Gaius. The boy stood as ramrod straight as he’d ever seen, as though the effort would somehow make himself appear taller and older than he would otherwise. It was plain enough to Tiberius’s eye that he was doing his best to hide the mix of pride and sheer wide-eyed fear at the sudden and unexpected promotion he’d been handed. But some small amount of it still leaked into the boy’s expression.

Tiberius mentally chastised himself. He would have to curb that habit of referring to Gaius as a mere boy, even mentally. He was a Legatus now, after all. And while Tiberius was still his superior, there was a certain amount of respect he needed to demonstrate to Gaius—especially if he wanted the men to do the same.

Although perhaps this was a fortuitous development. It meant that Gaius would have the support of an experienced and trustworthy Primus Pilus to oversee the transition. At least, until the next human legion was deemed ready and Quintus took command as the third Legatus.

He turned his attention once again toward the massed forces. It was rare for multiple legions to operate together. A single one was usually more than enough to handle any situation, save in the most dire of times—such as the Punic Wars. Even in more peaceful times, they stayed together as a single unit on patrol, often in one of the provinces or as an occupying force in one of the more civilized areas.

Still, as he looked out across the sea of red and green before him, Tiberius couldn’t help but feel a little… exposed. Vulnerable. He had officially handed the reins of his Legion, the authority over his men, over to another. Combined with the fact that this new elven legion had yet to see battle under his command, he couldn’t help but worry. If they did decide to stage a coup…

Well, he didn’t think that they could hold a candle to his own men and their training. But the point still remained.

Of course, he didn’t show any of those misgivings on his face. He didn’t believe that he’d be betrayed by this Sylendor and his men, not based on the borderline reverential treatment he’d received from the elves thus far. And even if Gaius was Legatus now, the fact remained that the Legion had been his men under his command for almost two decades at this point. Loyalty like that didn’t simply vanish overnight—especially not when there were other foes to contend with.

He could only hope that the [Emperor] class would come with some sort of guard against treachery by his subjects, much like how [Legatus] had increased the effect of his skills and titles on his Legionnaires. Although he was no fool. He knew the history of the Empire, even in their world, had been rife with backstabbings and assassinations. Even if the class did come with some sort of protection, he would need to watch his back even more from here on.

The matter was sent to the back of his mind for the moment. As eager as he was to find the nearest class stone and investigate the benefits of his new class, it would have to wait. Right now, he had other obligations to attend to.

As the celebration began to wind down, Tiberius saw a small group of figures crest the rise nearby. A group of Legionnaire scouts, with a lone figure at their center. One who appeared to be panting with exertion.

Tiberius glanced back at Lucius, who shook his head. The small motion told the emperor all he needed to know. It was not an attack or an obvious threat. But it seemed that the scouts had decided whatever this man was doing here, it warranted him being brought in.

One of the scouts broke off from the group and headed toward Tiberius. He offered the emperor a smart salute. “Sir. A messenger has arrived from the Duke of Redcliffe.”

Tiberius nodded. “Understood. Gaius?”

To his credit, the new Legatus sobered up almost instantly. “Yes, emperor?”

His expression turned serious as he awaited Tiberius’s command. For his part, Tiberius simply nodded toward the messenger. “Take care of it.”

“Understood, sir!”

Gaius wasted no time in taking the scout aside to speak with him. A few minutes later, Gaius had a letter in his hands. The young Legionnaire inspected the seal and edges for any concealed tricks before opening it. After scanning its contents, he approached Tiberius once again with a pleased expression.

“For you, emperor.” Gaius offered up the letter. “It seems that our efforts bore fruit. We will have more allies on our next campaign after all.”

As Tiberius read over the message himself, he smiled. The duke had chosen a side. The right one. All that remained to see was how useful his forces would end up proving.

Looking up at the messenger he made eye contact. “Convey to the duke that I am pleased by his choice. I look forward to our alliance.”

The emperor lifted his gaze once more, folding the letter in his hands. He looked out over the expectant faces of the Legionnaires, who had fallen quiet once more as they awaited their orders. His orders.

“Legionnaires!” Tiberius shouted, his words echoing in the silence. “March!”

***

The streets of Hausten bustled with an unexpected amount of life. At least, more than Marcus had thought to expect. It was a far cry from the people he’d seen cowering in their homes and hiding before. Truly, the place must have been recovering well.

He honestly couldn’t believe the completeness of the turnaround—or the speed with which it had occurred. The taking of the city had been bloody and terrible, and a large portion of their population had died in battle before the Legion even made it to the walls. Now, though? The majority of people seemed to have moved past it already. Sure, there were a lot more women and children than men walking on the streets, but everyone seemed comfortable and safe.

Part of that was likely due to the work the Legion had done. The infrastructure had been improved to an unprecedented degree. Honestly, not even the capital could compare to the average standard of living here at this point. The streets were clean. Everything was well-maintained. All the new amenities, such as running water and the sewer system, worked. The latter was an incredible innovation that kept the whole place more pristine than Marcus could have ever imagined a city being. In fact, this was the first one Marcus had ever been to that didn't smell. Small towns like Habersville were one thing, but a mass of people this large? It was inconceivable.

He strode down toward one of the districts that had seen the most overhaul in recent weeks—the temple district. 

Temples to all sorts of gods dominated a large plaza. Many of them bore familiar emblems and statues, ones that Marcus had seen countless times throughout his life. Yet these were often dwarfed by the incredible feats of construction that characterized the new temples of Roman gods around them.

But what really surprised him wasn't the temples themselves. It was how busy they were. Several priests manned bronze braziers in front of each temple, many of them locals, as a steady stream of offerings was poured into them by passerby. Whether it was food, wares, or simply money, whatever was set into them melted or burned to ash, replaced by a stream of shining smoke that rose toward the heavens as divine power.

Marcus watched one of the streams go with interest. According to the Legionnaires he’d talked to, it wasn’t uncommon for new populations to adopt the Roman gods rather quickly. And given how easily the Legion had taken the city, well… The locals had plenty of reason to believe that their forces must be blessed in some capacity. So why not try and worship these obviously powerful entities?

Notably, despite their relative prevalence in the pantheon, there were no temples to Arashim, Kyraz, or Kona to be found. It was possible that they just lacked a follower base in Hausten. But Marcus rather doubted it. Far more likely that the rebellion of those gods’ adherents back in Habersville had left the Legion with a bit of a grudge. He hadn’t exactly expected them to forget about the episode, but still…

The observation made him shudder slightly. These Romans certainly were serious about their grudges. Yet another reason for Marcus to be wary of crossing them. As if he needed any more.

As he walked, Marcus suddenly froze mid-step. He felt something. A tingling sensation that prickled across his skin. It was a familiar feeling, similar to what he might experience when [Appraisal] was used on him by someone who wasn’t particularly sneaky. Yet this time, it felt… weightier. Like something more powerful had set its eyes upon him.

Marcus turned and looked at the temple he had been standing in front of. It was a Roman one, of course, yet not one that he recognized. The statue out front depicted a young man drawing a massive bow aimed skyward. Strapped to his back was a stringed instrument, though one that Marcus had never particularly favored. A lyre.

“Pardon me.” He addressed one of the priests standing out front. “Might I inquire about whose temple this is?”

“Of course, sir.” The boy, who couldn’t have been older than fourteen, answered formally. He was practically swimming in the white toga that draped over him. “Within this temple, we worship the god Apollo—god of the sun.”

Marcus frowned. He didn’t know of many Roman gods beyond Mars, as the war god was practically the only one the Legionnaires talked about. But he did have to admit that the aesthetics of this one did strike his fancy.

“Is he the god of anything else?”

The boy frowned with obvious confusion. “Well, yes, but does it matter? The sun is the coolest one. If a god controls the bloody sun, then all that other stuff is kind of secondary, now isn’t it?”

Marcus sighed. Evidently, not all of these “priests” were the most well-versed about their new gods. Or in how to appear as aloof and formal as the station usually demanded. He supposed he couldn’t complain too much, though. At least he was straightforward.

“What is the ‘other stuff’, as you so eloquently put it?”

He saw the boy make an effort to avoid rolling his eyes. By this point, the priest had dropped all pretense of formality. “Archery’s the other big one. There’s also healing and protection, which are admittedly pretty cool. And then there’s the other stuff, like prophecy, dancing, music, poetry… Artsy stuff like that.”

The priest rushed through the last few, even as Marcus’s eyebrows rose with interest. He glanced again at the temple. He’d never been one much for Jacquere, god of the fine arts. He gave Marcus the impression of a rather haughty god who would sneer at some of the baser forms of entertainment that Marcus himself valued. But perhaps he’d be willing to give this one a chance.

Reaching into his pocket, Marcus fished out a gold coin and flipped it into the brazier. It melted in moments, replaced by a golden wisp that curled skyward. In the distance, underneath the sound of the bustling plaza, he thought he heard the faint strumming of a lyre.

A slow smile spread over his face. It seemed that Mars really wasn’t the only god these Romans had brought with them.

The moment was interrupted by a sudden notification appearing before his eyes. Given the circumstances, he half expected it to be related to Apollo somehow. But as he skimmed over the text, his eyes practically bulged out of his head.

[System-wide announcement: The mythical class of Emperor has been claimed by Tiberius Rufius Maro. All glory to the Emperor!]

Marcus swore loudly. Turning on his heel, he set out at a dead sprint, pushing his [Running] skill as far as it would go. All he’d wanted was a little time to himself, and now he risked missing the most monumental event of his lifetime. Well, he wouldn’t have it. Whatever the Legion were doing, he’d be damned if he let them leave him behind.

“Wait for me!”

B2 Chapter 71: We Are Legion

B2 Chapter 71: We Are Legion

The journey to the mustering grounds was not a long one. They were located a little ways from the city, right by a small monster nest that apparently needed extermination. Of course, such a task would have been trivial for the men already present, but they waited before acting to expedite their brethren’s travels.

Quintus took on a deep breath of the air. Dusty as it was with the passage of so many men, it still smelled of freedom to him. He had spent far too long sitting behind a desk, his training and fighting limited to the mere few hours a day he could claw for himself. But now, he was back where he belonged—on the field, and soon to be on campaign once more.

He would have even said that he was enjoying himself, if not for the ancient man next to him. 

“...So your [Coordinated Offense] skill evolved after you intentionally tried to warp it into an offensive use case? I see, I see…” The white-haired Grand Mage muttered before addressing him once again. “And have you tried using it to not only identify an enemy’s tactics, but to twist or influence them as well?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have been otherwise occupied since gaining the skill.”

“Well, it’s not like we have much else to do on this march!” The old man grinned. “Go on, try it out!”

“There are no enemies nearby.” Quintus ground out. Though he was very close to considering this old man one.

“Ah, right.” The mage sighed. “Pity. Well, once we run across something I must insist that you try. In the meantime…”

The mad mage continued to pepper him with questions constantly, with such frequency that it became impossible for Quintus to fall into the near-meditative state that usually characterized his marches. He had joined up with Tiberius’s entourage as they set out, but had immediately latched onto Quintus and all but ignored both the emperor and the other men around them. Quintus had hoped that [Warpath] would allow them to outpace the man and leave him in the dust, but he’d been sadly mistaken. The mage had simply produced a small pillow of some sort and began floating beside him, inexplicably keeping up despite his best efforts.

The first centurion resisted the urge to groan as he glanced at Tiberius’s back. The emperor had warned him about the mage and instructed him to be forthcoming about his skills and capabilities, as the man was apparently quite knowledgeable about them. And who would say no to advice on how to further improve one’s power and abilities?

Yet what had begun as a simple report had quickly turned into a constant slew of demands for additional information and demonstrations of different kinds of uses. Quintus was beginning to feel more like a show horse or a gladiator on display for betting. He couldn’t even tune the old man out, given the mage’s annoying ability to make his voice louder and louder and louder until Quintus's ears rang and he eventually answered.

Luckily, their speed saved him from having to suffer the man for too long. They soon crested a final hill and looked down over the flattened area of the mustering ground. A massive host had already converged upon it, composed of two groups—the red and gold of his fellow Legionnaires, as well as an army of other elven figures clad in greens and browns. The sight was finally enough to make the mage shut the fuck up, much to Quintus’s relief.

As their group began descending toward the men, Quintus noted a group of Legionnaires off to the side. They were arrayed in a shield wall, penning in a small herd of some kind of monstrous deer creatures with barbed and thorny antlers. The creatures battered uselessly against the crimson and gold fortifications over and over, trying in vain to escape.

With Tiberius’s arrival, a shout went up. Immediately, the shield wall sprang into action, blades sliding between the gaps as they slew the beasts with brutal efficiency. Quintus felt the effects of [Warpath] fade as the ”battle” before him ended.

Their group stopped before the massed troops. Already the Legion had formed up into their standard ranks by century and cohort. But to Quintus’s surprise, the elves’ formation mirrored their own.

Ten groups of men, each consisting of eighty to a hundred and twenty men, stood in neatly arranged rows before them. In front of each stood a single elf, his armor slightly finer and more ornamental than that of his brethren. Each and every elf stood at rapt attention—a level of discipline that Quintus appreciated after his dealings with the auxiliaries.

However, while the groups appeared to be organized similarly on the surface, a closer look indicated some rather glaring differences. Every single one of the six thousand foreign “legionnaires” was armed with a longbow and a pair of quivers hanging from each hip. A pair of long daggers were slung over their backs, the hilts visible over their right shoulders, while the bow was slung over their left. Moreover, the elves bore shields that were small and round, fitting entirely on the forearm and curving outwards just enough that they wouldn't affect one’s ability to hold a bow. Their brown and green armor and helms appeared to be crafted of wood, though their construction was of no like that Quintus had ever seen.

It was different from the Legion's equipment by a significant margin. Still, Quintus could see how it would be deadly effective, especially in a forest. Large volleys of arrows in trees didn't work very well, but neither did large shield walls. And based on what he’d heard, with the accuracy these archers could boast? Even compared to the Legion's own abilities and advanced skills, he could imagine that this would be an incredibly deadly force.

As Tiberius stood before the men, both forces saluted in unison. The resulting clatter of gauntleted fists on chestplates cracked through the air like a peal of thunder in the clear sky. The emperor nodded with approval as Quintus moved to take a spot behind the emperor, a step and a half behind and to his right. The aquilifer Lucius mirrored his position on the other side and set the Legion’s standard against the ground.

A pair of figures strode down the center of the elven formation. The first was a tall, regal-looking elf wearing helm plumed with pure, almost luminous white. Behind him followed a second elf, this one bearing an elegant and perfectly straight branch of white wood. Sitting atop it was a familiar golden eagle, its wings spread wide to either side.

The elven legatus and aquilifer came to a halt before Tiberius, then fell to one knee. The rest of the elven forces followed suit in a ripple behind him.

“Emperor.” The elf said, his head bowed. “It is an honor to present my men before you. We have long waited for the day that Rome would rise from the ashes and reclaim its former glory. And now, to be granted the opportunity to assist with that effort… The gods have truly smiled on us this day.”

Tiberius looked down at the elf. “What is your name?”

“Sylendor Florus, sir.”

He nodded. “Sylendor. You and your men are prepared to serve Rome? To serve me?”

“Nothing would please me more, emperor.” The elf responded immediately, without a single hint of hesitation.

“I see.” Tiberius looked out over the field of green before him. “Give me your oath, then.”

“With pleasure, sir!”

The elves began to speak. As one, they recited the words that were all too familiar to Quintus—the sacramentum militare, the oath of duty that he himself had sworn upon joining the Legion.

"The soldiers swear that they shall faithfully execute all that the Emperor commands, that they shall never desert the service, and that they shall never seek to avoid death for the Roman Empire!"

The words were slightly different, but not so much as Quintus might have expected. It seemed that the elves’ claim to have faithfully maintained the ways of the empire were no mere bluster. Even if they had made some adjustments.

As they finished, Tiberius nodded with satisfaction. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I accept your oath of service. Stand.”

The elves didn’t have time to comply. As soon as Tiberius finished speaking, their forces erupted with radiant white light as though a second sun had appeared before Quintus’s very eyes. He squeezed them shut, but managed to avoid flinching. He was beginning to become accustomed to being blinded like this. Though judging by the storm of curses that filled his ears, that sentiment was not shared universally.

A few seconds passed as everyone blinked away the stars and slowly regained their vision. When they did, Quintus saw that the elves had regained their feet and many were placing reflexively drawn weapons behind their backs once more. A sea of eyes widened in surprise beneath gleaming helmets of polished wood, scanning the air in disbelief and excitement.

“Hmmm.”

A small noise from Tiberius drew Quintus’s attention away from the sight. The man was also scanning the air before him, undoubtedly reading some sort of System notification. When he had finished, he looked out across the assembled forces.

“It appears that our timetable has been moved up.” The old soldier said quietly. Then, louder, he called across the field. “Gaius Magnus Agrippa! Step forward!”

The boy did as he was bid. He’d already been at the front of the Roman Legion’s formation along with the other officers, so he didn’t have far to travel. He hastened forward as quickly as he could manage without appearing to rush.

“Emperor.” Gaius saluted as he came to a halt.

Tiberius looked at the young officer for a long moment. Then, he began to speak—not just to him, but the whole assembled host. His voice carried across the field as it was amplified by his skills.

"I have long been the Legatus of this Legion. I have led you through many campaigns and stood with you through countless battles. Together, we have faced each and every foe in our path, and together, we have seen them fall before us like wheat before the scythe. We have stood tall and proud in the face of each and every obstacle set before us. All to bring glory and honor to Rome— in our first world, this world, and the next.”

He paused as roaring cheers welled up from the men. Spears clattered against shields in thunderous applause as every heart filled with pride. As the sound subsided, Tiberius continued.

“And as we have civilized this world around us and bent it to Rome’s will, we too have changed. We have adapted and grown, seizing every advantage to further establish our dominance. We have built off these advantages to become stronger than ever before. We have ensured that, even here, the name of the Legion sends fear into the hearts of any who would think to oppose us.”

Tiberius clasped his hands behind his back. “Throughout all of this, I have led you. I have guided you and steered your course unwaveringly, as is my responsibility. It is a duty that I have borne gladly all these years… And it is one that I must now bestow upon another.

“I must pass on this burden in order to take on a more weighty one—that of emperor.” Tiberius raised his chin. “I must accept this responsibility and stand, not just for our Legion, but for Rome itself. I must chart a course through this foreign world, not just for us, but for each and every citizen of our empire. I must dedicate myself to this task in full—and as such, I must leave the title of Legatus to another. As we together have adapted and grown, so too must I.”

Tiberius nodded to Gaius, whose eyes had gone round. “Gaius Magnus Agrippa! The position of Legatus is a heavy burden to bear. It is a responsibility and an honor offered to but a few capable men. Are you prepared to accept it?”

Gaius fell to one knee. “I am, emperor!”

“Then I will have your oath.”

Gaius repeated the sacramentum militare—the one that Quintus was familiar with, this time. As he finished, Tiberius bid him to rise and turn to the Legion. 

 “I present to you Legatus Gaius! May he lead you to victory on every battlefield. For the glory of Rome!”

“For the glory of Rome!”

The shout was echoed in every throat—even those of the elves. Three cheers of “Ha-ooh! Ha-ooh! Ha-ooh!” rose up from the gathered host and filled the air. Then, Quintus was once again blinded.

This time, the Legion wasn’t caught quite as off guard by the event, and Quintus heard far fewer curses as a result. It took another moment for his vision to return for the second time. Then Quintus found the golden text of a notification waiting for him.

[System-wide announcement: The mythical class of Emperor has been claimed by Tiberius Rufius Maro. All glory to the Emperor!]

An explosion sounded above him, then another. Quintus instinctively ducked, only to relax once he saw the source. Fireworks. Giant flashes of multicolored light that filled the sky above them to celebrate, courtesy of their mages.

The size of them was… worrying, to say the least. If directed at an actual target, Quintus wondered how much of it would have remained intact. And if this was what they could accomplish now…

“Long live the emperor!”

The Primus Pilus turned. The twin legions before them had only taken a moment longer to recover. Their shouts and cheers rose in volume until they were nearly deafening, competing with the explosions above for dominance. Beneath it all, he could just hear the sound of an ancient old mage cackling madly in the background.

B2 Chapter 70: The Emperor’s New Clothes

B2 Chapter 70: The Emperor’s New Clothes

The Legion had been busy in Hausten. That much was abundantly clear as Quintus and his men spotted the city from afar. Its walls had grown to twice the height that they had been before and bore an assortment of features that would make them quite unpleasant to breach. Tiny pinpricks of gold and red meandered across their tops as men patrolled back and forth.

Their work wasn’t done yet, however. In the distance, Quintus spotted groups of Legionnaires laboring over the packed dirt roads and transforming them into proper paved ones. It appeared to be some sort of punishment detail, based on the heavy containers of crushed rocks being hauled about and poured.

He looked at the already-completed roads they left behind. There had to be miles worth of the things already—quite impressive for a mere couple of weeks. Normally, roads took years and thousands of lives to build properly, though the investment was worthwhile for how long they endured. Quintus remembered marching on roads that must have been five hundred years old and still felt as though they were freshly constructed. But here? He expected they would be much faster to build and potentially even last longer—though that also depended on the amount of wear they would receive. But if it were just standard traffic, he wouldn’t be surprised if these very roads would still persist a thousand years from now. It was strange to think about.

The soles of the marching army’s caligae rattled thunderously against the stones as they approached Hausten. If the men on the wall hadn’t already seen them, then the noise would have warned anyone within a dozen miles of the army’s arrival. That, or of a coming thunderstorm. But that didn’t matter. There was no need to sneak up on their own city.

A contingent of other centurions hastened toward Quintus and met him as they marched. They saluted. “Primus Pilus. Welcome back. Legatus Tiberius is waiting to see you at your earliest convenience."

Quintus nodded. He understood that that meant as soon as possible, provided he didn’t risk danger to himself. “Understood. I will go to him now. I assume he’s at the center of the city?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve prepared you an escort.” A group of centurions stepped forward. “The rest of us will take care of your men and guide them toward the mustering grounds to join with their brethren. With your permission, Primus.”

He nodded in assent. With that, Quintus broke off from the column and began heading toward the city. The gate watchmen saluted their fellow Legionnaires as they entered. As they walked, he took a moment to appreciate the architecture and new constructions that surrounded them. Between the soaring arches, sturdy domes, and fluted columns, the city had quite rapidly transformed into a settlement that wouldn’t look entirely out of place back in their home country. Water bubbled through an extensive network of aqueducts that stretched into the heart of the city, likely filled by wells of some sort.

The developments weren’t just a matter of pride or of bringing civilization to these lands, however. Quintus was well aware that they also served to help the men level their skills. When they weren’t fighting or improving defenses, building better infrastructure was the next best way to grow themselves and their abilities. The benefits to the locals were just a bonus.

It took at least twenty minutes of walking to navigate through the busy streets and reach the Legion’s current headquarters. As Quintus stepped toward the door, he turned to address the Legionnaires that had accompanied him. “I will go meet the Legatus. If you have any business that you need to tend to, I suggest that you handle it now. But be prepared to move out by the end of the day. I suspect things will move quickly from here on out. Dismissed.”

The men snapped smart salutes before hurrying away with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than they should have shown. The centurion just smiled. He hoped a few of them might find a good drink and some quality entertainment.

It wasn’t long before Quintus found himself being ushered into Tiberius’s office. When he stepped inside, he found the man already standing behind his desk, looking out the window with a glass of liquor in his hand.

Quintus closed the door behind himself and saluted. “Legatus.”

Tiberius slowly turned. The older man’s stony gaze regarded him for a moment, the sunlight glinting off of a circlet of golden leaves that now encircled his head.

The centurion cracked a smile. “It seems that you’ve fully embraced the title of emperor. It suits you.”

A grunt escaped Tiberius’s lips. “It was a gift. One that came with a variety of unexpected benefits.”

“Like what?”

The Legatus gestured out the window. “It allows me to locate each Legionnaire under my command with… unnerving accuracy. It is not a tenuous link like I had previously experienced. However it wears on the mind to process the information of so many locations at once. The gods did not make us to see like they do.”

Quintus blinked. “That… is certainly quite a gift.”

“It is. The ability is taxing to use, especially over long distances. But useful. I suspect it will only prove more so as time goes on.”

Quintus shook his head. “Well, it certainly is an improvement to your wardrobe. You’ve always erred on the side of austerity.”

“You sound like a woman.” Tiberius grumbled before gesturing for him to sit. “It is a practical piece of equipment, nothing more. I treat it the same as I would a breastplate or gauntlet.”

It certainly didn’t look as practical as the protection a helmet would offer, but Quintus held his tongue. Instead, he moved on to more important matters. “If you truly will be taking on the mantle of emperor… then who will lead the Legion? Will you continue to serve as both Legatus and ruler?”

Tiberius took a long sip of his drink before setting the glass down on the table. Reaching over, he retrieved a bottle of dark liquid along with a second glass that he began to fill. Only after pushing it toward Quintus did he answer.

 “Officially, I will retain my position as Legatus. For now. Not only is that what the System continues to recognize me as, but it will also ensure that we are not shaking up the command structure just as this war reaches its peak. Afterwards, however… I will formally pass on command.”

“To Gaius?” Quintus guessed.

Tiberius smiled thinly. “You believe he is too young.”

Quintus considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “No. I trust your judgement. Even if he is young, the boy will grow into his position well enough. He’ll have to.”

Tiberius nodded. “We will all need to, if we are to grow our burgeoning empire. If we cannot, then it is only a matter of time until we are whittled down and scattered like handfuls of grain. But refrain from telling him. I have a few more tests that he must pass before I will allow him to lead the Legion.”

The centurion bowed his head in deference. “Of course, emperor.”

Ever since he’d stepped in the room, Quintus had noticed a difference in the old man. It wasn’t just his laurel crown, either. It was his demeanor.

Before, Tiberius had been a military leader. One who had declared himself emperor out of necessity more than anything, as a way to give himself and his men purpose in the uncertain circumstances they found themselves in. But now? He had truly taken that mantle and accepted it as his own. He carried himself with a regality and confidence beyond that of a soldier.

Perhaps the System would agree. After all, though [Legatus] was a powerful class, he couldn’t imagine that [Emperor] would be less.

The emperor gestured for Quintus to raise his head and refilled their glasses. “Now. Report, Primus. We have much catching up to do.”

And so Quintus spoke. He gave the man an update on Habersville, the state of the men he’d brought, as well as the training of their auxiliaries. The latter was of particular interest. The dedicated [Auxiliary] class had been unlocked by a number of other men, though it continued to be influenced by their previous classes as well. Their stat points were similarly influenced, with each level earning the men gaining whatever points they would have gotten from their old class and more. The consensus seemed to be five points earned in total—which, for men whose common and uncommon classes earned them one or two, was practically unthinkable.

Tiberius tapped his jaw. “One point less than a Legionnaire. That’s unfortunate, but still better than before. Regardless. The sooner we integrate them into the Legion, the better, in that respect.”

Quintus frowned. “Respectfully, sir, I disagree. These men need the training more than they need a single extra stat point. If we rush the process…”

 A next sigh escaped the Legatus. “I understand. I would prefer to give them more time and ensure they are properly trained as well. Better to keep the ideal of a Legionnaire intact. But we may find ourselves with little choice. Our losses have been fairly minimal as of yet, but you know the standard attrition rate on campaign.”

He nodded. Campaigns could sometimes go on for multiple years, incurring losses through battle, disease, and starvation, among other things. If the losses became too severe, a Legion might dissolve entirely. There was one rare case where he could recall a Legion persisting with only half of its men, but most would fall apart before that point.

Still, Quintus wasn’t sure. None of their battles so far had proven too deadly, though perhaps there was some amount of luck factoring in. Additionally, he had noticed that the prevalence of disease among the men had plummeted quite considerably. Between that, the ability to heal wounds that would have otherwise been debilitating, and a strange phenomenon where they seemed to require less food than before, battle truly was becoming the biggest contributor to their losses.

It made him hope that replenishing their numbers wasn’t something that required an immediate answer. But perhaps he was being too optimistic. Not to mention that he truly did not believe these men were ready yet. While most had gained experience fighting monsters now, fighting men was a different story entirely. He was acutely aware of that. And besides…

“...To become a Legionnaire, one must be a citizen.” Quintus pointed out.

“Indeed. That is another matter we need to consider.” Tiberius sipped his drink again. “As much as I would like to make each man serve his twenty-five years as an auxiliary, we certainly do not have the time. Even two years may be too long. In the future, perhaps we can re-institute that requirement, but not right now. Yet there must be some requirement to earn those rights.”

Quintus grimaced, but nodded. Two years without any reinforcements to replenish the Legion? Even his optimism wasn’t so strong as to make him believe it would work. “What do you have in mind?”

The emperor sighed and set his glass on the wooden desk with a soft clink. “We must institute another way for their loyalty and worth to be proven. I have some ideas on that front. Evidently, there does exist a class that is able to create binding contracts and the like. Perhaps our men can learn to do the same, though I hesitate to entrust such matters to the System.”

“I do believe that there should still be a requirement of time served.” The centurion put forth. “The last thing we want is for a green recruit to become shell-shocked after their first battle. A failure like that will put his brothers in unacceptable danger.”

Tiberius grunted in agreement. “True. Until we have a pool of citizens to draw from, however, such requirements will need to be low. Perhaps three months as an auxiliary with participation in one major battle.”

The suggestion made Quintus stiffen. It was low—almost insultingly so. It threatened to devalue the very premise of citizenship itself.

Tiberius seemed to read his thoughts. He met Quintus’s eyes unflinchingly. “I am not happy about it either. Truly, I would prefer to maintain as much of the old ways as possible. Yet doing so threatens to kill our new empire in its very cradle. Though we have a populace, an empire must have citizens. Ones with a vested interest in its existence. Otherwise, we shall soon find ourselves spread too thin as we struggle to maintain it ourselves.”

The two men fell silent after Tiberius had finished speaking. He had a point. Quite a good one, Quintus had to acknowledge. The new emperor was thinking beyond the battle effectiveness of the Legion and toward the future of these lands and their people. Yet that didn’t make him like it any more.

“I will bring the matter before the rest of the staff.” The emperor continued. “But I wanted to hear your thoughts first.”

“We could simply change the role of the auxiliary units in the field.” The centurion offered. “Alter their responsibilities to make them more similar to the tactics of a Legion. They will not be as strong, but they will still be of some use. And perhaps it will give them more time and experience before they will need to fill in the holes of the Legion.”

Tiberius shook his head. “My friend, you are not thinking large enough. I don’t want to just backfill Legionnaires. I want to stand up another Legion.”

Quintus’s eyebrows rose. “A second Legion?”

Tiberius chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound that was all too rare. For a moment, the man ceased to be the emperor. Sitting there and relaxing with a drink in hand, he was once again the old friend that Quintus had long known.

“The auxiliaries are not the only source of new soldiers at our disposal. It seems that our elvish friends were hiding more than just this crown amongst their trees.” Tiberius tapped his head for emphasis. “Come. Let us go to the mustering grounds and see. Perhaps these troops will inspire more confidence than the auxiliaries.”

The older man stood, donning the mantle of leadership once more. The Legatus—no, the emperor—began walking toward the door. Quintus followed right behind him.

B2 Chapter 69: Necessary Innovations

B2 Chapter 69:

Tiberius had just finished signing off on the last of the Legion's wages when a knock came at the door. He set down his pen and called out. 

“Enter.”

The door creaked open. The armored form of Gaius stepped through, the officer’s helmet tucked under one arm. He saluted. “Legatus Tiberius, sir! You wanted to see me?”

Tiberius handed the wage orders to Lucius. The man appeared at his elbow, accepting them with a nod before retreating to the corner of the room. He began muttering quietly as he interfaced with the network of Legionnaire messenger specialists to disseminate the news.

He left the man to it. Occasionally, Lucius would find reason to personally go and communicate a matter or send a physical messenger. But that need seemed lesser and lesser every day. Now more than ever, the man felt and acted like Tiberius’s own shadow.

“I did.” Tiberius returned his attention to Gaius. “It's my understanding that you and the mage have made some developments.”

“Correct, sir!” Gaius confirmed. “I wrote up a report about them. You should have received it.”

“I did.” Tiberius said simply. His eyes bored into the young man's. “But I lack the time to spend my afternoon reading a full-length epic. I called upon you to summarize."

Gaius winced. It wasn't the first time that Tiberius had needed to reprimand him for his overly-verbose writing style. "Yes, sir." The Legionnaire seemed to deflate slightly. "Apologies sir."

The Legatus motioned for Gaius to take a seat. Despite his displeasure at the thick volume the boy dared to call a "report", he had skimmed through the thing briefly. And what he'd seen certainly did look promising.

Gaius settled into the chair before his desk. "All right. I'll begin with one of the simpler, but more impactful matters—[Warpath]. The skill is better and more versatile than we thought. We already knew that it would activate when marching towards a battle, either active or intended. But with some creative interpretation, we can extend those definitions past military conflicts and skirmishes.

"For example." Gaius continued. "A simple workaround is to ensure that there is someone already fighting at our destination. But even if that's not possible, we can simply intend to enter conflict at our enemy's location. It doesn't matter if there even is an opposing party to fight. We will still get the boost. That does mean that we can't utilize the skill to gain insight into surprise attacks and feints. But it's still very useful."

"Hmmm." Tiberius drummed his fingers on the table. "There must be limitations."

"Indeed." His officer nodded. "It seems that a majority of the men in marching formation must believe there will be a battle at their destination. This is true regardless of the size of the force. So as long as we can convince the troops that there is an ongoing battle or that one will commence upon our arrival, then the skill can essentially be used to always increase our marching speed."

"So long as we are willing to mislead our men." Tiberius pointed out. "Which is not a precedent I would like to set."

"We'd only be misleading them in cases where battle is highly unlikely." Gaius countered. "But I agree. It would be best to avoid deceit wherever possible. Especially if we have some way of concocting a battle at our destination, perhaps with a smaller strike force."

"What about fighting each other? Would a sparring match count?"

Gaius shook his head sadly. "No. It has to be a battle between us and someone who could be reasonably designated as an enemy—be that a monster, an opposing force, or a criminal. If it is a criminal, however, it myst be a dangerous one. We tested it by having a pair of Legionnaires march towards an old grandmother, whom they needed to arrest for embezzlement. They did not get any boosts from [Warpath]."

Tiberius nodded. It made sense, in a way. One was not intending to go to war with every petty thief or rulebreaker on the street. Although, if the men marching toward the criminal in question intended to carry out the punishment for the crime…

"Continue looking into this." Tiberius ordered. "In the meantime, make a report—a succinct report—to be disseminated amongst the centurions. They should be informed exactly how the skill works. Unless there is an evolution or replacement that I should be aware of?"

Gaius shook his head. "No. While there are a few alternatives available to us, they are all much more specific and actually less useful in our case. Even if they might provide faster travel in some instances, the tradeoffs are too high. I will keep you informed if that changes, however."

"Good. What else?"

"Well…" Gaius grinned. "I've been working with Grand Mage Claude as you ordered, and we've made a breakthrough. It appears that the Legion's mana pool is indeed shared."

Tiberius stared at him. "You say that as though it's a big deal."

"It is, sir. A very big deal." The officer insisted. "One that has the potential to completely change the nature of our men's capabilities. We have access to an amount of mana that is borderline incomprehensible—more than even the Grand Mage himself. If we can learn how to use it effectively, then we'll have the resources to level entire cities with a single spell. And that's not even mentioning the improvements that having real mages will allow us to make to our siege engines and other enchantments."

That certainly did sound promising. Yet Tiberius had heard such grand promises amount to little more than bluster before. He would believe it when there were results to show.

"I assume the mage training is progressing well, then?"

That made the younger Legionnaire grimace. "Moderately well. It's taking longer than expected. According to the Grand Mage, most who learn the arcane arts are considered apprentices for decades before they graduate to become full mages. So by that metric, things are still advancing quite quickly. But still…"

Tiberius frowned. "How long until our men would be counted as true mages?"

"At minimum? Five years." Gaius continued quickly as Tiberius's frown deepened. "However, we have an intermediate solution. We should be able to train some half-mages in the meantime. We'll have them slot the skills required to cast spells only, skipping over the training required for [Spell Inscription]. We also rounded up any men with high-level skills that could substitute for [Chanting] in order to make up for that deficiency as well. They'll still need to train and master four skills, and they won't be taught the background required to develop spells of their own, but that should allow us to produce a capable force that is combat-effective within the month. They'll take at least a year or two to become truly remarkable, though.

"A year or two is a long time." Tiberius mused.

"It is, but it's shorter than ten. And that's to reach something close to their full potential. They'll be arguably far more valuable than a centurion, and those take three or four months to train."

The Legatus nodded. It was a fair point. If these half-mages were anywhere near as powerful as Gaius suggested, then they would be well worth the wait.

"Why will training take so long? I expected that our ability to share skills would expedite things."

The young officer nodded. "It is. It's the only reason we're able to manage so quickly. But the skills are merely the backbone of a mage's abilities. There's a lot more that the men will need to learn regarding magical theory. Not to mention they'll need to practice those skills—another area that we're struggling with, given the strange and unfamiliar magics of this world. But I've already identified some of our most promising candidates for specialized training with Claude's apprentices. If they prove themselves, I may be able to convince the mage to take them on himself."

Tiberius suppressed a chuckle. He shouldn't have expected anything less. Gaius had a way of trying to weasel his way into his mentors' good graces and extract favors wherever possible. It was a trap that Quintus had fallen into often enough—and one that Tiberius had always avoided quite intentionally.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Since these 'half-mages' will be ready for battle soon, I expect that you have a proposal for how to utilize them in combat?"

Gaius nodded. "Yes. The first option is that we could potentially treat them like auxiliaries. Not in the sense that they would be separated from the Legion formally, but in function and organization."

Tiberius pursed his lips. There were issues with that approach, but he held his tongue. He wanted to see if Gaius would raise them himself.

"...However, there are a few potential pitfalls." The young Legionnaire continued, shifting in his seat. "Should these men prove as powerful as we expect, we'll need their loyalty to be unquestionable—something that giving them a separate and distinct identity may interfere with. It could prove divisive to the whole. Additionally, they do need to remain part of the Legion to take advantage of our mana pool, so splitting them off entirely is not an option.”

Nodding in agreement with the assessment, Tiberius gestured for Gaius to continue. "The alternative I'd like to propose is to build elite squads around the mages. A contubernium or so of mostly infantrymen whose job is to protect the mage and shepherd them around the battlefield, making sure that they stay effective and unbothered while they focus on their magic. We can potentially even add on archers or engineers to make these squads more able to tackle many different tasks.

"...Which brings me to the next matter." Gaius cleared his throat. "I do not think that these squads should be the only ones. The second and ninth cohorts already have a considerable number of men dedicated to groups of skill specialists. I believe that we should expand this program considerably, perhaps add two or three more cohorts that utilize specialized skills or other experimental methods of combat. Whether they be siege specialists, mages, or simply users of different tactics. They will still be able to perform as Legionnaires. But experimentation will allow us to take advantage of our unique capabilities while still retaining our current ones.

Tiberius frowned. "That is quite the proposal."

"Yes," Gaius said. He met Tiberius's gaze head on with uncharacteristic seriousness. "It's something I've come to realize after studying this world, its skills, and its System. While our initial tactics have taken us quite far, we need to continue innovating. It is the only way we'll manage to maintain our dominance. Resting on our laurels and sticking to what we know would make us no better than these barbarians that we have conquered."

The Legatus remained silent and impassive as Gaius finished. The idea, while reasonable on its surface, had absolutely monumental implications. If they did as Gaius suggested, it would open the door to a complete overhaul of the Legion itself.

On one hand, Rome thrived on innovation, especially in their military. They didn't always change fast, but throughout history, the types of weapons used and their tactics had always evolved to face whatever enemy stood in their way. But there were some things that had remained constant even though all of it. One of them was the idea of easily trainable troops that could cover a variety of situations, whether on the battlefield or building a city.

It only took three to four months to train a new auxiliary or Legionnaire, as opposed to the decade of practice it might take to prepare an individually-skilled warrior to fight on a battlefield. The latter would be able to take any single man in combat, but as a group? A shield wall could stymie most advances, and was much simpler to learn.

"I will consider it." Tiberius finally allowed. "For each role you intend to add, I want to see a training plan with timelines and estimates of combat effectiveness."

"Of course, sir." Gaius straightened. "I'll see to it right away. Before that, though, there are a few other smaller matters I wanted to bring your attention to…"

They covered a few other topics, such as skills that might prove useful for the Legion and potential upgrades to their current ones. [Coordinated Bulwark] seemed to fill their needs best for the moment, but there were other candidates for a shield wall skill that could potentially better serve them in the future. Additionally, Gaius covered a variety of skill evolutions that the men had earned over the past week, as well as a few standouts in the fields of crafting and construction.

After finishing, Gaius had one more question of his own. "If I may ask, sir… How is Quintus doing in Habersville? I haven't had a chance to review the reports."

A small smile cracked through Tiberius's stony exterior. "He's hating every second of command. It comes through in his writing, though he tries to hide it. But his results are acceptable."

"Acceptable may not be good enough." Gaius said simply.

Tiberius nodded. "Normally I would agree. But we don't have enough candidates to be picky—or to ease him into things. It will have to be good enough."

"Are you sure you want to go through with the plan, then?"

"Yes." The Legatus confirmed. "Even if he does not consider a role like this as one that he is suited for, he recognizes his weaknesses and is clearly able to delegate accordingly. That is more valuable than him being perfect. And as I said, we lack other options. No one else is as qualified or experienced, and you are unfortunately far too young."

Gaius shrugged. He didn't seem offended at the estimation, though Tiberius couldn't be sure whether that was just an act. He would keep a close eye to ensure that the young officer wasn't dissatisfied—or the other officers, for that matter.

"Are you sure you can spare him?"

Tiberius shook his head. "Not at all. Quintus is the best Primus Pilus I've ever worked with. But I need him more elsewhere."

"There's still no guarantee that it works out the way you hope. I don't mean to doubt him. I simply want to ensure that we're making the right choice."

"I know," Tiberius sighed. "But his chances are better here than they would be back at home. There is no Senate here to mire him in politics—not yet. He will be able to focus primarily on combat effectiveness. And who do you know is a better leader of men than Quintus?"

Gaius had no answer. Instead, he just shook his head. "Well, I suppose there's no helping it. At least he'll have a bit of time. Based on what I've seen regarding the auxiliaries' training, we're still a few months away from the second Legion being ready."

"Third."

The young officer blinked. "Pardon, sir?"

"The third Legion." Tiberius corrected him again. His eyes shone with savage amusement. "The second is on their way to meet us as we speak."

B2 Chapter 68: No True Mage

B2 Chapter 68: No True Mage

Against all expectations, Marcus was still mostly sober by the time Gaius's messenger found him. But more importantly, he felt rejuvenated. A few hours of eating, drinking, and basking in the goodwill of an appreciative crowd had left him feeling as fresh as a new rose. And between the crowds he drew and the constant stream of Legionnaires rotating through, the innkeeper seemed exceedingly pleased as well.

Marcus placed his hand on a Legionnaire's shoulder as he stepped down from the stage. The man grabbed his elbow to steady him.

“Man, are you all right?” The Legionnaire asked.

“I'm fine,” Marcus replied as he shook his head. The room spun slightly. “Just enjoyed myself a touch more than I intended to."

He'd only intended to play for a little bit, but the sheer enthusiasm of his audience had kept him going far past that. Still, he didn't regret it. Although he had wished that he'd made time to stop by a class stone. Between everything that had happened lately, he hadn't checked his status in quite a while. And while he could never be certain, he suspected that he'd find himself pleasantly surprised by the results.

The messenger nodded and released him. Marcus straightened, running a hand through his stylishly-mussed hair. "So. Where are we headed?"

"To the baron's—er, the emperor's estate." The Legionnaire corrected himself. "Tribune Gaius has requested that you bring your book. He said you'd know the one."

Marcus searched his memory for an embarrassingly long moment before realizing what the man meant. The book that was responsible for the Legion's appearance in this world. The strange leatherbound tome with the letters "SPQR" emblazoned on the front. As with all of his most valuable possessions, he made a point to keep it on him at all times. Still, the spell had long since been burned out of it. Maybe there was some other reason that Gaius wanted him to bring it?

It didn't take long for them to arrive at the late baron's estate. Marcus's exhausted legs hadn't been willing to carry him far, after all. The messenger led him outside of a large sitting room where Gaius was already waiting. They nodded to each other in a brief greeting.

"The mage is already inside." Gaius informed him.

Marcus winced. "Have we kept him waiting?"

Gaius chuckled. "No. You misunderstand. He's been working in there for a few hours now. I originally intended to have him meet us elsewhere, but my men have informed me that uprooting him is impossible. So we will go to him."

Nodding to one of the Legionnaires by the door, Gaius knocked twice, then led Marcus inside.

As soon as he stepped in, he could feel the Mage's presence. It was as though an unseen weight filled the room, making the air itself dense and hard to breathe. Yet compared to the wise, stoic sage he had expected, Marcus was rather surprised to see the Grand Mage bustling about with manic energy.

He scribbled on papers that had been haphazardly strewn about the room, whirling through the air with every step as though the man were channeling a small tornado of personal notes. Various pieces of arcane equipment lay forgotten across the floor like the forgotten playthings of some mad child. Ink blotches stained the man's face and hands where he'd either failed to notice them or simply been too impatient to clean them off.

The mage continued to pace and mutter to himself, running an ink-stained hand through his pure white hair as he penned some kind of arcane calculations. Gaius cleared his throat a few times to no effect. It wasn't until he spoke that the man noticed their presence.

"Grand Mage Claude? Emperor Tiberius sent me to meet with you."

"Eh?" Claude's head finally snapped up. His look of annoyance was immediately replaced with one of childlike excitement. "Ah! Finally! I thought you'd never show up!"

Suddenly, the mage was in front of them. Marcus was rather sure that he hadn't blinked. Either his speed was ungodly or he had literally teleported rather than walk the twenty feet or so that separated them. Either way, it set Marcus's hackles on edge. Especially once he tried to [Appraise] the man and got back nothing but question marks.

Claude grabbed one of Gaius's hands in both of his, shaking it vigorously. "Good to meet you, young man. I'm told you're the Legion's expert on System-related matters. Tell me, have you investigated the range limits of your shared stamina pool? I'm designing an experiment myself, but for some reason it's difficult for me to get one of you to agree to being teleported into the mountains alone."

Gaius smiled, his expression slightly bemused as though he'd been expecting such eccentricity. "It's good to meet you as well, Grand Mage. My name is Gaius, and this is my companion, Marcus."

Claude turned to regard Marcus. His eyes seemed to dissect him at a glance. "Oh-ho! A bard! A rare type, at that. And one with [Spellcraft] as well. Not a common choice among your kind, I hear, but one I approve of.

Marcus blinked. "You… you can see my skills?"

The old man laid a finger on the side of his nose. “Whoops. Didn’t mean to let that one slip. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But you’ve got a few impressive ones there for such a youngster. I might have a few recommendations for other synergies, if you're interested—”

“Perhaps after we finish.” Gaius cut in. “First, I'd be more than happy to share my findings with you. Perhaps we should take a seat before doing so?”

Marcus had to hide his shock at the Legionnaire’s brazenness. But rather than taking offense, the mage seemed to perk up. "Oh, where are my manners? Come, come! Let us talk.”

The mage appeared on one of the low couches that sat in the center of the room. His knee bounced like that of an overactive child as he waited for Marcus and Gaius to clear the papers from the other and join him. However old this man truly was, he certainly didn't act his age. It was as though he wanted nothing more than to get up and run circles around them, such was his excitement. 

The entire situation found Marcus in a rather rare position. He was, for once, at a loss for words. Thankfully, Gaius managed to maintain his composure.

“I heard that the emperor provided you with some of my notes." The Legionnaire began. He produced a sheaf of paper from a bag at his side. "I brought some updated summaries for your review. If you have any questions, I'd be happy to answer them. But I did want to ask about your training of our mages."

"Ah, wonderful!" Claude practically lunged forward and began rifling through the papers with alarming speed. His eyes scanned each page as he continued talking. "As for the training, that's being taken care of by my more senior apprentices. They and their students are working with your men as we speak."

"Right. Well, I had a question about that." Gaius continued. "I spoke with the man about his methods, and he mentioned that not a single one of our men is fit to be called a mage. However, I have personally seen many of them conjure magical effects with their skills."

"Ah! That's a common misconception." The Grand Mage made a dismissive gesture without looking up from his reading. "Most anyone with the right skill can invoke a magical effect. Your bard friend here is one example of that. But an actual mage is something else entirely. It's more of a specialized kind of build than an actual class, really. One that focuses on expanding one's magical capabilities past what you could normally get with ten skill slots."

"Really?" Gaius raised his eyebrows. Marcus could practically see him itching for a writing implement.

Claude nodded. "There are six core skills you need to be a proper mage. [Mana Sense] allows you to tap into your mana pool, while [Mana Manipulation] lets you actually use it to fuel your spells rather than relying on stamina like every other skill does. [Spell Inscription] lets you actually write down any spells you come up with, while [Spellcraft] allows you to read them and produce an effect. Of course, if you don't want your grimoire to go up in flames every time you use a spell, you'll also need [Channeling] to force the reading to draw on your mana instead of the mana stored in the inscribed spell. And if you want to be casting with any level of consistency, then [Chanting] is also a must, though I suppose a bard like you likely has other skills that substitute for that one."

Claude rattled off the information so quickly that it left Marcus reeling. Gaius, for his part, had managed to produce a pen and paper from somewhere and was scribbling madly as Claude continued his impromptu lecture.

"Of course, some will argue that any real mage needs [Rituals] as well, but that's really only if you're trying to study and work with the fundamentals of magic. I found that it's not necessary. Or [Hand Getsures], but that's more of a crutch. The other six are crucial. Especially [Spell Inscription]. If you can’t create and write down spells, you're nothing more than a blunt weapon. The ability to create spells to counter any problem is the hallmark of a true mage."

"I see, I see." Gaius was writing feverishly. "And these six skills are non-negotiable? Are there other options for substitutions? Can they evolve?"

The two men went back and forth, matching each other with their eagerness. Marcus was more than content to sit back for this discussion. He'd known some of the skills mentioned, of course, but not how they worked together like this. Becoming a mage was never a path that he'd seriously considered. He just liked the versatility granted to him by [Spellcraft], even if he did have to buy more written spell copies when he ran out.

“So what about the other four skills?” Gaius moved on to an adjacent topic. “Do those skills not matter?”

Claude waggled his hand back and forth. “Eh. Not really. Most mages pick a spell or two that they use very frequently so it can be cast without having to use any particular tools, or when they're out of mana.”

“So a spell slotted as a skill will consume stamina instead of mana? Even if one possesses the other mage skills?”

“Correct!” Claude snapped his fingers and grinned widely. “Finally, a student that pays attention. Though I will say, the stamina to mana conversion is atrocious, it's better to use mana whenever possible. Even though the mage skills do consume stamina as well, the returns on it are considerable enough to make it worthwhile. That's another reason why none of your men are close to being called mages. Not a one of you have gotten so much as a whiff of your mana pool. So while you can use magical skills, you're doing it just like any other person would. Which means…"

"...That our mana pool is wholly untapped." Gaius finished, his expression thoughtful. "And if it's anything like our shared stamina pool…"

The Grand Mage's grin widened. "That is precisely what I'm interested in. I saw what you had done characterizing your Legion's shared stamina pool. Good work, by the way, if a little rudimentary. I have few suggestions as to follow-up experiments that we need to run. But if your mana pool operates the same way as I expect… Well, the combined mana pools of six thousand men is nothing to scoff at—especially as your level grows and your stats increase!"

The young Legionnaire tapped his pen against his paper as he considered the old man's words. "Given all of that… I would propose that we train a relatively small amount of mages. While we could theoretically make every Legionnaire a mage, doing so would essentially nullify any benefit of the shared mana pool while incurring the full cost of locking down all of their skill slots."

"Agreed." Claude nodded. "And way ahead of you. Come, come, let me show you. Your men should be working to pick up the appropriate skills as we speak…"

The Grand Mage practically leapt from his chair in his eagerness. He reached out for a moment as though to touch Marcus and Gaius both before seeming to remember himself. Instead, he actually used his legs and began bustling toward the door as they followed.

The trio headed down the hall and stepped into another sitting room. This one had been converted to a makeshift classroom of sorts, complete with makeshift desks manned by a few dozen Legionnaires. A large board at one end of the room was covered in scrawling arcane script that the men copied down. Their work was inspected by one of the other ancient men patrolling the room, who would either correct them or instruct them to begin again.

"Here." Claude gestured to the scene. "We managed to get them to pick up [Mana Sense] and [Mana Manipulation] already. The fact that only one needs to get the skill is a tremendous cheat, let me tell you. And someone already had a skill that'll substitute for [Chanting] for the moment. Now we're rotating between the last three skills until they pick them up.

"Of course, they'll need to be practiced after the fact as well. But as soon as they're all slotted, then we'll be able to finally test out that hypothesis about the mana pool. Though I suppose we can test it before [Spell Inscription] gets picked up, but, well, for the sake of completeness…"

Curious, Marcus took the time to [Appraise] these mages as well. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Most were in the fifties. Even the weakest, the only mage who still had streaks of brown in his grey-and-white hair, was nearly level forty. Most of them would likely prove a match for Irina Spellforger. And with how many there were?

This room contained enough raw power to bring nations to their knees. And that was even before one considered Grand Mage Claude himself. 

Marcus shuddered. He knew that the Grand Mage wanted to join the Legion. That alone was terrifying. If he brought his apprentices with him, and the shared mana pool matter worked as they suspected… the results would be monstrous.

The two men's attention turned away from the class. They began to speak about the Legionnaires' skills and the other peculiarities about the class, such as the feeling of dread that each one experienced when a man died. As they spoke, Marcus couldn't help but stare at the mage.

He hadn't gotten a chance to ask a single question about his identity and past exploits. But after feeling his presence and seeing the power of the men he called his "students", Marcus was fairly certain. This was exactly who he suspected. Even if he was quite different from the image painted in all those stories.

It made Marcus wonder. Had he really allied with dragons to fight off an eldritch god? Had he transformed the most powerful king in the land into a worm for offending him? How many of those stories were true, and how many were exaggerations? 

He set the question aside for now. That wasn't important. What was important was the implications of this new partnership. If things got as out of hand as he feared, then was there anything he could do to soften the blow to the rest of the world? Granted, the Legion hadn't pursued destruction for destruction's sake. They seemed more interested in building cities than razing them to the ground. But would that change? Was he still delivering on the promise he'd made with Eleonora?

"Is it possible to recreate a spell inscription that has been used?" Marcus heard Gaius ask. "I don't mean for the one who wrote it to write it again, obviously."

"It depends." Claude hedged. "Usually, no. But if you have a specialist and the spell leaves behind enough of a trace… it is possible."

Gaius looked at Marcus meaningfully. He tried to suppress a grimace. He knew what the man was asking. But did he really want to risk letting loose another Legion on this world?

Not seeing a way out, Marcus reluctantly produced the leatherbound book responsible for the Legion's appearance in this world. Claude accepted it, flicking through its pages just as quickly as Gaius's earlier report. After a moment, he began muttering to himself and produced a book of his own from thin air.

"So?" Gaius asked after a few minutes.

"Eh? Ah!" Claude snapped out of his fugue state and shook himself. "Right. I can see that there was a very powerful spell here. Very powerful indeed." His eyes locked onto Marcus. "Did you cast it?"

"Yes." He admitted. "It's… the spell that brought the Legion to this world.

Claude froze, then groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. The motion left one of the books floating in midair. "A treasure like that, and you burned it up?! You fool! The things I could have learned from that script… Why, it would have been revolutionary!"

A flare of pressure threatened to squash Marcus flat as the mage thundered. The image of an eccentric old man gave way to reveal a glimmer of the Grand Mage's true terrifying might. Marcus struggled to even breathe under the weight of his anger.

Claude sighed, deflating slightly. "Ah, well. It can't be helped. At least you didn't botch the casting. But no, I can't recreate this, sadly."

The mage and Gaius returned to their conversation, leaving Marcus to sigh with relief. He felt as though both he and the world had dodged an arrow that he hadn't even seen in flight. His attempts to get the duke on their side were one thing. But considering the potential here… it seemed as though the conflicts so far would pale compared to the disaster that was coming.

B2 Chapter 67: Quittin' Time

/// oops a few hour late, but next one should be on time

B2 Chapter 67: Quittin' Time

Tiberius watched as his second in command set a heavy bag atop his desk. The pouch clinked satisfyingly as it came to rest, the sound leaving no question as to its contents. Gold. And plenty of it.

Marcus stepped forward and set a second bag next to the first as Gaius saluted. "There are thirteen more bags like this, Legatus. Each containing two thousand gold pieces."

A pleased expression found Tiberius’s face. "Well done. Did you encounter any issues?"

The pair exchanged looks before Gaius answered. “No. The ransom went smoothly, sir. We did run into a small issue on the way, but not because of the duke. It all went better than expected to be truthful.”

Tiberius nodded and turned to the bard. “And the duke?”

Marcus waggled his hand from side to side. “That matter has yet to be determined. By my estimation, the duke appeared fairly open to cooperation and did not harbor hostility, either open or concealed, from what I was able to discern. However, he did not give a definitive answer regarding his allegiances. One may take that as a positive sign, as it does leave the door open for his defection. Yet it appears that we will need to wait and see how things develop from here.

“In my opinion, though…” The bard paused. When Tiberius didn’t stop him, he continued. “I doubt he will side with the kingdom against us. Not anytime soon, at least. Becoming an ally is another matter, but my estimation is that we will at worst be able to treat him as a neutral party in any upcoming conflicts—so long as we don't expand further into his territory, of course.”

The Legatus nodded. It wasn’t the best outcome, but it certainly was better than things could have gone. The fewer immediate enemies they made, the better. He would rather finish their current war before turning their attention to the subjugation of their neighbors.

However, there was a slight wrinkle. The barony of Wellshire was almost completely encircled by the Recliffe duchy. That meant that any further expansions would be severely limited in their directionality—and any travel to the capital city of Novara would take a rather indirect path.

"Is there a possibility that we can secure passage through his lands for our troops?"

Marcus mulled the question over for a second. "I believe that should be a possibility. Well, one way or another. I’m unsure when you plan to mobilize, but when the time comes I suspect he’ll have already made up his mind. That means he’ll either be amenable to negotiation or… not.”

“Currently, he lacks the military might to stop us.” Gaius added confidently. “That’s what our scouts observed. If he could, then he would have already forced us out of the barony. But he does have enough strength to make taking the rest of the duchy incredibly difficult. His home city is closer to a real fortress than any we’ve seen, and it certainly puts a place like this to shame."

“Do you believe that it could stand up against a siege?”

Gaius smiled before remembering himself and turning serious again. “I didn’t say that, sir. Merely an observation.”

Tiberius snorted. “And the elves? How did they perform?”

“Well, sir.” Gaius said. “The peaceful nature of the negotiations meant that there was little opportunity to see them in combat. However, their mounts were able to keep pace with our march and there were no issues between them and the Legion. Although that may have been in part because they largely kept to themselves.”

"That's not unexpected," Marcus defended the elves.  "Not when you consider their age. After all, how much would a grizzled veteran have in common with the youngest and greenest of men?"

Gaius shrugged, but Tiberius understood. Sometimes getting the veteran soldiers to accept new recruits was difficult, just as the bard said. But so long as those difficulties didn't manifest as open disrespect or an outright refusal to integrate, things would likely work themselves out. 

“As for their loyalty…” Gaius continued. “They have passed the tests I put before them with flying colors. They made no attempt to take advantage of the openings or 'weaknesses' that I presented them with during our outing. Nor did I detect even the slightest mutterings of discontent or rebellion. If they are plotting against us, they are hiding it incredibly well… and passing up opportunities for a coup in the process."

A brief flash of surprise flickered across Marcus's features, quick enough that Tiberius might have thought he imagined it. That was only to be expected. He hadn't informed the bard about their plans to test the elves and their loyalty, after all. And while this result was by no means conclusive, it did serve to build a better foundation for their proposed annexation into the Roman Empire.

"Very well. I will speak to Iladrien soon."

Gaius saluted. "I thought you might want to, sir. He's waiting outside to make his own report."

"Good." Tiberius said simply. "You have done well, Gaius."

The young officer maintained his salute, but seemed to straighten slightly with pride. "Thank you, Legatus!"

Tiberius moved the bags of gold to the side and leaned his elbows on the table. "Now. I have another task for you. While you were away, we were approached by a mage. A fairly high-level one. He has offered to assist us with regards to improving our magical capabilities and understanding of the System, on the condition that we assist him with his research."

"His research, sir?"

"Indeed." Tiberius gave a wry smile. "He wishes to research the Legion and the unique classes we have been granted. Considering your expertise on that front, I will put you in charge of interfacing with the man. Answer his questions and utilize his knowledge for our own benefit."

"Sir!" Gaius agreed enthusiastically. Marcus raised an eyebrow questioningly, but remained silent until Tiberius motioned to him.

"This mage… what is their name?" Marcus asked. "To my knowledge, the only high-level mage in this area is Irina Spellforger, though she doesn't seem to be the type who'd be willing to talk with you."

Tiberius shook his head. "No. This man goes by the name of Grand Mage Claude."

Marcus frowned, seeming to search his memory. "Grand Mage Claude? I don't believe I've heard of him… what kind of magic does he specialize in?"

"Currently he seems to specialize in weathermancy. However, it sounds as though he's dabbled in many others though. He appeared quite old."

The bard frowned in thought for a moment longer before his eyes went wide. "No… Claudius the White? The Hermit of the North?

"You know of him?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nothing for certain. He's supposed to be a myth! It must be someone else. If a man like that truly exists, much less wants to assist you…"

He looked as though he wanted to spring out of his seat and search for the old man right then. Seeing how Tiberius had essentially finished with the pair, he saw no reason to delay them.

“One more thing.” Tiberius swept his gaze across the pair. “As you interact with the man, pay attention to his disposition and character. He has expressed an interest in joining the Legion. I have yet to decide whether I should let him."

He suppressed a chuckle at Marcus's involuntary eye twitch. Gaius, for his part, simply nodded. Before sending them off, Tiberius produced a bottle of bourbon and handed it to the officer. "Take this when you meet him. And send in Iladrien when you leave. Dismissed."

With a bow and a final salute, the two younger men headed for the door. By the time they reached it, Tiberius had already set the conversation aside to prepare for his next meeting.

***

"Iladrien." Gaius called to the waiting elf in the hall. "The emperor wishes to speak with you."

The elf gave a nod as he flowed to his feet. He slipped past the pair and through the closing door just before it managed to shut completely.

Marcus shook his head at the sight. First the elves and now this mage… It seemed that the Legion was amassing quite a collection of powerful people around them. Not that they really seemed to need it.

With their meeting finished, Marcus's mind was already turning to the next most important matter before him—a well-earned rest. As curious as he was about this mage, the fact remained that his entire lower body felt like one massive lump of soreness and pain. It had taken all of his effort to avoid wobbling in front of Tiberius. Even then, he'd needed to use a minor [Glamour] when bowing.

He was considering whether a bath or a tankard of beer would be his first priority when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Gaius raised his eyebrows with a knowing smirk. "Apologies for interrupting your relaxation plans. But I'm going to set up a meeting with our new Grand Mage. Would you like to come along?”

Marcus silently cursed. He must be tired if even Gaius could read him so easily. "You're inviting me? I supposed that I would need to wheedle, bribe, and cajole my way into such a meeting.”

The Legionnaire chuckled. “Not this time. I want a second opinion about this man. Plus, a lot of my System knowledge is Legion-specific. It would help to have proper context for whatever I'm being told. Though I won't say no to a bribe if you insist."

“Hmmm.” Marcus crossed his arms. “And here I thought you people had wrung every bit of System knowledge out of me.”

“Possibly. But I suspect that you've internalized more than you realize. If nothing else, you'll likely be able to get a read on the man's intentions.”

He nodded. That certainly was true. Still, Marcus didn't overlook the amount of implied trust that Gaius was putting in him. Though he'd told the Legion much about the System, that didn't mean they'd been as open with him about the workings and specifics of their class. Much he'd surmised for himself, but this sounded as though it would delve deeper into sensitive topics that had previously been hidden to him.

“Well!” Marcus smiled. ‘I’m not going to refuse the opportunity to meet perhaps one of the most powerful people on the continent. If he truly is who I suspect, that is."

"You mentioned that. Who is this man?"

"A mage of legend." Marcus said simply. "A man so powerful that stories of his exploits are treated as myths rather than historical records. There are at least three epic ballads directly related to his deeds, albeit under slightly different names. And those are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head."

"Hmmm." Gaius considered the information, but didn't look nearly as impressed as he probably should have. "All right then. I will send a messenger for you before the meeting starts. It will likely be later this evening, since I have other matters I should see to before then. That will also give you time to clean yourself up."

Marcus sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “You need to remember to bathe, too. At least I had a chance to freshen up when we were at the duke’s estate.”

Gaius laughed over his shoulder as he turned and walked away, taking his stench with him.

Marcus rolled his neck and sighed. It was time for him to head out as well. Quickening his steps as fast as he dared, he left the baron's estate and made for the nearest inn he could find. Given how quickly the Romans worked, it was entirely possible that they'd already erected a bathhouse somewhere in Hausten. However, he had neither the patience or energy to find out. Right now, he valued expediency above all else.

Stepping inside of what appeared to be a relatively simple and cozy inn, Marcus found quite a crowd inside. At least half of the tables were full of Legionnaires, all of them with tankards of some amber brew in front of them. Most turned to look as he entered, their eyes lighting up with recognition and interest.

"Marcus!" One called, raising his drink. "Here to grace us with a song or two?"

He grinned. "Always, friend, provided you'll grace me with a drink or two in return. Ah, but you'll have to be patient. I'm afraid the road has not been the kindest mistress, and I have no desire to inflict her perfume on others."

"What does that mean?" Marcus heard one of the younger Legionnaires lean over to whisper to his fellow.

"He means he smells like shit." The other soldier replied.

"Oh. Then why didn't he say that?"

"Because performers never pass up a chance to make something sound fancier than it is."

Marcus chuckled at the exchange and swept into a bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a few moments… I'll return soon to regale you with story and song."

A chorus of cheers rose up as he made for the innkeeper. To Marcus's surprise, the man didn't seem to mind the fact that his establishment was packed full of soldiers who had only recently conquered this city. In fact, he seemed rather pleased. Taking a look around at the sheer number of drinks and meals being served, perhaps he could understand why.

The man hurried to lead him upstairs to the washroom. There, he turned a large knob set above one of the wooden tubs. Water began to pour out of a spigot and into the tub, slowly filling it.

Marcus's eyebrows shot up. A faucet like this was a marvel he hadn't seen since leaving the capital. They were prohibitively expensive works of enchantment, reserved only for nobility. "You must run quite the establishment to have a luxury like this."

The innkeeper chuckled. "While my place is better than any you'll find in Hausten, this is a rather new addition. Those Legion folks got that aqua-duck thingamajig of theirs working and hooked near everyone up to it. Pretty much everyone's living like a noble now."

The bard ran his hand under the water, only to pull it back immediately. "It's… it's hot?!"

"Yep." The man beamed. "Nice, ain't it? Between all the new business and the cost of enchantments going way down, I got it installed for a rock-bottom price. I even got a ten-year supply of fire crystals for a few dozen gold. Can you believe it?"

That caught Marcus's attention. "How did you find magical materials that cheap?"

The innkeeper shrugged. "Seems like there's been a lot more magic goods floating around all of a sudden. Word is there's some sort of special merchant in town. They're hard to get in touch with, but if you know the right people, you can get kind of whatever you need for bargain-bin prices. It’s crazy. It's like they have no idea what the stuff they're selling is worth." He shook his head. "Well, I'm not complaining. But anyway. Enjoy your bath, sir."

A moment later Marcus was left alone with the quickly-filling tub. He had a slight suspicion about who this mysterious purveyor of magical goods may be. And if he was right… Well, this meeting with Gaius might prove somehow even more interesting than he'd expected.

Putting the matter aside, he quickly shucked off his clothes and settled into the bath. Marcus groaned contentedly as he felt the days' worth of sweat, grime, and soreness slowly seep away. By the time he managed to pull himself out of the tub's blissful embrace, his clothes had been freshly laundered and folded by the door.

He pulled on his finery once more and stretched. If he had been a lower level, he would have needed a nap immediately. But as things were, he felt as though he'd be more energized by working in front of a crowd right now. Besides, it would ensure that Gaius's messenger had no trouble locating him.

Heading downstairs, he started picking out his setlist for the night. There was an impromptu stage of a couple of rectangular tables shoved together in the far corner, a chair perched atop them. The Legionnaires had all shifted their chairs and benches around so that they were in a wide arc in front of it. Marcus grinned at the sight, climbing atop it to a chorus of cheers and good-natured insults from those more familiar with him.

As he sat down, he tuned his lute, letting the tension build. Then, just before the anticipation turned to impatience, he began.

It’s twilight now in the Embered Flask,

The torches are flickering low,

There’s a soldier whose face has forgotten its youth,

Sippin’ a wine that he barely knows.

He says, "Son, can you sing me a marching song?

Though I don't recall its tune,

But it's strong, and it's loud, and it made us all proud,

And I'll likely be living it soon…"

B2 Chapter 66: Armed and Dangerous

B2 Chapter 66: Armed and Dangerous

Quintus darted around the practice yard, his feet a blur across the hard-packed dirt below. His body pivoted and twisted with the fluidity of a dancer as his twin blades lashed out at the ring of practice dummies arrayed in a circle around him. Each strike sliced through their thick wooden bodies as though they were made of paper.

His bout in the colosseum had made the importance of skill training more clear than ever. As such, Quintus had spent every day since waking up even earlier than before for training. He’d allowed himself to slack off on it because of all his other duties, even though evolving new skills was among the most important things he could do for the Legion. Not the most important, of course. But if the Primus Pilus wasn’t doing his part in that area, then how could he expect his men to do the same?

Pivoting on one foot, Quintus activated both [Rend] and [Tear] at the same time. His slashes seemed to accelerate mid-swing, cutting deeper into the wood than his blades were long. A ripping sound tore through the air as the wind behind the blow shredded the wood around the gouges into splinters.

Evolving skills seemed to come only if he pushed himself and showed true mastery of them. But considering that he had yet to evolve a skill from Rare to Epic, he suspected that showing mastery wasn’t going to be enough. That was why he was experimenting with using them in different ways however he could. Using two swords at the same time to evolve [Swordsmastery] was his latest idea.

It wasn’t a particularly Roman style, nor was it one that he expected to use often outside of a colosseum bout. But it may help him perform even better the next time he stepped into the arena. Next time, he wouldn’t settle for a measly 87th place. He would come in prepared and crush his previous record.

After a few more rounds of practicing his footwork and combos both, he took a seat on a nearby stump to rest. It was at that very moment that he saw a messenger emerge from the nearby town and begin making a beeline towards him.

Quintus suppressed a groan. It was almost as though he’d been waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting centurion and drag him back into the bureaucracy that filled his days lately. Still, he’d gotten enough practice in that morning that he supposed he’d have to be satisfied.

“Primus Pilus, sir!” The messenger called as he drew near. “Urgent orders from Hausten, sir.”

Quintus rose to his feet as the man skidded to a stop before him and saluted. He accepted the envelope and cracked the wax seal with his gladius. As he read, he couldn’t keep a smile of relief from creeping onto his features. Finally. After what had felt like an eternity, the orders he’d been waiting for were finally here. He was leaving.

He looked up at the waiting messenger. “Gather the senior centurions,” he ordered. “We’ll be mobilizing soon.”

“Sir!”

The messenger sped off to do as he’d been ordered. Quintus followed not long after him. He had his own preparations to make if they were to move out. His orders had indicated that they’d be leaving one cohort behind to oversee the auxiliaries and construction, as well as maintain order in Habersville. But everyone else was to march to Hausten for a general muster of the Legion.

Walking quickly through the town, Quintus made his way toward old Habersville. If Tiberius was preparing for a campaign, this would probably be the last time he’d be here for a while. And that meant he had to tie up some loose ends while he had the chance.

The clanging of hammer against steel confirmed he was in the right place well before the building itself came into view. The two-story blacksmith’s shop no longer towered over its neighbors along the street due to all of the renovations. Yet it had clearly seen upgrades of its own. Fine columns of stone sat at the corners of its brick walls and rendered the place far more fireproof than it had been before. Black smoke poured out of a tall chimney at its top, while a small pipe diverted water from a nearby aqueduct to the house specifically.

The quality of the work was a step above any other building in the area. Between that and the colorful murals that decorated most surfaces, it was clear that the man was well-liked by the Legionnaires he worked with.

Quintus knocked on the door before entering, though he wasn’t certain whether the sound could even be heard above the din. Inside, a burly mountain of a man stooped over his anvil with hammer in hand. Blow after blow rained down on a sheet of flat metal whose purpose he couldn’t divine. Nearby, two Legionnaires wearing blacksmith’s aprons busied themselves with tending to the forge and polishing a piece of armor.

At his entry, Gareth straightened. The blacksmith wiped sweat and grime from his brow before nodding. “Ah. There you are, lad. I was expecting you.”

“Master blacksmith.” Quintus addressed the man respectfully. While the blacksmith wasn’t smiling, he certainly didn’t look as dour as he had the first time Quintus had seen the man. From the reports he’d seen, the man had proven quite satisfied with the diligence of the Legionnaires who learned under him. And while he’d finished the lessons he’d promised for the Legion as a whole, it hadn’t stopped him from taking a rotation of their most promising smiths into his shop to learn further—and subsequently teach their brothers.

“I’ve come to check up on those items I commissioned. Are they ready?”

Gareth snorted. “‘Are they ready’, he asks. ‘Course they’re ready. They were ready three days ago. I thought you’d forgotten about ‘em.”

Quintus couldn’t help but chuckle. The blacksmith had originally informed him that his order wouldn’t be ready until yesterday. “That was faster than anticipated.”

“Yeah, well, things went pretty fast once I got these two sluggards off their asses.” He jerked a thumb to the pair of Legionnaires behind him. Despite the words, Quintus could tell that the man was making a friendly jab rather than a legitimate complaint about the men’s work ethic. “Though I did need to overhaul things more than expected. The materials were good, but the craftsmanship… I practically had to melt some pieces down and start over.”

As he spoke, Gareth moved about his shop and began taking down pieces of armor. A banded chestplate of gleaming silvery metal came first, then a pair of matching armguards and greaves. The helmet came last, its design more similar to the Novaran style except for the red plume that had been added down its center. Each piece appeared simple at first glance, but a closer inspection revealed an astonishing level of artistry that went into the streamlined and practical presentation of the pieces.

It was scarcely recognizable as the man had warned, yet Quintus knew. These had been forged from the plate of Baron von Latimore himself. The man’s bulky and ornamented suit of armor would have been all but useless to Quintus, so he’d asked the master blacksmith to convert it into something more along the lines of his own. And the man had delivered.

Quintus smiled, appreciating the armor. This was something he could use. And despite hailing from Novara, Gareth had managed to create something that felt truly Roman.

“Just need to size it.” The blacksmith grunted. He gestured at Quintus. “Go on, strip.”

The centurion nodded and shucked off his current armor without question. Gareth moved with the help of the other Legionnaire apprentices and slid the armor onto him piece by piece. Quintus had worn banded armor of this style before and knew to be wary of it chafing. Yet the blacksmith had managed to include padding such that the armor felt actually comfortable. It was as though he were wearing a second skin instead of a complex rig of interweaved metal.

Once everything was all strapped up and the leather had been cut to size, Quintus tested the mobility of the armor. It hardly made a sound as the pieces glided across each other smoothly.

He was still admiring the work as Gareth pulled out his hammer. Flipping it in his hand so that he held onto the metal head, he nodded toward Quintus. “Good. Now stand still.”

Quintus eyed the hammer suspiciously, but did as he was told. The blacksmith reared back and swung the wooden shaft toward Quintus’s protected arm. The centurion prevented himself from dodging the blow, simply bracing instead.

The hammer haft bounced off with a hollow sound. He felt the force behind the blow, but it didn’t seem to transfer to his arm as completely as it should have. It merely stung rather than breaking the bone beneath.

Gareth nodded in approval. “Good. Seems like it’s working.”

Quintus gave the man a look. “Was that really necessary?”

He crossed his hairy arms. “If you wanna test your protection enchantments in live combat, be my guest.”

“What, do you lack confidence in your work?”

“There’s confidence then there’s foolishness. And I’m no fool, lad. I don’t take you for one, either. Now let me test the legs.”

After being assaulted a few more times by the gruff blacksmith with similar results, he appeared satisfied enough. Striding over to the counter, Gareth bent down to retrieve a handful of other items—common ones like pots and pans and flasks, albeit made with the same quality as the armor.

“And here's the other trinkets you wanted.”

Quintus thanked the man and paid for everything. Gareth’s work was by no means cheap, and it stung to feel the lightness in his pouch after shelling out so much gold. But it was worth it. 

After leaving the blacksmith behind, Quintus headed back to headquarters to meet with his centurions. On the way, he inspected his collection of goods. They were meant as rewards for the engineers and their efforts to improve the Legion’s siege weaponry. He’d been uncertain how much progress the men would make, but after seeing the results? He was more than satisfied.

Most of the new designs had more or less abandoned the idea of hurling stones. Instead, their innovations had focused on firing bolts and spikes of metal at speeds that Quintus could hardly even track. The majority utilized a combination of physics and skills to propel their payloads, though several incorporated some rather unique enchantments as well. One ballista-looking contraption glowed blue and could fire a slug of lead so hard that it could pierce through nearly three paces worth of granite.

Such power did come with drawbacks, of course. The downside was that the weapon took nearly half an hour to charge. But when one was talking about a potentially multi-day siege, half an hour was nothing.

There were also weapons that had iterated on the other end of the spectrum as well, prioritizing number of projectiles and firing rate over a single display of raw power. Some had taken inspiration from those repeating ballistae that were being developed and could fire wooden spears several times a second. Those had hit a bit of a snag with their projectiles beginning to splinter in flight, but there were even plans to use a similar mechanism for lead projectiles to compensate. Only if they found an appropriately rich source of the metal though. Otherwise, the cost would be prohibitive, even for just testing.

All in all, Quintus was quite pleased with the new capabilities of their army. He planned to bring some of the winning engines on their march to Hausten to show Tiberius. But before that, he’d need to reward the men.

He looked over the items again. Most of them were simple things, though lightweight and well-crafted enough to become family heirlooms. Others he’d requested minor enchantments for. Evidently, the parts of Stonester’s mines that had been previously inaccessible due to ghouls housed quite an impressive amount of ores that were useful for such things.

Quintus read over the descriptions Gareth had attached to each. There was a cookpot that would salt whatever was cooked inside of it, a shovel that would dig through stone as though it were mere sand, and a cooking skewer that would multiply itself as needed—to a point.

All of those were plenty useful. But Quintus had his eye on the grand prize.

A simple, innocuous-looking flask sat in his hand. It was small, not even a third of the size of the waterskins the men carried. But then, it didn’t need to be large. Not if it did what Gareth claimed.

Quintus read over the description again.

“Flask of the Drunkard. Creates more of any liquid put inside the flask at a relatively fast rate. Effect ends if the flask is emptied completely.”

The Primus Pilus smiled. He suspected that the winning Legionnaires would be quite pleased with their prize. And judging based of the name, the blacksmith knew exactly what the men would be using it for.

Stowing his haul away for now, Quintus continued on toward headquarters. His centurions were sure to be assembled by now. And while he did want to get these rewards handed out sooner rather than later, he had his priorities. The Legion would march by this afternoon.

He quickened his pace, the bright red plume of his helm seeming to almost glow in the morning sunlight.

B2 Chapter 65: War is Coming

B2 Chapter 65: War is Coming

After what felt like an hours-long interrogation consisting of far too many follow-up questions, Grand Mage Claude finally disappeared from the former baron’s study as though he’d never even been in the first place. The sudden departure made Tiberius wonder whether he’d reappear just as suddenly with one last question or matter to discuss, heedless of the mounting pile of work the man was making for the Emperor. But after a couple of minutes passed without incident, he allowed himself to believe that the ancient man was well and truly gone. For now.

Finally alone, Tiberius pinched the bridge of his nose. The encounter had left him with a mild headache. He considered pouring himself a glass of the rather fine spirits they had liberated from the baron’s manor when they had taken the city, but decided against it for the moment. Perhaps after he’d gotten a bit more work done.

The mage’s appearance was a… complication. One that he couldn’t afford to ignore, one way or another. Luckily, it seemed to be working out in their favor quite well. Having a man capable of leveling continents simply show up on his doorstep, ready and willing to make a deal, made him wonder if the gods had decided to play some kind of strange joke on him.

Of course, actually getting the mage’s direct help with said destruction seemed to be off the table for now. But the other services he was offering were valuable enough on their own. Still, the knowledge of what the man could do made Tiberius feel as though he were trying to seize a sleeping snake by the tail. There was no telling when it would turn and decide to strike back at him.

One thing was certain, though. Between their new alliance with the mages, the elves wishing to join their empire, and the smooth integration of Hausten, Tiberius knew it was time to press further. It was time to consolidate their forces, move forward, and maintain their momentum to continue conquering.

He drummed his fingers against the desk impatiently. It had been over a week since they had taken Hausten, long enough that they had managed to settle the populace and address most of the immediate concerns. They’d even made considerable progress on the renovations.

Yet their work was nowhere near done. It would take years before the city integrated fully into the empire and began to resemble something truly Roman. Cultures and attitudes were not so easily altered as brick and mortar. No, that would be a long, ongoing process, one to which he could not devote any more of his own time.

That wasn’t to say that he’d simply drop the matter though. He’d set his men up for success in that regard. Systems and laws had been established, rulers and leaders selected, and a century of men assigned to garrison the place. It wouldn’t be enough to entirely suppress rebellion if a full-scale one were to break out, but it didn’t need to. The speed with which they could travel would ensure that more reinforcements were never far away. Everything was in the hands of men he trusted—both with regards to their loyalty and their competence.

Tiberius’s fingers ceased their drumming. As loath as he was to admit, he did feel more than a little antsy to return to the battlefield once again. It hadn’t even been that long since their last victory. Yet there was a tactical reason to  make haste. The faster they moved, the less time their enemies would have to prepare and rally defenses against them.

Not that it had made a difference so far. But Tiberius had no desire to be like those young hotheaded generals who thought themselves untouchable.

His gaze drifted toward the study’s massive window and the city beyond. Already its profile was practically unrecognizable, the soaring arches and new constructions quickly subsuming their predecessors like a creeping tide reclaimed the land. Or perhaps flames consuming dead twigs would be a more accurate comparison, with the speed at which things were going.

He leaned back in the fine plush seat of this place’s former ruler. Their next major challenge would be recruitment. As their empire expanded, so too would their need for soldiers—both for war and for overseeing those territories which they had already conquered. They already had several hundred auxiliaries in Habersville, which wasn’t nearly enough. Worse, it seemed that Hausten had a notable dearth of fighting-age men in its population.

The shortcoming certainly explained the lackluster resistance of the city’s forces. It seemed that the “army” that his Legion had so easily routed and captured really were the best they could manage. Which meant that he, too, would need to find ways to make use of them.

He’d have liked to have one or two thousand candidates, enough for another two whole auxiliary cohorts. But he might be lucky to get a few hundred. Perhaps the magic of the System could work in his favor to expand their usual recruitment prospects. Or perhaps he could offer incentives to bring others into the fold more willingly—the freeing of captured family members in exchange for service, perhaps. It was an idea worth considering.

As things were, training had already begun for those men that they had managed to recruit by whatever means. But though they had instilled a fair amount of discipline already, they still had a long way to go.

Tiberius sat up straighter and reached for his paper and pen. Waiting for a new round of auxiliaries to be trained would be foolish. They’d been lucky to more or less evade too much attention thus far. But if their seizure of Hausten and its associated barony hadn’t already drawn the eyes of more powerful factions within Novara and beyond, then it would soon. He needed his forces gathered and ready to move at their full strength, increasing as it was.

He quickly began to scratch out a series of orders. He’d need the forces that they had in Habersville reshuffled here. Quintus as well. The formerly quaint town was not the most strategically important place for them at the moment and likely wouldn’t be until they began making more dealings with the elves. Though perhaps it would make a good place to train new recruits.

He’d also need to bring over as many men from Stonester as they could spare, though he’d have to leave a larger force there. Recent reports indicated that their “experience farming” operations there were yielding great results. And considering how many benefits each level earned them, it would be worthwhile to prioritize that. Anything to bring them up to level five sooner.

Tiberius also had to consider the outcome of Gaius and Marcus's mission. Depending on how negotiations with the duke went, they may soon have another enemy, possibly an ally, or maybe even a neutral party at their borders. He had to be prepared for all options. Scouts were already keeping a close watch on the duke’s forces, few though they were. Practically every man beyond his own garrison seemed to be off fighting this distant war Tiberius had heard so much about.

With a final stroke of the pen, the Legatus finished the last of his orders. Looking up toward the door, he called out. 

“Lucius.”

The door creaked open to admit his aide. He’d been waiting outside with the others while he spoke with the mage. “Sir?”

Tiberius held up the orders. “Have these sent out to Stonester and Habersville.”

“Yes, Legatus.”

Lucius stepped quickly to his side, taking the folded pieces of paper and rushing off with them. Tiberius put both them and the matter of reshuffling troops out of his mind. He quickly drafted another proposal to pivot Habersville toward a training area. Despite all of their hunting, the forest still housed plenty of low-level monsters. And while they weren’t nearly enough to satisfy the Legion’s titanic thirst for experience, perhaps they could be leveraged in other ways. Not to mention the plains and how useful they’d be for training exercises.

After putting down a few more ideas for his staff to investigate, Tiberius eventually stood up. He crossed the hardwood floors toward the liquor cabinet and poured himself a finger of the dark brown whiskey found inside. The finest one he’d yet to find in this world.

Taking a sip, he looked out towards the west, where the capital of the kingdom lay. His status still told him that the Roman Empire and Novara were at war. Of course, even back home Rome was almost constantly at war. But the fact that he was at the helm of it all made things feel… different.

Maybe it was the weight of responsibility. Maybe it was the knowledge that he himself could end the conflict at any time. Or maybe it was simply one of his skills niggling at the back of his mind. Whatever it was, one thing was clear above all others. This war of theirs would not remain a distant concern for much longer. Ready or not, it would soon find itself at their doorstep. And Tiberius intended to be ready.

He tapped the glass gently against the table. The fine crystal rang pleasantly, the sound filling the room around him. Soon, the Legion would march again—to victory. Their greatest one yet.

B2 Chapter 64: Skill Issue

B2 Chapter 64: Skill Issue

After having relieved themselves of the baroness and her daughter, the Legionnaires made much better time on their return march. Marcus was honestly a little astonished to see how much the pair had been holding them back in terms of speed. Even the weight of all the gold they were bringing back wasn’t nearly enough to slow the Roman soldiers. The only issue was, now that they were gone, there was a new weakest link—him.

Of course, he did his best not to hold the men back too much. Yet there was only so much he could do. He had opted to pass on purchasing a new horse out of fear that they’d draw the attention of their local dragon once again. Perhaps he could have obscured it from sight or disguised it with [Glamour], but there was no guarantee that such a tactic would even work against a high-level magical creature like that. For all he know, it simply smelled every horse within a hundred mile radius.

Instead, he found himself exercising another one of his skills—one that was quickly becoming a centerpiece of his repertoire, much to his chagrin… [Running].

Marcus’s legs pumped in a steady cadence as he kept his breaths even. He’d long since shucked off both his cloak and his shirt to run bare-chested, the early afternoon sun causing his sweat-soaked skin to shine. He imagined that he would have looked quite a bit like the protagonist from a particularly steamy romance story if he were just a touch more muscular. And less obviously exhausted.

Every once in a while, when he became tired to the point of falling behind, the Legion took pity on him and stopped for a brief rest. One that he was certain they didn’t need, but he appreciated nonetheless. He’d asked the elves if he could possibly ride atop one of their mounts instead so that they could make better time. However, their staglike steeds were evidently quite picky about who they allowed to ride them. So much so that even other elves were unable to so easily swap between the steeds in most cases.

And being carried by the Legion was simply out of the question. Even if the men could do it, he would never live down the embarrassment. Better to struggle along for a day or two than endure a lifetime of jokes at his own expense.

It was because of this that Marcus was able to make a rather strange observation. As his steps slapped along the ground behind the Legion, he noticed that the ground felt… different. Firmer. More solid and easy to run on. Looking down, it also appeared significantly more worn than it should as well.

Perhaps it should not have come as a surprise. After all, the passage of this many men was sure to leave some sort of mark on the land itself. Yet this felt like more than the simple wearing of a new trail or the effects of many footfalls compressing the earth. In fact, if Marcus didn’t know any better, he would have said that their passing seemed to leave something akin to an actual road in their wake.

After noticing the strange phenomenon, Marcus made it a point to ask about it at their next rest stop. None of the rank and file Legionnaires seemed to notice or particularly care, looking forward as they were to the end of their march. But Gaius did take quite a bit of interest.

“Hmmm.” The young officer scratched his chin. It had begun to sprout the barest bit of wispy stubble as of late, and though he’d made sure to shave it immediately, Marcus still caught the man stroking the spots where it had been quite regularly. “I’m not surprised.”

“You’re not?” Marcus asked incredulously. “Because I certainly am. What manner of skill do you have that does something like that?.”

Gaius shrugged. “It’s one of the Legion’s duties to care for and maintain the roads on which we march—or, should it be required, build those roads ourselves. Considering how the skills in this world seem to refine themselves according to our intent, I’d suspect this is another consequence of that. Perhaps our practice and subsequent mastery of marching is causing the skills related to it to grow in a new direction. That’s how we evolved [Marching] into [Warpath] in the first place, after all.”

The bard blinked. “That’s… you can do that?”

“Of course. You didn’t know?”

Marcus shook his head. He’d long known about the importance of leveling skills rather than just oneself. He was a major proponent of just that. But this was a level beyond.

He sought to level skills in order to improve their power and efficiency. Rarely, doing that enough would even reward him with an even more specialized evolution. Yet they were always either a strict improvement over or a more narrowly-focused version of the original skill. That was his understanding. 

Gaius shook his head. “It astonishes me how little this world’s own people understand its workings.” He gestured toward his men. “When we use skills, we use them to supplement an action we are already performing. They are ways to improve the efficiency of something we were already doing. In other words, we would still be more than capable of performing the base action without the skill… to an extent.

“But from what I’ve seen, this is uncommon.” Gaius continued. “The people of this world let the skill do the heavy lifting and guide your movements as though you are merely a puppet for the System. How, then, do you expect to master anything? Why would you expect to be rewarded?”

Marcus frowned. The Legionnaire’s words certainly made sense. His explanation of how people usually used skills also rang true, though it stung a little to admit as much. But could it really be that easy?

“If what you say is true, then how are you possibly the first to figure it out?” Marcus asked with obvious skepticism. “I don’t mean to contend with your results, as you are obviously doing something right. But think about it. There are thousands of years of research that people have put into understanding the System. Research done by powerful mages and warriors and scholars alike, all seeking the best ways to improve their skills and their power. Surely they would have stumbled upon this somehow?”

Gaius snorted. “If such powerful beings exist, then I would like to see them. So far, all we’ve encountered are weak buffoons.”

“I don’t think you do. Most of them are either occupied with the war or reclusive by nature, more prone to train and seek out stronger opponents and increase their own power than to take up residence in a town or city. Though I did have the privilege of seeing one of Novara’s strongest warriors in a tournament once. The aura that man put off… “ Marcus shuddered at the memory. “I got the sense that he could have slain everyone in that city without breaking a sweat.”

“I honestly doubt we are the first to learn such,” The Legionnaire seemed unimpressed. “Do you think that these ‘powerful beings’ would have any inclination to share what they had learned? Either with each other or with the populace at large?”

Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it again with a grimace. Surely something this fundamental would be widely known? However the man’s reasoning was hard to argue with. The details of what a given class or skill did were closely guarded secrets for all but the most common ones. Even master craftsmen and artists remained quite cagey about their secrets, passing down information about their skill selections and what had to be done to unlock them to only their most promising apprentices. Given that, the idea that anyone would freely share such valuable information as this…

“...Then, why are you sharing it with me?” Marcus asked. “Surely it’s not simply due to our deep bond of brotherhood.”

Gaius chuckled and shook his head. “No. It is not. Where I come from, we have a different perspective on the sharing of information. You see, Rome has assimilated quite a number of cultures into its own throughout history—yours included. We specialize in taking that which is worth keeping and discarding that which is not. And so, if we discover a piece of technology or an improvement in the way things are done, we tend to use it.”

“Is that not normal?”

“Not as much as you’d think.” Gaius sighed. “My studies included quite a bit of history, both of our civilization and those of barbarians. Better to learn from the mistakes of those who we conquered, so as not to repeat them ourselves.

“Anyway, many of these civilizations would develop something grand and incredible with the potential to make great changes—in war, in daily life, in construction, what have you. And yet they wouldn’t use it. They’d keep it secret and buried simply to avoid their enemies learning how to do the same thing and using it against them. Enemies who were sometimes doing the same thing.” He shook his head. “Two cultures, both hiding the same idea from each other, neither benefiting from it… It was a foolish waste in more ways than one.”

Marcus blinked. That sounded like the backbone to quite a strong cautionary tale. He filed it away for later. “I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

“I’m not surprised. Secrecy is the name of the game, after all. And who would admit to such a thing in the aftermath? It would make them seem like an even bigger fool.” The young officer leaned back, looking up at the sky. “Of course, much of this is conjecture for those same reasons. But it makes sense. It is why we tend to promote the sharing of information. Better to create further innovations as well.”

As the Legionnaire finished his explanation, Marcus fell silent. Then, he shook his head. “Your home sounds like quite the strange place. I already suspected as much from observing and interacting with you all, but the more I hear about it… 

Gaius chuckled, his gaze still tracing the drifting clouds. “I would imagine it seems that way. But those differences are what allow us to view your world’s System with such a different and superior perspective. At least, that’s what I believe. And given what we’ve managed, I don’t believe I’ve been proven wrong.”

The pair fell silent, listening to the dull buzz of activity that filled the air around them. Given the brief nature of this rest, they hadn’t gone through the trouble of setting up an entire camp. Yet there were more than a few cookfires and stools that had made their way out of packs and onto the dry grasses that sprawled out in every direction.

“Your upbringing must have been far removed from my own.” The bard remarked. “The only history I learned as a child was from the soldiers, drunkards, and sellswords that haunted the seedy bar near my home. It wasn’t until I was studying the classics much later did I get a good picture of our history.”

Gaius gave him a sidelong look. “Really? With the ‘royal’ moniker in your class, I expected that you would have been born to a higher station than that.”

Marcus chuckled darkly. “An assumption made by many. But an erroneous one, I assure you.”

He didn’t elaborate further. His past was not a topic that he particularly liked to delve into. But he did feel a strange kind of kinship with Gaius. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to build closer bonds with the Legion’s second in command. That was surely reason enough.

Gaius didn’t press the matter. Instead, he answered Marcus’s implied question. “My upbringing was quite a fortunate one, to be sure. My father is a friend and peer of Tiberius’s. Or rather, was.” His expression faltered. “He passed not too long before we set out on our final campaign.”

“Ah.” Marcus said simply. “I’m sorry.”

Gaius waved the condolences away. “He was a good man. He provided well for his family. I grew up with the finest tutors one could ask for and many of the luxuries besides. Although…” The Legionnaire gave a small laugh. “He didn’t allow me to go soft. Not in the slightest. Tiberius saw to that.”

“Tiberius did?”

The young officer nodded. “He taught me much of what I know about war. Neither he nor my father would have me being a Legionnaire in name only, after all. He even convinced Quintus himself to become my sword instructor and trainer from a young age. Though that did backfire on them somewhat. My uncle developed a bit of a soft spot for me.”

A faint smile came to his lips at that. The pair sat for a long moment, each reminiscing over a past long gone. Eventually, Gaius stood. “Well. I believe it’s time to get moving again. Are you ready?”

Marcus heaved himself to his feet and stretched. “I think I can manage.”

With a final nod, the officer began shouting orders to form up and make ready to march. Marcus mentally prepared himself. It wouldn’t be much longer until they reached Hausten. Then, he didn’t care if the king himself descended on the city with his entire army. He’d put his feet up and take a nice long rest.

B2 Chapter 63: An Evolving Skillset

B2 Chapter 63: An Evolving Skillset

[Congratulations! You have placed 87th on the time trial leaderboard for solo challenges under level 5. Please see a class stone for additional details.]

Quintus frowned. The message made no sense. He was the first one to have attempted a solo challenge in this arena. How were there eighty-six others ahead of him?

He waved the text away as the sound of hurried footsteps padded across the sand. He turned in time to see the female [Healer] that they’d recruited running toward him, a group of medically-trained Legionnaires and the arena runners easily keeping pace with her. Eleonora was her name, if he remembered right.

Quintus slumped to the ground and sat as he waited for them to arrive. The Legionnaires came to a halt before him, immediately kneeling as they got to work.

“All right.” The [Healer] girl wasn’t even breathing heavily. Evidently, her time with the Legion had earned her enough levels to improve her conditioning somewhat. “Now. Practice [Heal] on the wound until it’s not getting better, then we can resort to [Surgery]. Remember, focus on feelings of warmth and mending as you activate the skill. Picture everything stitching back together on its own…”

The men’s hands glowed as they sent healing energy into Quintus’s leg. Sure enough, it began to mend as though its natural healing had been sped up tenfold. Yet even then the process was still slower than when Eleonora herself did it. It seemed that this kind of magic was still one of those areas where the Legion struggled. A shortcoming remedied almost entirely once the surgeons took over.

“Thank you.” He nodded as the men wrapped bandages around his leg. He flexed it slightly. Already it was in a far better state of repair than he would have possibly imagined. He tried to pull himself to his feet, finding that it could even support his weight once more. The medics around him didn’t protest, so he figured it was all right.

“Thank you, Primus.” One of the centurions in charge of the arena saluted. “Not only did you provide us some useful data, but you also gave the men quite the show! Your fight was magnificent.”

Quintus chuckled. “Good. I quite enjoyed myself as well.” He thought for a moment about the message that had appeared before him. “The System informed me that I have earned a spot on a leaderboard of some kind. One for solo combatants. Do you know anything about that?”

The centurion’s eyes widened. “A leaderboard, sir? That’s the first I’ve heard of anything like that…. May I ask where you placed, sir?”

“Eighty-seventh.”

The man nodded. “I see. That is… strange, to say the least. I can vouch for the fact that you’re the first solo combatant to have entered this arena. But perhaps there is more to this story than we suspected. If you learn more about this phenomenon, I would greatly appreciate if you would speak with us about it. Perhaps a class stone will provide more details.”

Quintus had no problem with that. It would be a valuable addition to their knowledge base, after all. Plus it gave him yet another excuse to visit a class stone. He’d already planned on doing so, since he suspected that his efforts may have earned him some sort of rewards. But this just made it even easier to justify.

After getting the ok from the medics and a round of hearty congratulations from the onlookers, Quintus managed to extricate himself from the arena and head toward the town square. The rough-cut monolith of the class stone loomed before him, its surface glimmering in the sunlight. An occasional ripple of gold shimmered down its length as the line of Legionnaires arrayed before it took turns checking their stats and adjusting their skills.

Quintus stepped in line, content to wait like the rest of the men. Yet as soon as the first noticed him, he began to move aside respectfully. “Go right ahead, Primus. I can wait.”

The others in line looked over, their eyebrows rising as they recognized the first centurion. They, too, moved aside, ushering him to the front of the line. His attempts to object went unheeded.

Shaking his head, Quintus thanked the men and obliged. He set his palm against the class stone and allowed its golden motes of light to flow up his arm. In moments, a wall of golden text appeared before him.

Information:

Name: Quintus

Age: 43 (XLIII)

Class: Legionnaire – Primus Pilus (Legendary)

Level: 4 (IV)

Experience: 29,763 / 2,400,000 (X̅X̅I̅X̅DCCLXIII/ MMC̅D̅)

Stats:

Strength: 22 (XXII)

Dexterity: 18 (XVIII)

Constitution: 17 (XVII)

Charisma: 15 (XV)

Wisdom: 13 (XIII)

Intelligence: 13 (XIII)

Free Points: 0 (0)

Titles:

Born to Fight

Bonds of Brotherhood

Bane of Cats (III)

Bane of Spiders (II)

Bane of Ghouls (IV)

Boss Slayer (I)

Craftsman (III)

Blood on Your Hands (II)

Titanslayer

Warforged (I)

Crowd Favorite

Arena Champion (I)

Skills:

[Swordsmastery] (Rare) - Lvl 13 (Individual)

[Voice of Command] (Uncommon) - Lvl 32 (Individual)

[Heavy Blow] (Uncommon) - Lvl 29 (Individual)

[Battlefield Intuition] (Uncommon) - Lvl 37 (Individual)

[Sure Footing] (Common) - Lvl 121 (Individual)

[Warpath] (Uncommon) - Lvl 48 (Legion)

[Coordinated Bulwark] (Uncommon) - Lvl 45 (Legion)

[Unity] (Rare) - Lvl 8 (Cohort)

[Stab] (Common) - Lvl 152 (Century)

[Group Tactics] (Uncommon) - Lvl 74 (Contubernium)

He suppressed a smile of satisfaction at the results. It seemed that the plateau regarding his skill levels was no more. All of the ones he’d used had grown at least a little since his last check a few days ago.

Before doing anything else, he focused on the new titles he’d gained.

[Crowd Favorite: For the purpose of entertaining others, win a life or death battle in the arena with more than 100 members in the audience. +X% to Charisma and Strength when fighting in front of an audience, where X scales with the enthusiasm of the audience.]

The bout hadn’t been expressly for the purpose of entertaining others, but he supposed that had been a part of it. He had never considered himself much of a gladiator. But evidently the System thought otherwise. Perhaps he should have expected as much, considering he’d stepped into colosseum willingly.

Either way, Quintus wouldn’t say no to the title’s effects. While charisma was not a stat that he used particularly often, strength certainly was. And though Legionnaires fought in groups, he had found himself fighting alone more times than he’d care to admit as of late. Perhaps the boost  would come in handy again sometime.

Still, the benefit only lasted so long as he was in front of an audience. That meant it was fairly limited. The second achievement, however, was a little more interesting.

[Arena Champion (I): Place in the top 100 of any solo arena leaderboard. +40% to all physical stats when fighting solo.]

That made his eyebrows rise. Evidently, this leaderboard the System had referred to was not just a matter of pride. It came with benefits as well—significant ones. 40% was no small boon. In fact, it was one of the largest boosts that he could recall hearing about, though perhaps there were larger ones that he’d simply overlooked. Should he ever find himself caught out again like he had against the baron, this title would surely prove its worth in spades.

Considering that he’d earned the first tier of this achievement, Quintus couldn’t help but wonder how many other tiers there were. Likely there would be even better rewards for placing in the top ten or even at the very top of the leaderboard.

With that done, he skimmed over the rest of his stat sheet to find that a new tab had appeared at the top—one labeled “Arena Standings”. Evidently, placing on the leaderboard had made it available to him. Focusing on it, he watched as a list of a hundred different names scrolled past his vision, each with a different time next to it. None of the names were ones he recognized. But each one was certainly Roman in origin, if a little antiquated. 

Skimming the list, he found himself somewhere near the bottom of the “Solo, Level 1-5” category. From the sheer volume of other entries, it seemed abundantly clear that they were not the first to use this arena. Perhaps the records of the Romans that preceded them had endured the test of time better than their civilization had.

The fact that a ranking system like this did exist made him immediately tempted to go back to the arena and try again. Perhaps he could improve his performance, rise up the rankings, and earn a better title to boot. However, he decided against it. Though mostly healed, his wounds would take a few days to completely disappear, not to mention that the bout had taken quite a lot out of him. Besides, he had duties to attend to. He’d still make it a point to report to the centurions about it though.

Setting that aside for the moment, Quintus turned back to his own stats. It was the moment of truth. Holding his breath, he focused on the skills section and waited.

[You have new skill evolutions available. View available evolutions? WARNING: After viewing, unassigned evolutions will be permanently lost!]

He let out a long breath of relief. Finally. After waiting so long, he’d finally evolved something. That alone would have made the arena bout worth it. Suppressing his eagerness, Quintus accepted the prompt and looked over the new offerings.

Available Skill Evolutions:

[Heavy Blow] (Uncommon) -> [Rend] (Rare)

[Stab] (Common) -> [Tear] (Rare)

[Group Tactics] (Uncommon) -> [Coordinated Offense] (Rare)

His eyes widened. Three evolutions at once was more than he’d dared to hope for. What’s more, they were some of the skills he’d had for the longest time. He’d almost gotten to the point where he’d given up and considered replacing them. He silently thanked his past self for sticking it out just a little longer.

The first two seemed relatively straightforward. [Rend] and [Tear] both seemed like simple improvements over the original skills, if not particularly descriptive. Still, Quintus didn’t mind. They were straightforward skills with a straightforward purpose—violence.

The third one was a little bit different, however. [Coordinated Offense] seemed different than a strict upgrade of [Group Tactics]. Instead, it seemed like a fundamental change in the direction of the skill. A more aggressive one, to be exact.

It made some amount of sense, considering how he’d strongarmed the skill into doing something it wasn’t meant for. Still, he wondered if it would build on that understanding of his opponents’ intent like he’d been attempting to do with the original skill.

He shrugged inwardly. Regardless of whether or not he thought the skill was a good one, he’d be a fool not to accept it. Without waiting any longer, Quintus slotted all three skills.

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Rend] (Rare) - Lvl 0.]

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Tear] (Rare) - Lvl 0.]

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Coordinated Offense] (Rare) - Lvl 0.]

The last two skills would necessarily replace their predecessors for his entire century and contubernium, respectfully. But that was all right. Quintus had the authority to do so, and granting his men another pair of rare skills would certainly be worth the trade—if not now, then in a few weeks once they’d gotten acclimated to them.

Satisfied, Quintus lifted his palm from the class stone and stepped back. The only thing that could have made this better was an evolution of [Sure Footing]. Although that skill in particular he hadn’t put to use in particularly novel ways during his arena bout. Perhaps he would need to look into that.

Turning away from the class stone, he headed back toward the command center. He’d spent long enough indulging his own desire for battle and action. Now, it was finally time to get back to work. He could only hope that Gaius would return soon and take the reins back from him.

B2 Chapter 62: Place Your Bets

B2 Chapter 62: Place Your Bets

Quintus shifted his grip on the gladius in his hand as he stood. He was unable to move his right leg more than a few inches at a time or put much weight on it. Three enemies still stood before him, two of them almost entirely unhurt. The thraex’s body still lay unmoving in the sand nearby, the hole in its chest apparently enough to have taken it out of the battle. Then again, that was what he’d assumed about the retiarius with its nearly severed leg—and that assumption had cost him.

He scanned the arena and spotted his spear laying forgotten on the ground. But it was too far away from his position to be of any use right now. Nor would he be able to retrieve his shield without making himself vulnerable, especially not if he wanted to untangle it from the net.

The centurion’s eyes narrowed. The murmillo and secutor before him bore heavy shields and, compared to the others, were relatively well-armored. One relied on endurance to carry him to victory, while the other tried to end fights quickly in order to avoid being tired out.

Under normal circumstances, Quintus would have felt comfortable leading them around the arena to exhaust them. Then, he’d be able to take advantage and finish them off one by one. But there was no telling if the automatons would tire like real humans would. Not to mention his own current handicap.

His only saving grace was how full of holes their teamwork was. He’d suspected as much at the start, but now he was confident—the enemies before him were not a team. [Group Tactics] had given him even greater insight into their coordination or lack thereof. True, they worked together to herd him around and control his movements, but their attacks did little more than simply take advantage of openings as they came. None of the enemies struck in order to offer their allies opportunities or set up feints to corner him.

That inclination was something he could make use of. Given the opportunity, he could sense that the opponents wouldn’t hesitate to take him on one at a time. If he could just set up the right circumstances…

He tested his right leg again, wincing as he put a fraction of his weight on it. He twirled his sword idly in thought as the two mobile gladiators carefully approached him. [Sure Footing] was keeping him upright, but it wouldn’t help him walk. That he felt certain of. [Swordsmastery] would certainly help him, but would it be enough to neutralize the massive shields his opponents carried? He could try and hack his way through them with [Heavy Blow] and [Stab], but would it be enough? True, he’d punctured through one already, but he wouldn’t be leaping into the air again anytime soon.

Quintus’s mind raced as he stoically faced the two gladiators. Time was running out. If he wanted to win, he’d need to make a bit of a gamble.

He crouched and let his arm drop slightly, the tip of his sword digging into the sand. When the murmillo drew near enough to lash out with its blade, he flicked his own up in an attempt to blind his opponent once again. The automaton, having learned from his ally’s experience, blocked the spray with its shield. But that was what Quintus had been hoping for.

In the instant that the gladiator’s vision was obscured, Quintus suddenly fell even lower into his crouch. His hand snaked out and grabbed onto the shinguard wrapped around the thing’s left leg as it stepped. Bracting, Quintus pulled, gritting his teeth as his own leg flared in protest. The murmillo stumbled, suddenly off-balance.

It didn’t relent though. The murmillo reacted quickly, moving to slam its shield down on Quintus’s exposed wrist. He released his grip and rolled sideways as best he could to avoid the blow, lashing out with his sword as he moved. The murmillo hopped in place to avoid having its unguarded right ankle sliced clean off. In that brief opening, the centurion finished his roll and came up to one knee inside the murmillo’s guard. His free arm wrapped around its waist. Bracing himself, Quintus pushed his shoulder into the thing, pushing off with his injured leg to gain more leverage.

There was a brief tearing sensation. Quintus narrowly managed to avoid screaming in pain as he forced both himself and his foe to the ground. He immediately dropped his sword to grab the sword arm of the murmillo, twisting it before it had a chance to run him through. He twisted like an eel, rolling to put the enemy atop him just as the still-standing secutor slashed down with a heavy blow. A dull clang echoed through the arena as the gladius deflected off the murmillo’s helmet.

A blow like that would daze any man. But at this point, Quintus wasn’t going to rely on a human response from these things. Instead, he writhed like an eel controlling the warrior’s limbs and using him as a shield to intercept the secutor’s downward stabs. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to have much compunction about hurting its ally—not if doing so would allow it to get in a blow against Quintus.

The murmillo struggled above him, caught between the attacks of its ally and Quintus’s attempts to disarm it. The heavy shield still strapped to his arm allowed Quintus to force it into awkward positions that would risk breaking the elbow and really damage its maneuverability. But every time it attempted to ditch the piece of equipment, Quintus was right there to foil its efforts.

Eventually, the secutor managed to find an opening. Its heavy sandal struck the centurion square in the ribs. He grunted, wrenching sideways on the sword arm of the murmillo and finally pulling its gladius free of its grip. His other hand pulled its shield over just in time to deflect the secutor’s follow-up stab into the ground. In one fluid motion, Quintus aimed a [Stab] down at the exposed neck of the mannequin atop him and severed it. The murmillo’s head fell to the ground as its body went limp.

Quintus flung the limp body of the murmillo up toward the secutor. It batted its fellow mannequin aside emotionlessly, buying him a precious moment to retrieve his own gladius from where it had fallen nearby. Gripping both blades, he sank them into the sand and hauled himself up to one knee before he was forced to deflect an overhead strike. The secutor’s shield slammed into his chest, driving the air from his lungs as he was sent sprawling backwards once more.

He did his best to turn the tumble into a relatively graceful roll. The familiar sensation of [Battlefield Intuition] activating sent a tingle along his spine. This time, he was ready. His twin blades instinctively crossed and slashed through the air in a scissoring motion. The tattered remains of a weighted net tumbled uselessly to the ground about him.

In a flash, he gripped one of the relatively intact ropes leading back to the kneeling retiarius and yanked. That enemy in particular was proving quite the annoyance. And if he couldn’t go to it, then he’d just have to bring it to himself.

Unfortunately, the net-wielding mannequin was more agile than the others. It didn’t hesitate to release the ruined net before it became overbalanced. Shifting its grip, it struck out with its long trident where it knelt. Quintus locked his own blades with its own and drove the trident into the ground. He reared back with one arm, hurling a gladius at the out-of-reach gladiator. The heavy blade struck it square in the chest, sending the mannequin to the ground in a crumpled heap.

He grabbed the haft of the trident with his now free hand and smiled. Three down, one to go.

He spun just in time to parry a strike from the secutor sneaking up on him, empowering it with [Heavy Blow] to send the opponent reeling. The opening allowed him to use the trident as a crutch and force himself to his feet. At this point, he was practically balancing on one leg with how ruined his right was. But that didn’t matter. He could get it healed afterward. Right now, his entire focus was on victory.

Quintus gripped the shaft of the trident in one hand, tucking its butt under his arm. He aimed a few feints at the secutor’s faceplate and forced it to back off. The trident was never Quintus’s weapon of choice. But he had trained with spears plenty, which were at least somewhat similar. This was just much more front-heavy and a lot less nimble. Worse, the thing’s helmet was built specifically to match up against this weapon. Its smooth finish and small eye holes left small targets that would be difficult to hit accurately with the three-pronged weapon in the best of circumstances. But even the automaton still had an inclination to deflect blows to the head.

The secutor sidestepped one of Quintus’s jabs and began to close the distance. He attempted to feint high and stab low to pin the automaton’s foot, but it shuffled back just in time. Still, the trident stuck in the ground and blocked its way enough that it was forced to sidestep. Quintus pivoted using is good leg in the opposite direction to keep the trident between them, keeping the secutor at arm’s distance and threatening to trip it.

He twirled his sword in his other hand, looking for some sort of opening. The relatively heavy armor and slow, careful approach of this style of gladiator would have been something he could get around if he could move properly. But as it was, he’d need a better plan and a second helping of good luck to pull this off. There were no other enemies left to pit this gladiator against. Nor did he think that his surprise leg tackle would work again. Worse, now that he was against a single opponent, he no longer felt that instinctive sense of what it might do next. It seemed that [Group Tactics] really did only work on groups.

Stumbling a half step back, Quintus growled as he pulled the trident out of the sand. His grip slid up on it to the point where his hand was almost right underneath the tines. This time, when the secutor attempted a thrust, he twisted the trident to catch the gladius between its blades.

He twisted with his arm and wrist, tucking the shaft of the trident in his armpit for extra leverage as he attempted to fling the gladius to the side. The automaton held tight to the weapon as it struggled to keep its balance. Quintus felt his attention sharpen as he saw its shield move just slightly out of place—an opening.

He didn’t hesitate. With all the force he could muster, Quintus pushed off of that good back leg and lunged forward, shoving the enemy’s arm into its chest. He slipped his blade behind its shield and beneath one of the leather straps that secured it in place, sawing and twisting at the same time. The gladius sliced into both the strap and the automaton’s forearm, causing the shield to flop awkwardly to the side and the arm to hang limply.

Now that the shield was more of a hindrance than a help, the mannequin tried to free the remaining strap from its arm. But Quintus didn’t give it the chance. He released the trident and grabbed the half-attached shield to wrench it away, forcing his foe off balance. He felt himself teetering on the edge of losing his own footing as well as his right leg buckled beneath him. Willing himself to stay upright with [Sure Footing], Quintus spun to strike with a [Heavy Blow] empowered backhand slash.

The gladius seemed to glide through the air, effortlessly finding a small crack between the gladiator’s armored right arm and the lip of its rounded helmet. It struck true and passed through the mannequin’s neck without resistance, sending its head spinning through the air with the sheer force of the blow.

Quintus stumbled forward and caught himself on one knee. His last foe remained standing for a moment longer, motionless, before it crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

He panted, taking a brief moment to survey the arena. None of the four enemies had risen from where they lay. Thankfully. Quintus struggled to his feet just as the air around the arena shimmered once more.

As the barrier disappeared and his boiling blood cooled, Quintus finally registered the uproarious cheers of the men in the stands. He looked around, finding nearly all of the Legionnaires on their feet and hollering in approval.

He couldn’t help but grin. As he raised a fist to the cheering crowd, gold lettering began to materialize in Quintus's vision.

B2 Chapter 61: A Gauntlet of Gladiators

B2 Chapter 61: A Gauntlet of Gladiators

It took only a few quick conversations for Quintus to work his way into the research teams and training schedule at the Colosseum. After all, there was no one to countermand his orders. Although that wasn’t the only reason they were followed. The Legionnaires in charge of managing the place were eager to have their Primus Pilus volunteer to help with their experimentation. And to watch the show that would certainly ensue.

Soon, Quintus found himself standing at one end of the arena, his spear held at the ready. In the audience sat hundreds of Legionnaires who had been lucky enough to be on leave during the event—and perhaps a few that he suspected were shirking their duties.

Despite the quantity of men, they barely filled a small fraction of the available seating. The amphitheater still looked positively empty from his vantage point. Perhaps one day, their numbers would swell to the point that even this structure couldn’t contain them all. But today was not that day.

The air around the arena seemed to shimmer for a moment as an invisible barrier settled into place, locking him inside. He settled into a defensive stance. From everything they’d seen so far, the challenges put forth by the arena seemed to scale to both the number and strength of those who stepped inside. With the exception of the kraken incident, of course. That had apparently been a monster that took up residence in the place when it was underwater.

The challenges set before them were almost always less dangerous than they first appeared. They'd only lost a few Legionnaires sent in to fight. Non-legionnaires died and were defeated at a much higher rate, though. Still, there was no telling what it might send against an individual combatant like himself.

Quintus felt his vision sharpen as he readied himself. This fight wasn’t just about getting away from the boredom of bureaucracy, nor was it just about learning about the arena’s capabilities. As much as his men joked about him being as eager for battle as a man half his age, he wasn’t simply here to satisfy his own inclinations either. No, Quintus hoped to achieve something else—progress.

He’d gotten used to the steady progress of his skill levels increasing day by day as he trained. Yet lately, those increases had slowed significantly. The few hours of training he managed in the morning was no longer enough to increase his level in [Swordsmastery], nor were the beatdowns of his fellow Legionnaires that some called “sparring”. The same was even true of his other skills.

It had been far too long since he’d evolved a skill, and that was unacceptable. He needed to provide more benefit to the Legion. Other men were earning higher rarity skills for their brethren every day. He couldn’t allow himself to grow complacent in that area—or when it came to his own abilities.

It seemed as though the arena itself recognized his intent. Four gates began to rise—a number that sent Quintus’s eyebrows rising as well. A single fighter ducked out beneath the first as it was still opening. The tall, hulking figure was one of the same faceless mannequins that comprised the bulk of the arena’s offerings. Its helmet bore a high crest and a broad brim, combining with the circular patterning across its surface to make it almost resemble a large scaled fish atop the mannequin’s head.

The opponent’s right arm was protected by a series of overlapping metal plates that ran from shoulder all the way down to his sword hand—a manica. Its opposite arm bore a shield not unlike Quintus’s own scutum. But aside from a loincloth, a belt, and a pair of shinguards, the figure’s torso and legs were completely bare.

Quintus recognized the attire. This mannequin was equipped similar to a murmillo—a type of gladiator. One that specialized in strength and endurance. The relative lack of armor left it unencumbered enough that it would be able to move quickly. Yet the armor it did have would make getting in a clean shot difficult if the thing had any kind of skill.

The murmillo walked forward slowly as Quintus began to circle, making sure that he didn't put his back towards any of the other opening gates as he sized up his opponent. The thing moved deliberately, its shield raised high and its left leg forward.

The stance didn’t give Quintus any easy openings. It clearly knew how to move such that its armor was able to protect its most vulnerable spots. However, the range of the centurion’s own spear kept it from approaching carelessly. It made him glad that he’d chosen to start with this particular weapon.

Of course, he hadn’t left behind his other tools entirely. His shield remained on his back while his gladius still hung from his waist, both ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. But he needed to be fast and agile, especially given that more opponents were still emerging.

His eyes flicked over to check on the second figure stepping onto the arena’s sands. This one resembled the murmillo, but wore a plumed helmet with a grille across its front and a griffin motif. Its shield was a square much smaller than the other gladiator’s and a curved sword gleamed in its grip.

The thraex-style gladiator didn't wait for Quintus to react. Instead, it rushed forward with surprising speed. Quintus dipped the butt of his spear into the sand, flicking it up to blind the incoming opponent as he moved out of the way. He wasn’t entirely sure if the thing’s lack of eyes would render the tactic useless. But that was something he’d rather find out now rather than when he was backed into a corner.

Fortunately, the thraex reacted similarly to a flesh and blood human. The thing shook its head, unable to wipe its face through the grille on his helmet as Quintus danced back from both it and a quick testing swipe from the murmillo. Then he lunged, his spear going high and aiming for the open-faced helmet of the murmillo. It raised its shield to block, but a last-minute pivot had Quintus spinning the butt of his weapon into the murmillo's armored right arm. It cracked into the thing’s manica and sent him staggering.

Quintus wanted to capitalize on the opening, but didn’t have time. He spun the spear around again as he was forced to knock aside the curved blade of the second fighter. [Battlefield Intuition] suddenly screamed at him, causing him to launch himself backward into a dive. A split second later, he saw a weighted net fall right over the space where he’d been standing.

A third combatant pulled back his arm, both puppet-like hands wrapping around a large trident. This one wore no helmet at all—nor did it carry a shield. Only a single piece of armor covered its non-dominant arm and shoulder. A retiarius. Which meant…

Quintus spotted the final combatant as it dashed to the side, putting distance between itself and the other three. It was a fighter typically paired against the fisherman-like retiarius—a secutor. Its helmet was round and smooth with tiny eyeholes to avoid entanglement by nets. It also wore armor on its right arm and left leg, while its gladius and shield were those of a Legionnaire.

The four fighters spread out around the arena and moved to encircle their opponent. He readjusted the grip on his spear and shuffled his feet, feeling them dig in securely with [Sure Footing]. The shifting sand felt like solid rock beneath the soles of his caligae. Intuitively, he knew that the instant he launched forward, it would angle perfectly behind his heel to further propel him in that direction. He felt his other combat skills like a physical hum at the base of his skull, now familiar in their capabilities. But he didn’t want familiar. He wanted to push the boundaries of both himself and his skills.

Frowning at the enemies arrayed before him, Quintus decided to try something. He focused on [Group Tactics] and tried to activate it. The skill was one that he usually used to coordinate with his men. More than simply allowing him to analyze their positions and weaknesses, it also worked with [Voice of Command] to help his orders be interpreted more accurately. Instead of saying “move two and a half steps to the left,” he might just say “move left,” and somehow it would be enough for his subordinates to understand.

As expected, the skill didn’t seem to do anything. After all, he was fighting alone. But he persisted. He pushed harder, urging the skill to bend to his will. He didn’t want to coordinate with his own group. He wanted a deeper understanding of the opposing group’s tactics.

After a few long moments, Quintus felt something give. Understanding flooded through him as though a dam had burst, giving him an innate sense of his opponents’ intent. They were working together, not as Legionnaires would, but as gladiators. Each individual fighter had their own set of skills and capabilities, acting on their own even as they worked to give each other better openings. Yet their teamwork wasn’t perfect. And that was something Quintus could take advantage of.

Quintus darted forward, heading straight between the curved blade-wielding thraex and the murmillo. The others started to circle him as he closed half the distance he suddenly changed direction and leaped sideways, flinging his spear. His momentum added speed as he launched the long weapon right at the one opponent who lacked a shield— the trident-wielding retiarius.

The trident-wielding mannequin dove to the ground to dodge. Unfortunately for it, Quintus’s spear was not so easily avoided. It seemed to move in midair and home in on its target, sinking into the automation’s leg. One of the newer enchantments their blacksmiths had been experimenting with, and one he’d offered to test for them here.

There was a distinct lack of blood as the spear struck true. However, that didn’t phase Quintus. He saw how the blade pierced through to the other side and caused the mannequin to stumble. And though it remained eerily silent, he knew that the limb wouldn’t be seeing use anytime soon.

Before he’d even landed, his sword was already in his hand. His shield remained away for the moment, though. Right now he needed speed, and having the large rectangle protecting his back was more valuable than having to manage it in front of him.

The murmillo raised its own shield and stepped forward to block his path as the thraex attempted to flank him. But Quintus dove, rolling beneath another swipe from the murmillo and flipping up to his feet like some sort of performer. His body contorted as he somersaulted into the air, lashing out with both feet into the murmillo’s shield. Before it could rear back for another attack, he kicked off, sending the thing stumbling back as he propelled himself high into the air. His sword flashed as it arced down toward the helmet of the thraex.

The unorthodox style was practically un-Roman, but ever since coming to this world, Quintus had been attempting to make use of his increased stats. His much higher dexterity and strength let him do things that were practically impossible back on Earth.

The thraex raised its curved blade to meet his own. Quintus parried, deflecting it to the side as his free hand darted forward to grab the gladiator’s square shield. He turned and pulled with enough torque to almost break the thing’s arm as he slammed his helmet into its stomach. He drove it to the ground. Finding purchase with his feet and shooting himself vertically back into the air.

A brief glance allowed him to take in the state of the battlefield after his flurry of attacks. The murmillo and thraex were both regaining their feet from where he’d knocked them prone, though the latter appeared more injured than the former. The retiarius he’d stabbed in the leg was crawling along the ground, while the secutor was far enough away that he hadn’t yet made it halfway to where Quintus was.

Quintus tucked his knees in and placed them on either side of his sword blade, aiming it between his legs and gripping the pommel with both hands as his leap hit its apex. He began to plummet downward and activate [Stab]. Again, it was a use case that he’d never quite considered before. But today was all about experimentation.

The thraex attempted to manuver his shield between itself and the incoming blade. But with Quintus’s weight and momentum, not to mention the power of his unreasonably-leveled [Stab], the gladius plunged right through the shield and into its chest. The automaton shuddered briefly before going limp.

He stomped on the shield and yanked his sword out before stepping back to face the two remaining fighters on their feet. This was far more manageable. Shrugging his shield off his back, Quintus prepared for a more defensive encounter.

He began to circle the two combatants as he looked for openings. The two darted forward, working to pincer him between coordinated sword strikes. Quintus parried and blocked the blows just as [Battlefield Intuition] warned him of another threat. He tried to spin, only to feel a sudden weight on his back.

Quintus stumbled slightly as he was yanked backwards. A brief glance over his shoulder revealed that the retiarius had managed to limp over to its net and retrieve it. The mannequin propped itself up with its trident, the other hand gripping one end of the weighted mesh of rope and metal.

Quintus cursed himself. He should have known better than to treat these things like men. Of course, he hadn’t truly expected a wound like that to take the automaton out of the battle entirely. But he hadn’t thought it would be able to move so quickly.

The net tangled on his armor and helmet, snaring him. Quintus spun and twisted to free himself even as the retiarius fought to reel him closer, but the net only seemed to ensnare him further. Worse, it managed to wrap around his sword arm enough that he wasn’t able to hack away at the tangle of ropes.

The two other gladiators took advantage of the opening, lunging forward to stab at the partially-immobilized Quintus. He whipped his shield around to fend off the incoming blows, taking a few shallow cuts in the process. Realizing that he wasn’t getting anywhere, Quintus suddenly switched tactics. Rather than fight the retiarius’s pull, he went with it, charging the limping mannequin where it stood. His unexpected rush knocked the already unstable figure over, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of rope and limbs.

Quintus felt the net go slack around him. He dropped his shield, using his newly freed hand and sword to claw away the mesh and roll free. But rather than the graceful maneuver he’d been going for, a sharp pain blossomed in his back and sent him sprawling.

The first centurion grit his teeth. He barely managed to scramble away from a follow-up sword strike aimed at his legs. Even as he got to his feet, he could feel blood flowing from behind his knee.

He put some distance between himself and the three gladiator automatons, his breathing heavier than before. He took an experimental step. His left foot was fine, but the right foot behind him almost buckled as he put weight on it. 

Quintus glanced down at himself. Blood dripped from his leg to the sands below. He’d managed to keep hold of his sword, but his shield remained tangled in the net that the retiarius was still gripping in one hand. The other two automatons stepped in front of it, blocking him from retrieving it easily.

He hummed in displeasure. Still, it seemed as though he might actually get the challenge that he’d hoped for.

B2 Chapter 60: Sword and Boar’d

B2 Chapter 60: Sword and Boar’d

Quintus recruited two other veteran legionnaires to assist with leveling the six auxiliaries before him. Together, the Legionnaires herded them through the forest in search of monsters and whatever wild game they could find.

Their hunt had taken them further south than most patrols. He’d initially intended to level the men on shadow panthers, but the large cats were becoming increasingly scarce around Habersville and the forest around. It wasn’t too surprising. With how many of the things the Legion had killed, Quintus wouldn’t be surprised if their population was finally dwindling to near extinction—that, or they’d simply fled altogether.

The area they currently found themselves in was a territory of a different type of beast, one slightly less dangerous than the shadow panthers in some ways. Wild boars with massive tusks, two on each side of their squashed snouts, each the length of a man’s forearm. The pairs of tusks were close enough together that being gored by them would result in a particularly unpleasant and difficult to heal wound. Well, in the old world at least.

The sheer size and strength of the beasts made them difficult to take down in a one-on-one fight. However, it also made them absolutely shit at anything resembling stealth. So while they did pose a very real threat, it was a threat that one could see—and hear—coming from a mile away. There was no risk of being taken unawares as there was with the panthers.

The one they’d been tracking stood with his head about level with Quintus’s shoulder. It was level eight, so comparatively weak. Against a proper [Coordinated Bulwark] reinforced shield wall, it didn’t stand a chance. So long as they executed their attack properly. Of course, their spears lacked a cross bar, which could prove to be an issue if anyone had to face down a charge directly. But he was confident in the wall’s ability to hold, even when it was composed of green auxiliaries like these.

Quintus silently motioned for his men to move forward and begin circling around the thunderous sound of the beast’s hooves. Even though the auxiliaries’ skills and levels had reset, that didn’t mean they’d lost the countless hours of training the centurions had drilled into them. It simply meant the System would need to catch up and match their actual abilities.

This wasn't exactly the style of training that Quintus would have put men through back at home, of course. But here, learning how to fight a large monster was far more important than knowing how to combat an army of men. For now, at least. They would obviously need to learn both before becoming full Legionnaires. But for now, it would serve to harden them and rid them of their nerves—a good thing, because they were nervous.

Granted, the auxiliaries didn’t protest. In fact, a few of them seemed downright excited beneath their fear. For most of them, this was likely the closest they’d gotten to combat. True, they’d provided archery support during previous battles, but it was a far cry from getting up close and personal like this.

Once they’d reached a small clearing among the trees, Quintus signalled for the men to halt. “Here. You four, form a shield wall there. You and you,” he said, indicating the last two auxiliaries, “take positions at the flanks and conceal yourselves in the treeline. Ready your spears.”

His voice was low, barely audible beneath the rustle of leaves and heavy footsteps of the boar, but carried to his men as easily as if he were speaking directly in their ears. Another benefit of [Voice of Command]. With how much he used the skill, he was very much looking forward to evolving it—hopefully soon.

A rustling in the bushes heralded the appearance of their quarry. A massive snout pushed between the branches like the prow of a boat smashing through a wave head-on. Yet as its front came into view, Quintus realized that it wasn’t alone. Two smaller boars with little more than blunted nubs for tusks followed after.

Beady black eyes took in the men arrayed before it. The larger beast snorted, its posture immediately going tense as the two smaller boars came to an almost confused halt. They squealed softly, a high-pitched noise that sounded almost cute compared to the bassy rumble of what must have been their mother.

One of the Legionnaires muttered quietly to Quintus. “This might be bad. I knew a man who happened upon a bear cub in the forest. The idiot tried to kill it, not realizing that the mom was nearby. They hardly had enough of him to bury afterward.”

Quintus glanced at his two Legionnaires and nodded. The men understood his intent, moving quickly and quietly through the trees to join the spear-wielding auxiliaries at either flank. He hoped that their assistance wouldn’t be necessary. That would ensure that more experience went to the auxiliaries themselves. But it never hurt to be prepared.

Luckily, the stealth proved unwarranted. The boar was firmly fixated on the wall of shields locked together before it. It stamped its cloven feet and dragged them through the dirt a few times, snorting with challenge like a bull about to charge.

The four men held steady, their shields braced against their shoulders and interlocked. Looking at them, Quintus noted a few small inconsistencies in their form that could be improved.

“Blacksmith, brace with your legs. Cobbler, don’t lock your sword arm. That’s a quick way to get it broken.”

As he issued the orders, Quintus felt a brief connection with the men as his [Unity] skill activated. They jolted as if they’d been stung, only to shake themselves and adjust into a more proper formation. To Quintus’s eye, they almost looked like real Legionnaires. Almost.

The phenomenon surprised Quintus. He’d felt the skill activate before, of course. It seemed to help passively coordinate the Legion’s movements and thinking in a whole variety of ways. But this was the first time it had ever extended to others. Perhaps this was more evidence that the auxiliaries were growing and drawing nearer to joining their own ranks.

It was a hopeful thought. One that was dashed almost immediately.

One of the smaller piglets obliviously began wandering toward the treeline where one of the auxiliaries lay in wait—a former baker, if Quintus remembered correctly. It drew nearer and nearer to the man who, rather than remain still, panicked. He hurled his spear at the approaching piglet. It struck the miniature boar in the side and sank deep into it. It had been a good throw—unfortunately for the baker.

The piglet squealed in pain and stumbled back toward its mother. The larger monster’s head snapped toward the sound of the cry, the shield wall all but forgotten. It locked onto the wide-eyed auxiliary who seemed to just now realize the severity of his mistake. Worse, he’d thrown away his main weapon.

Quintus swore under his breath as the man frantically shrugged the shield off of his back. The Legionnaire Quintus had sent that way broke into a sprint at the same time that the mother boar roared. She began to charge, her hooves sending up clods of earth with every step.

With the speed at which the beast closed the distance, there wasn’t much the baker could do except dive aside and attempt to dodge the wild charge. Unfortunately, the idiot’s panic paralyzed him. He hunkered down in place behind the shield he’d finally managed to pull free. Setting his feet, he met the charging beast that must have outweighed him by at least ten times.

The Legionnaire reached his side just as the boar made contact. He slammed his spear into the beast’s neck as she barreled into the baker. The wound spurted with fresh blood, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough to stop the thing’s momentum or kill it outright. Instead, the boar continued barreling forward and swept the baker clear off his feet. The man slammed into a tree with a crack that rang through the clearing. Quintus winced at the sound of cracking bone, hoping that it was only ribs that he’d broken and not something more critical.

Quintus himself was already moving forward to join the fight. He restrained himself from sprinting like his instincts demanded, instead falling into a steady march that activated [Warpath]. Instantly, he felt his steps accelerate to many times the speed that he should have been able to move. He flashed across the field almost as fast as the boar had charged, his sword already drawn.

[Swordsmastery] guided his hand as his blade slid into one of the boar's eyes. It howled in rage and pain, thrashing its head about wildly and rearing back. The two pairs of saberlike tusks whizzed as they cut through the air, forcing Quintus to release his sword and step back. He sucked in his gut as one swipe came dangerously close to connecting, then ducked low under the return swipe and jammed his shoulder into the freely-bleeding neck wound his fellow Legionnaire had left earlier. Then, he braced his legs against the ground and lifted.

For a second, he felt like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. His vision went fuzzy with the strain of trying to topple the impossibly large beast. But between its pained thrashing and awkward position, it began to wobble and tip over sideways. It hit the ground with a thunderous crash that shook the earth, followed by aftershocks as it squirmed and writhed. The other two Legionnaires pounced on the fallen opponent, their swords repeatedly plunging into its guts. Its intestines began spilling out as one of them cut the tendons in its back legs to ensure it wouldn’t rise again.

It wasn’t long before the boar became nothing more than a screaming mass of pain. As its movements grew weaker, Quintus circled around and fished his sword from its eye. Several more stabs found the thing's tiny brain, and it finally went still.

Quintus looked up and flicked the blood off his blade. The five other auxiliaries stood staring back at him, their faces dumbstruck at the display of ruthless violence. Meanwhile, the sixth lay sprawled bonelessly against the splintered tree that he’d been crushed against. A glance revealed that he was still breathing, if only just. The smaller piglets were nowhere to be seen.

"Move, you lazy fuckers!” Quintus roared, nearly apoplectic with rage. “One of your brothers is dying! Who has medical training?!" 

His words finally jolted them into action. A couple of them lunged toward their fallen comrade and began doing what they could. Quintus felt nothing but rage at the lethargic response as he and the other Legionnaires got ready to rush the man home. These recruits had a longer way to go than he’d thought.

***

Not more than a few hours later, Quintus shuffled another stack of paper reports about. He gave their contents a cursory skim before shoving them beneath another pile. The entire stack wobbled precariously with the movement.

They’d managed to get the wounded auxiliary back to camp before his weak breathing had ceased altogether. But between failing to earn the men a level and nearly losing one of the unique auxiliaries whose class had changed, Quintus found himself in a rather black mood. It meant that the already unenviable role of desk work was getting under his skin extra at the moment.

A knock sounded at the door. He set down the report he’d been flipping through just in time for a messenger to poke his head in.

"Sir, there seems to be an issue in warehouse three that the centurion on duty thought you might want to be aware of."

Quintus’s jaw tightened. "Is it urgent?"

The messenger thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, sir. It can wait."

"Then tell him to write a report like everyone else." Quintus ground out.

The man saluted before shutting the door once more. Once he was alone, Quintus sighed and slumped in his chair. This kind of behavior was unbecoming of a leader. Regardless of his own frustrations, he had no excuse to take it out on his subordinates. But he simply was not cut out for this kind of work.

Even if he did want to do it, he would be the first to admit that he didn’t have the same head for numbers and figures that Gaius and Tiberius seemed to. He knew them well enough, to be sure, but he certainly wouldn’t want a man like himself in charge of ensuring that inventories were accurate and calculating how much food they would need for the next few months..

Quintus rubbed a tired hand down his face. This wasn’t just a case of not wanting to do the work. It was also a matter of what was best for the Legion. He would go over these reports as best he could. But more and more it seemed as though he’d need to delegate these responsibilities better. Hopefully the others would understand. Besides, they’d be far more efficient than he could be. 

He picked the latest report back up and began to flip through it once more. It was a list of anomalies that had been found in the surrounding area. Most were small things like unfamiliar flora and fauna or locations like caves that had yet to be explored. But there was one that stood out to him.

According to this, the excavation of the buried colosseum had finally made some headway. It was to the point that they were able to carry out tests regarding its strange capabilities to generate sparring partners and training dummies for the men who entered its confines. The idea that they may be able to leverage it for training was quite promising.

The prospect was positively tantalizing. He had yet to visit the place, but from what he understood it was just like one of the amphitheaters that he’d enjoyed back in real Rome. What’s more, it seemed that there were a few matters that required approval before the centurions in charge of the project moved forward with it. He had every excuse to leap up and address their concerns right now.

Quintus forced himself to take a breath. As good as it sounded, he did have responsibilities. He resolved to do at least a little more work here, find the proper men to delegate each category of report to, and get things organized before he allowed himself to leave. After that, though… It only made sense to go where he was most useful. 

Who knows? Maybe he’d be able to help them with their testing. After all, they had yet to see what happened when a man entered the arena solo. If it triggered a fight, then he would welcome the challenge. And if he lost… Well, he'd be dead, and he wouldn't have to worry about paperwork anymore.

B2 Chapter 59: To Whom it May Concern

B2 Chapter 59: To Whom it May Concern

The duke’s eyes bored into Marcus for a long time, seeming to evaluate whether or not to toss the bard into the hall right then and there. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. He had just proposed that the man commit treason against Novara. Even if the king was a lazy and gluttonous fop who would drive the country to ruin, knowing that and actually doing something about it were two entirely different things.

Eventually, the duke closed his eyes. He let out a long sigh that spoke of a bone-deep weariness.

“I cannot say that I am completely blind to your reasoning.” The man admitted tiredly. “However… that does not change anything. Even if more and more of my people die each day in a pointless and prideful war, even if the king were incompetent… there’s not much I can do about it. I swore an oath of fealty to the king—a System-enforced one. I can’t disobey his orders any more than a raindrop can refuse to fall. Not without catastrophic consequences.”

Gaius cleared his throat. Both men turned to look at the Legionnaire as he finally joined the conversation.

“That is not entirely true. I have made it a point to study the System and its workings. System oaths of fealty are binding, yes, as long as orders are reasonable and within the bounds of the agreed-upon terms. But there are several conditions under which oaths may be shifted or broken. Cases of betrayal, being one such, are to be adjudicated by the System. But also, upon being conquered, there is an option to offer an oath to your new liege instead.”

Marcus blinked. He had indeed entertained many questions from both Tiberius and Gaius about System matters. However, this was a level of detail that he hadn’t spoken on, in part because he wasn’t aware of it. Evidently, Gaius really had been doing his own research.

The Duke nodded slowly. “You are correct. However, doing so would require my house and forces to fall to the conquering army. It would also come with significant penalties to me and my territory.”

“Or you can surrender.” Gaius said simply. “It would accomplish the same result without bloodshed.”

The duke glared at Gaius as one might an arrogant child. “Surrendering would imply that I do not believe I can win.”

Marcus jumped in before the two began to fight. “Not necessarily. It can also imply that you believe another arrangement to be more… desirable than the one you have with the king. After all, whether Novara falls to the orcs or to internal strife, we both agree that it will fall. Why not take a chance to secure the safety of your people before that happens?”

“You are making a lot of assumptions.” The duke said. “Both of you. Ones that I’m not certain I appreciate.

Marcus internally grimaced. He looked toward Gaius, communicating silently with his eyes. He’d offered up a lot of information about the Legion and its origins during this conversation. For good reason, of course. Everything he’d said was calculated to increase the duke’s chance of taking them seriously as a threat and as a nation.

Yet they had one more card to play. One that he didn’t feel comfortable offering up on his own.

Gaius held his gaze, seeming to understand Marcus’s implied question. Then he sighed and reached into the pouch at his waist. Marcus saw the duke tense slightly for a moment before the Legionnaire produced a folded note.

“It seems that we are in no position to convince you of the Legion’s strength.” Gaius said. “Fortunately, there is a source that you may find more reliable.”

He offered up the note. The duke hesitated for a moment before reaching out and accepting it. He unfolded the paper, his eyes widening slightly as he scanned over it.

“That,” Gaius explained, “Is a breakdown of the Legion’s capabilities and military strength as understood by your daughter. Complete with quite detailed sketches of our siege weaponry and equipment and a few details about her own situation. Although I will admit that her knowledge is lacking in many areas, I believe that the picture she paints is accurate enough.”

“She tried to slip this note into your chamberlain’s coat.” Marcus headed off the question that was certain to come. “Tried being the operative word there. Nevertheless, I believe that allowing it to come into your possession may honestly be beneficial.”

The man looked at them over the edge of the paper before reading it over a few more times. Marcus didn’t doubt that he’d question the veracity of the note. However, it was in his daughter’s hand, which certainly worked in their favor. While the work could have been accomplished through the services of a skilled [Forger], it certainly would be a lot of trouble to go through to deceive someone they were not actively at war with. Also there was the family codes she had embedded in the letter to boost its credibility.

Frowning, the duke folded it back up and tapped it on the edge of his desk. “I don’t particularly appreciate some of the details about her treatment at your hands, though I suppose that things could certainly be much worse. But if anything, their inclusion speaks towards the validity of the note. The claims she makes are... hard to believe. But I find myself inclined to do so.”

The duke leaned forward. “Answer me this. For what purpose have you built such terrifying things as these siege engines? What manner of craftsman do you have among you that can construct such things?”

Gaius shook his head. “You misunderstand. These are not even the most impressive of our constructions. Already our weapons have advanced far, far past where they were when she saw them.”

Marcus hid his grimace. He was pretty sure that was a bluff—but it was a bluff that Gaius seemed to believe in enough that any truth-detection skill wouldn’t reveal it. Only a vague gut feeling told Marcus to be suspicious of the Legionnaire’s projected certainty.

“Now, you can take this information and use it to prepare a defense, or even offer it up to the king to develop a battle strategy against the Legion.” Marcus said. “Or you can take it as evidence of our claims and use it as impetus to surrender. I can assure you, that is far more preferable than the alternative. As the late baron unfortunately discovered.”

The Duke rubbed his temple with a sigh. “What you suggest—that I commit treason by surrendering and throwing my hat in with your lot… This is not a decision I can make on a whim. You have intrigued me, for certain. However, I have other priorities. The safety of my family being first and foremost.”

“Of course.” Marcus agreed easily. “Regardless of your decision, we will be happy to return them to you for the agreed upon sum.”

“But know that if you do not surrender now, you may find yourself having to protect them personally in the near future.” Gaius added ominously. “And in Rome, once an offer to surrender is spurned, it is rarely offered again.”

The threat made the duke’s eyes flash briefly, but the man got himself under control. “Hrmph. Then let us put this matter aside for the moment.”

***

After a comparatively brief discussion about the specifics of the ransom and the release of Mariella and her daughter, the bard and the soldier were ushered out of the duke’s study. The bard offered one of his performative bows, his rich cloak swirling dramatically behind him, while the soldier seemed to think before offering a curt nod.

The door clicked shut behind them. With a deep sigh, the man finally allowed himself to relax and lean back in his chair. His gaze drifted up toward the ceiling as he considered the words of the two men who had come before him.

On their face, they were absurd. The blustering claims of two young upstarts who thought they could take on a kingdom. And yet…

The duke closed his eyes. He had harbored doubts about the king’s leadership for longer than he’d like to admit. The arrogant fop thought of nothing but his own comfort and excesses, leaving the actual work of running the kingdom to his corrupt advisers. It was an open secret among the nobility. And while he lowered himself to bow and scrape before the man, it was only because he lacked a real alternative. He needed to stay in the regent’s good graces if he wanted any chance of aid. Or if he wanted his men to survive the war. The man was nothing if not vindictive.

In contrast, this discussion had been astonishingly cordial, especially considering its contents. He’d never expected a discussion of ransom terms and treason to proceed so amicably. True, that the young Gaius fellow seemed a bit standoffish and prideful, but not as openly hostile as he may have expected. More… matter-of-fact. Unwilling to give respect that hadn’t been earned.

All in all, he was relatively satisfied with how things had gone. The only real tragedy was the death of his son-in-law. He’d been grooming the young baron as a potential heir—a fallback of sorts, given that his other sons were far more interested in fighting or fucking than the day to day running of a noble estate. He had been a good man. But unfortunately, tragedies were a fact of life. Sometimes Zabit demanded tribute and would not be denied.

The duke closed his eyes. He would be well within his rights to seek vengeance. Yet he wasn’t eager to send what few men he had remaining to another battle for the sake of pride alone. Not unless he saw a practical benefit to such a course of action. Besides, the seizure of Hausten and slaying of the baron wasn’t done as a slight to him or his family, nor out of malice. It was simply business. After speaking to these Romans, he was certain of it.

He wasn’t going to forgive and forget, of course. But nor would he burn his own territory to the ground to try and set this Legion aflame. A stance that he was certain his daughter would object to.

He shook his head and began to rise from his chair. Charles would be taking care of the final ransom arrangements and putting together payment. Assuming there was no trickery at play, Mariella and her daughter would be in his care soon. And he intended to ensure she was provided every comfort that she had lacked over these last few weeks. Besides, he could hardly focus on work at the moment. He needed some time away from his desk to think.

But before he’d even finished standing, a knock came at the door. Charles peeked his head in apologetically.

“Milord, sorry to interrupt. I know you said no visitors, but a letter from His Majesty has arrived.”

The duke waved off the chamberlain’s apology. “It’s fine. Bring it here.”

Charles stepped into the room and quickly made his way to the duke’s side. He produced a crisp white letter embossed with a blood red seal. Its surface bore the ornate crown and staff that were the widely recognized symbols of his royal highness.

With the letter delivered, Charles bowed and quickly retreated to the door. The duke frowned as he left. The man had seemed… tense. More so than he had even during the ransom negotiations.

Putting the thoughts of his prior meeting aside, the duke slid a dagger from his belt and cut open the top of the letter. Pulling out the crisp piece of paper, he began to read. It didn’t take long before his expression began to darken. With each line, he felt his mood slip further and further into blackened anger as his grip began to tighten.

By the final line, the duke’s fists had crumpled the edges of the letter in his hands. He growled, balling it up and hurling it across the room before slamming a hand on his desk in frustration. Something cracked, the sound rousing him from his rage. This desk was older than he was. The idea of damaging it was unpleasant, to say the least. Hopefully it wasn’t anything too bad.

The duke let out a long, slow breath to collect himself. Then, he rose and began to pace. The insults, the blame, the demands that were hilariously divorced from reality—it was the culmination of everything he hated about their great king. It was too much.

Redcliffe was already holding on by a mere thread. There was no way he could possibly comply with increased taxation and levies at the level that was being asked of him. He didn’t have more to give. Something that the buffoon either didn’t know or simply didn’t care about. In fact, the only reason he’d managed to stave off an invasion of his own lands was because the neighboring countries were recovering from wars of their own, both internal and external.

The slow drain of decades at war had pushed them to the brink. And this? This would kick them straight over. It would be the end of their family, one way or another.

Which meant the king had left him no choice.

The duke stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes. The significance of what he was about to do weighed heavy on his shoulders. But he’d always been a family man. Before his liege, before his country, he would take care of his own. Whatever the cost.

In a few quick steps, he was back at his desk. He didn’t even bother to sit as he snatched a blank piece of paper and a pen from its surface and began to write. The hurried script came out less refined than his usual penmanship, its lines more angular and jagged, but he didn’t care. Nor would its recipient.

My son,

I pray that these tidings find you well. I have heard much talk of how cold the mountains are at this time of year. As such, I hope that you have not forgotten the red cloak I bequeathed unto you so long ago…

The letter went on and on. To a casual observer, it seemed like an inane enough bit of correspondence between a father and his eldest son, speaking about common things like the weather and the state of things around the manor. But the mundane phrases merely served as cover for the true message, encoded in the language the duke and his family were all fluent in.

The king has chosen to cast us aside. Pull your troops back and return home immediately. We have need of you.

The duke sealed the letter with his signet. His oldest son had been his general since the day he turned twenty-one. A true tactician, he led their armies in the field against the orcs in one of the most battle-heavy fronts to protect Bathel’s Gap, the long path through otherwise impassible mountains. It didn’t lead straight to the capital, but was certainly one of the easier paths there.

“Let’s see the king deal with the consequences of his own decisions for once.” The Duke muttered darkly.

He held the letter in his hands. It felt heavy, as though the slim piece of paper weighed more than his own sword. It might as well have. Its contents would hurl him into a situation that he could not turn back from.

Heading for the door, the duke continued to think. Once he had his troops here, what exactly did he plan to do with them? That was the real question. Would he simply defend himself from the king’s possible retribution? Or would it be better to deal with the other threats at his doorstep? After all, his neighbors weren’t in any better situation than he was. And he happened to have an idea of who he might turn to for a timely alliance.

Perhaps it was time for the Redcliffe duchy to expand again.

B2 Chapter 58: Strategic Citizenship

B2 Chapter 58: Strategic Citizenship

Tiberius blinked. It took all of his effort to keep his face impassive at the Grand Mage’s sudden declaration. He half expected the eccentric old man to burst out into laughter or announce that he’d been joking about joining the Legion. But the sparkle of unabashed excitement in his eyes made it clear that this was no prank.

Yet before Tiberius had a chance to even consider his answer, he heard a stampede of heavy footsteps rushing down the hall. A moment later, the door was flung open with such force it nearly splintered rather than swinging on its hinges.

Tiberius leapt to his feet as a veritable tide of Legionnaires poured into the room, their weapons already drawn.They spread out across the room in a flurry of activity and leveled their swords at the mage without hesitation. Sweat ran down their brows as a slightly out of breath centurion called over to him.

“Emperor Tiberius! Are you unharmed?”

Grand Mage Claude glanced up disinterestedly, but remained where he sat as though the matter didn’t concern him. Even though nothing could have been further from the truth. In fact, the borderline panic on his men’s faces was entirely due to the mage’s own actions. As far as the Legion knew, the emperor had been kidnapped from right underneath their noses and could well have been held captive or dead. After the near-miss with that [Rogue] woman’s assasination attempt, another failure like this was unacceptable.

Normally, Tiberius would have agreed and punished them quite severely. But he well understood how powerless his men were in this situation. Talking to the mage had only further confirmed his initial suspicions. If this man wanted to kill him—or even wipe the entire city off the face of the map—it would have already happened.

Still, it made him consider once more how to improve the capabilities of his personal guard. While their level would necessarily always be tied to that of the Legion, perhaps they could rethink what skills the men prioritized to better respond to unforeseen circumstances like this. And he wouldn’t trust any non-Legionnaires with the duty, even if they had some kind of [Bodyguard] class.

"I am well, centurion," Tiberius said, gesturing for him to be at ease. "I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that it is unwarranted. Please take your men and wait outside."

The centurion stood unmoving as he scanned the room and evaluated the situation himself. His eyes narrowed as though searching for other threats or evidence that Tiberius was being coerced. After a few seconds, he snapped a salute. “Yes, sir!”

At the man’s orders, the rest of the Legionnaires began filing out of the room much more slowly than they’d come. By this point the men had calmed down slightly, due in part to their commander’s own composure. But there still remained a certain wire-tight tension throughout the room, as if a string was about to snap. These men were trained soldiers and every single one of them remained on edge.

“Forgive them.” Tiberius lowered himself back into his seat with a deep sigh. Claude remained entirely unbothered by the interruption, so relaxed that he may as well have been lounging in the park or preparing himself for bed. “My men took my sudden disappearance as reason to fear for my safety.”

Claude, waved him away. "Oh, don't worry about it. That’s entirely my fault. Like I said, it probably wasn’t the best manners to just teleport you suddenly like that. Though I guess I should have gone the extra mile and just taken us to my tower. Far less likely to be interrupted there."

Tiberius raised an eyebrow at that. Such an act would have likely sent his men into a continent-wide manhunt. And given the strangeness of the man before him, he wouldn’t blame them. It certainly would have felt as though the mage intended to keep him hostage as a test subject.

“Now… where were we?” Claude continued. “Ah, yes! I want to be a Legionnaire. How do I join?”

“That is not so simple of an ask as you may assume.” Tiberius replied. “A Legionnaire must be a citizen of Rome.That means being born into a family of Roman citizens or completing a period of military service as an auxiliary. However, that period is usually long enough that any man who becomes a citizen by that path would be old enough to retire, and certainly too old to become a Legionnaire himself. Often it would be his sons who joined in his stead. Only then can you be recruited and begin training to join the Legion.”

“Well that sounds needlessly picky.” Claude said flatly. “Those are the only ways to become a citizen?”

"Those are certainly the most common. However…” Tiberius mulled the matter over. “There are certain powers that an emperor has. His word is law, after all.”

That wasn’t entirely true, Tiberius knew. But until they established a senate to reprimand and advise him, it may as well be.

“Perfect! So just make me a citizen then.” Claude grinned.

Tiberius hesitated, then shook his head. “That is not something I am willing to do so quickly. There is a reason why citizenship is difficult to earn. It ensures that Roman citizens understand our culture, our values, and have a vested interest in carrying them forward. That is something that I have little desire to undercut.”

Despite the obvious fact that adding the mage’s strength to that of the Legion would surely be a boon to them all, acting rashly here could set a poor precedent. True, they needed a way to replenish their ranks—one that wouldn’t require multiple generations and at least a decade of time. But he didn’t want to dilute the Legion by adding random strangers at the drop of a hat, powerful though they may be. Not to mention that he wasn’t entirely sure whether he trusted the man yet.

“Additionally, I have no guarantee that the System will allow new members to be added.” Tiberius continued in an attempt to soften his rejection of the proposal. “Perhaps it will enforce adherence to the laws we are familiar with.”

Claude let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Unlikely. I’ve found that the System most often reflects reality as it is rather than dictates it. So if you change the laws or use your power as emperor or whatever, the System should take that into account.”

Tiberius frowned. That certainly wasn’t how he saw things. In particular, the effects of assigning stat points seemed to fly in the face of such a proposal. But saying as much felt like it could potentially derail the entire conversation for hours. Perhaps Clyde simply had a better understanding of the System than he did. Or perhaps the mage was wrong.

“If that is the case, then good. However, it does not change the other issues at play.” Tiberius remained firm. “There will be conditions to be met before I allow you to become one of my men. Perhaps not the same requirements that we have put forth historically, but requirements nonetheless. At minimum I will insist that you spend time among my people and learn of our ways.”

As he finished speaking, Tiberius tensed. He half expected the mage to press the issue and force Tiberius into accepting him into the Legion regardless. But his resolve was firm. Until he’d had a bit more time to know the mage’s character, the man would remain an outside observer.

Claude sighed, his head falling back against the headrest. “Fine, fine. Just do me a favor and don’t take too long to set all this up, all right? I’ve got more years on me than you have hairs on your head, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend another decade doing busywork. I’d much rather just get started on my research. Especially something with this much potential.”

Tiberius allowed his shoulders to relax slightly. He nodded. “I assure you that I will. Our partnership promises to be beneficial to both parties. Although I am still uncertain why you consider the Legion to have such promise.”

“Are you kidding?” Claude exclaimed incredulously. “Do you even realize how absurd you people are? The amount of stamina you people are throwing around should be enough to send a normal level four into a coma, not to mention a whole group of them! Why, if your mana has those kinds of reserves as well… That kind of power could fuel spells that have only been theoretical until now. It would change the very face of spellcasting.”

The mage was practically salivating at the idea. For a brief moment, Tiberius began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He began to reconsider the wisdom of giving this man access to such power. Then again, if he’d be using it for their sake…

"What scale of things do you believe you could achieve with power like that?” Tiberius prodded. “Could you level a city?"

“Pah.” The old mage waved a gnarled hand dismissively. “You’re thinking too small. I can already do that. Hell, consider even a continent. Just give me a few months to whip up the right kind of spell framework, round up some mana-rich materials, and re-familiarize myself with the right skills. No, this… this would be something else entirely.”

"Ah."

Tiberius fell silent. Suddenly, it made a lot more sense why this man wasn’t particularly interested in getting involved in conflict. It wouldn’t exactly be a conflict with that kind of power.

"...I will introduce you to our own mages. Or rather, what we call mages.” The Legatus moved past the topic. “They can explain their approach, experiences, and so on. Perhaps you can provide advice to refine their skill selections and have your students train them in the local custom of mages. In exchange, they will answer your questions to the best of their abilities and assist you in your experiments—within reason.” Tiberius added pointedly.

Claude’s grin widened as he rubbed his hands together eagerly. “That sounds good to me. Well, don’t keep me waiting! Where are they?”

“I’ll have one of my men show you to them.” Tiberius assured him. “I will also instruct my second in command to speak with you about his own research into our class. He is currently away on a mission, but I will have him sent your way as soon as he returns.”

Tiberius hid a slight smile at the thought. Who knows? Perhaps the pair would get along well, given their mutual enjoyment of research.

Or maybe Tiberius had just doomed the poor tribune to be incessantly harried by the old man for the foreseeable future. Either way, the idea was quite entertaining.

B2 Chapter 57: Duking it Out

B2 Chapter 57: Duking it Out

Marcus’s steps echoed through the halls of the duke’s estate, bouncing off the paintings and suits of armor that lined its walls. The sound seemed all too loud in the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Though he didn’t feel too bad about the noise. Not when Gaius’s armor made five times the racket.

Charles, the duke’s chamberlain, glanced back at them and sniffed. Marcus could sense his annoyance like a palpable aura, and not just at the noise. He likely took the Legionnaire’s insistence on wearing his usual armor as a slight against his lord’s honor. The man had given his word that they would not be harmed during these negotiations, after all.

But Marcus couldn’t honestly blame the man for being wary. They were essentially at the man’s mercy, and although they still held his daughter as collateral for the moment, who was to say he didn’t have some other trick up his sleeve? Never mind that the pair had been forbidden to bring weapons or additional guards.

“I still don’t understand why you want to do this,” Gaius muttered as they walked. “Why not simply take the gold, hand over the girl? We can approach the Duke later after he gets his daughter back and isn’t on edge. Or once he’s backed into a corner.”

“Patience, friend.” Marcus soothed his companion. “Trust me. Have I steered you wrong yet? Besides, I don’t want her poisoning the well, so to speak.”

Gaius sighed. “No. But there's always room for a first time. I hope you know what you’re doing, Marcus.”

He wasn’t the only one. Despite Marcus’s outward confidence, he had no real assurances that the duke’s disposition and situation really would be as he hoped. The man may well consider any attempt to sweet-talk him as an insult of the highest order.

Marcus glanced at the chamberlain walking ahead of them. The man obviously didn’t trust the pair, which was entirely reasonable given that they had ransomed his master’s family. But regardless, he still had duties to fulfill.

The man led them to an ornately carved wooden door. He knocked twice, waited, then pushed it open. “Milord. I’ve brought them.”

A hard voice emanated from within. “Enter.”

Marcus and Gaius obliged, stepping into a large study. Rows upon rows of books lined dark wood shelves that stretched toward the arched ceiling above. But rather than the thick tomes and rather practical decor of the room itself, his eyes were immediately drawn to the figure standing behind the large desk at the center.

The duke was a tall man with a far straighter back than his advanced age would suggest. The silver in his hair had progressed long past just a swath at the temples to conquer the majority of his head. However, it was clearly losing the fight against the growing bald spot spreading across its top. His face was clean-shaven, and his bushy eyebrows framed hard eyes that held every bit of intelligence and ambition Marcus would expect to see in a sharp twenty-year-old.

His clothing mirrored the study itself—well-tailored, tasteful, but practical and not overly gaudy. Behind the desk, Marcus could see that he wore a sword at his hip, its pommel worn and minimally decorated. The style suggested that this was not the blade of an arrogant nobleman, whose blade was a display piece meant more for show than drawing blood. It was instead a functional sword, likely an heirloom that had been passed down for generations.

Marcus imagined what the man must have been like in his prime. If he were about to write a hero for a ballad, he imagined the duke of forty years ago would have been quite a fine subject. Nowadays, he could still be worth writing about. Though perhaps he would play the role of a mentor, one who died at a timely moment to give the hero the motivation necessary to continue on.

All of this Marcus took in as they approached the desk. The sight gave him hope. This man was someone practical, honorable, and intelligent enough to see the truth of a matter objectively. In other words, he was someone Marcus could reason with.

The door clicked behind them as Charles bowed and left. The duke’s face was a mask of neutrality, one that Marcus was well familiar with. No noble got very far without one. At the same time, the man’s steady gaze seemed to assess every aspect of the pair before him, from their clothing down to the price of their armor and accessories.

“Gentlemen.” The Duke of Redcliffe began. “My understanding is that you insisted on speaking to me in person, despite my envoy having full weight to negotiate my daughter’s release. I certainly hope that you make it worth my time.”

Despite their hostages, the man’s initial address aimed to position him as completely in control of the situation. A smart move, and one that showed his confidence.

At his side, Gaius strode forward to claim one of the plush chairs sitting before the desk. He didn’t even acknowledge the duke’s words as he sat. The two stared at each other steadily. Despite the outward neutrality of their expressions, Marcus could feel the tension in the room ratchet up several levels as the young officer challenged the elder noble.

Marcus decided that it would be best to defuse things at least somewhat. He swept into a respectful bow. “Duke of Redcliffe. It is a pleasure to meet you. I believe that some introductions are in order. This is Gaius Pompeius Agrippa, the tribunus laticlavius of the Roman Legion and second only to the Emperor Tiberius Rufius Maro himself. He comes with full diplomatic authority.”

The Duke was silent for a moment before slowly lowering himself to sit in his own chair. He inclined his head slightly, never breaking eye contact with Gaius.

“Tribune Gaius. It is a pleasure.”

Gaius returned the nod. “Duke of Redcliffe. Likewise. Pleasure.”

Both men’s tones made it clear that it was not, in fact, a pleasure.

Marcus continued on, unfazed by the brewing enmity between the two men. “I am Marcus Silvanus D'Angelo, [Royal Bard] and assistant to the Romans. I act as a kind of cultural interpreter, one that aims to clear up misunderstandings between our parties. After all, they come from afar and their culture varies greatly from that of Novara in some ways.”

A flash of recognition crossed the duke’s expression, but he didn’t falter. After several moments of studying his counterpart, the man turned to Marcus. “Before we go any further, I must confirm something. You say that this man is second in command to an emperor. Why, then, is he only level four?”

Marcus almost blinked. He honestly had not expected such a direct question so early. He’d expected far more dancing about the topic, more probing and overtures before they actually began to speak of anything substantive. Evidently, the duke was serious about them not wasting his time.

He took a deep breath. If that were the case, then perhaps it would be best to follow suit. Even if that meant facing the man with truths that on their face seemed unbelievable.

“Because they are new to this world,” Marcus stated simply. “When I said that they came from afar, I meant it. The Romans are not native to this world. They arrived mere months ago. Yet despite this, they have made great strides in leveling during that short period. And their strength greatly outstrips their level… As the adventurers who were sent to destroy them learned quite acutely.”

The duke’s frown deepened at that. “Then they are summons? Tied to this world by a summoner?”

Marcus shook his head. “They are not. Though they were indeed summoned, they are permanent flesh and blood humans rather than ephemeral constructs or creatures that can be so easily banished. This is now their home.”

Gaius gave him a sidelong glance. Likely the man didn’t approve of the amount of information Marcus was sharing. But he felt it was important to provide an adequate background. It would also do wonders to build up trust between himself and the duke—trust that he’d soon need.

The duke narrowed his eyes. “And you saw fit to ally yourselves with these foreign invaders? Or would you call yourself their leader?”

At that, Gaius snorted, and Marcus shook his head. “I am no more a leader than a man strapped to the back of a bull can be called a rider. I am merely an observer, one that seeks to smooth negotiations on their behalf—for their sake and that of others. For you see, Roman culture and the Legion’s classes thrive off of conquest, expanding their territory, and occupying greater and greater swaths of land.”

“So you come to threaten me.” The duke said flatly.

“Far from it. I come to provide you with an alternative to fending off this threat. For they are a threat. If their accomplishments so far are not proof enough of that, then perhaps their alliance with the elves shall be more convincing.”

“An alliance with the elves?” The duke repeated slowly. “I know bards are meant to spin tales, but try to at least make them believable.”

Marcus spread his hands helplessly. “If you doubt my words, I’d be more than happy to introduce you to the elven envoy accompanying us. Or the contingent of elven fighters that accompanied him.”

The duke stared at him, evaluating his words. Marcus projected nothing but confidence and open honesty. While his skills were usually used for manipulation and the twisting of words, today they were being put to use in quite a different way. To try and explain to this noble exactly how fucked he’d be if he went against the Legion.

“...Why would the reclusive elves choose to ally themselves with this group of summoned foreigners?”

Marcus smiled. “I’m glad you asked.”

And so he began telling the tale he’d heard from the elves. About the history of the Roman Empire in this world. About how their empire had spanned the entirety of the continent, so long ago that only the most long-lived races remembered their names, about how they had ruled over all before eventually collapsing and being scrubbed from the annals of history, albeit not completely.

The duke listened intently, his neutral expression remaining firmly in place. But it was clear that he was listening. His words and their gravitas were being taken seriously. And no wonder. After all, Marcus was giving one of the best performances of his life.

At his side, he could feel Gaius remain still and unmoving. The officer was tense, clearly not understanding why Marcus had chosen to share information so freely with this man. But whenever their eyes met, the message that Marcus sent him was clear—“trust me”.

“...All of that is to say, the Romans have returned to our world once again,” Marcus concluded. “And it seems that they are dissatisfied with its state. Many times have I heard them bemoan our lack of proper infrastructure and progress.”

“...I see.” The duke said simply once he had finished. “Let’s say I believe your story. If what you say is true, then it seems I would have every reason to warn the king of this nascent threat and rally our forces against them.”

“You certainly could do that.” Marcus agreed easily. “Although you have far more confidence in your victory than I do. Honestly, after seeing what these men can do, I somewhat doubt that anything less than Novara’s full military or the top adventuring parties in the country would be able to take them on. And that’s assuming the king would be willing to pull troops out of the west… or even listen in the first place.”

The slightest hint of a grimace flickered across the duke’s face, and Marcus knew he’d hit the nail on the head. His estimations of both the kingdom’s state and the duke’s feelings about it had been right on the mark.

Marcus braced himself. This was it. It was time for the real pitch.

“If I may continue to be honest… Even without the Romans invading, Novara is already in dire straits. Between the war and the state of its leadership, the kingdom is treading on thin ice. And that was before I left the capital. Now?” Marcus shook his head. “I doubt that it will last another few years before things devolve into turmoil in some manner or another.”

“That certainly sounds like the rationalizations of a traitor.” The duke sneered, but his heart wasn’t entirely in it. Marcus could feel all too clearly how his words resonated with the man.

“Perhaps.” He gave the duke a lopsided grin. “But you don’t become an entertainer of renown without being observant. And as one who prides himself in his knowledge of stories, I am fairly certain that I’ve heard this one plenty of times before. Which is why I wanted to speak to you.”

Marcus gestured toward both himself and Gaius for an appropriate amount of dramatic effect. “War is coming to Novara, and sooner rather than later. What do you say to joining the winning side?”

B2 Chapter 56: Moving on Up

B2 Chapter 56: Moving on Up

Quintus stared at the endless swirls of letters and numbers that filled his vision. The unending waterfall of characters had long since lost any meaning. Yet he felt that if he closed his eyes, he would still see them there, dancing as if to taunt him.

He rubbed at his face tiredly. Nightmares of paperwork and endless inventory reports had comprised the bulk of his days lately. Sleep wasn’t even a reprieve with how often they’d been invading his dreams. Four whole days behind a desk, with nothing to fight and only a few things to shout at… It had him on edge to say the least.

But before Quintus began to seriously consider flipping over his desk and setting the entire headquarters on fire, a sharp knock sounded at the door. He looked up, a glimmer of hope daring to sparkle in his eyes.

"Come in," he called.

The door swung open. A centurion stepped inside, his plumed helmet tucked beneath one arm. His brow was furrowed slightly in an expression of mild concern or perhaps confusion. The man snapped a salute, which Quintus returned.

“Centurion Secundus.” Quintus addressed him. If he recalled, the man was one of those assigned to lead the newly formed auxiliary units.

"Sir.” Secundus nodded. “Something has come up that might require your attention. It pertains to the auxiliaries’ classes. There has been a development.”

Quintus stood up and was around the desk in a moment. “Understood. Let's go.*

Secundus blinked. “Er… go where, sir?”

“To the auxiliaries.”

“Sir? Would you like to hear the report first?”

“Give it to me as we walk.” Quintus ordered, already headed for the door. Secundus fell into step beside him.

As they began a quick march through the halls and toward the training fields, Quintus found himself having to slow his pace multiple times. It took him a moment to determine why. Evidently, he had enough pent-up aggression and desire to spar or outright fight the trainees that [Warpath] had activated for him. It was an interesting discovery, one that he made note of for later.

It also meant that Secundus didn't have time to give a full report before they arrived. He did manage to convey that some of the auxiliaries had undergone a class change—something that was borderline unheard of in this world. As for the consequences of that change… well, that was something that they were still looking into. Which suited Quintus just fine.

The training fields quickly came into view. A full cohort of auxiliaries spread across their expanse, all moving through some manner of practice or exercise. All except for a small handful.

Six men stood at attention as they waited at the edge of the fields. While Quintus couldn't have named any of them, they certainly did look familiar. He identified them as some of their earliest trainees, ones that he had personally supervised on one or two occasions. 

Quintus stopped before the nervous-looking men and turned to address the first. “What was your class and level before?”

“[Apprentice Blacksmith] level six, sir!” Replied a young man built like a bull.

“I see. And what is it now?”

“Erm… [Auxiliary Legionnaire (Blacksmith)], sir. Level one.” This time, the reply was a little less confident. “It’s a rare class.”

Quintus’s eyebrows rose. He turned to Secundus, who nodded in confirmation. The Primus Pilus himself didn't have [Appraisal], meaning he had no way to personally verify the young man's words. Luckily, others did.

“And your stats?” Secundus prodded.

“They… they’re lower now. Almost back to what they were when I was level one. The physical ones are a bit higher, though.”

Quintus fell silent for a moment. “Tell me what happened.”

The broad-shouldered young man almost shifted in place, but stopped himself. Much to the centurion's approval. “It was during our weekly class stone visit, sir. When I touched it, it was different than usual—”

One of the other men snorted. Quintus whipped toward him, a balloon-nosed youth with a plethora of freckles. “Is something funny, recruit?”

“No, sir!” The youth stood stiffly. “I just thought Paul was making a bit of an understatement.”

“Explain.”

“When he touched the stone, he lit up like a gods-damned bonfire. We all did.”

Quintus nodded and turned back to the blacksmith. ‘I see. Continue, recruit.”

“Well…” the youth gulped. “I saw my level, stats and class. Once I could see again, I also saw that I had new skills available. A lot of them. All of my slots were empty, though, so I lost my levels in the ones I already had slotted.”

“I see. What kinds of skills were made available to you?”

“All sorts of things. Fighting skills, movement skills, logistics skills… There were even crafting skills for other professions. Heck, there were even skills that I know I turned down in the past. Like [Breathing].”

The auxiliary fell silent as Quintus mulled over the information. He was no Gaius who enjoyed plumbing the depths of the System's secrets and inner workings. But even he could see how significant the development was.

The question of how to replenish the Legion's ranks had weighed on the minds of leadership for quite some time now. Training the auxiliaries had been the obvious solution, as that was what they had always done. Yet would they truly be able to join the Legion? Would they be able to integrate and make use of the same System-based benefits that the rest of the men enjoyed? Or would they simply be bodies filling in the gaps, forever separate from the whole?

Now they had an answer. Part of one, at least. It seemed that the System was beginning to recognize these auxiliaries as part of their forces, though not yet the Legion itself.

That alone raised a whole host of questions. Would Quintus be able to feel their deaths like he did those of his brothers-in-arms? What exactly had allowed them to undergo this change, and what more needed to happen before they could join the Legion itself? Traditionally, the process of becoming a true Legionnaire took years and was only open to citizens of Rome. Yet they could scarcely afford to be as strict in a world where they were the only true Romans.

Quintus remained silent, tapping his fingers along the pommel of his sword as he thought. As many questions as this raised, there remained plenty of things they could not test. Not immediately. But he was certain that the matter would be of great interest to Tiberius and Gaius both.

He turned to Secundus. “Confirm whether or not their own skills have been added to the Legion’s list of skills.”

Secundus nodded. The loss of the men’s skill levels wasn’t of particular concern. Not if it meant they gained access to so many more. Quintus actually doubted that any of them had much worth writing home about in the first place. Plus, any skills they’d leveled as part of the auxiliaries shouldn’t be difficult to raise back up again—provided they weren’t shirking their training.

Quintus thought of something else. “Your level… how much experience do you need to advance it?”

The blacksmith gave him a quizzical look. “Just the normal amount, sir. Why?”

The centurion turned to the others. “Is that the same for all of you?” At their nods, he grunted. That certainly was a difference from the Legion’s own case. Plus, the fact that these men were level one instead of four like the Legionnaires also suggested the auxiliaries weren’t pooling their experience the same way. Perhaps that made sense though. Auxiliaries were never part of the Legion. They were a separate support group attached to it.

That raised even more questions though. Would a unit of auxiliaries level up together, then? Would they share stamina the way Legionnaires seemed to? And what if an auxiliary gained citizenship, then advanced to become a Legionnaire? Quintus couldn't remember the last time he’d seen that happen, though he’d seen many auxiliaries gain citizenship after decades of fighting.

And if their stats did reset like this… He knew that having a high constitution could help a person live longer. Many times longer than they should. If an old man with high constitution joined the Legion, could the reset kill him?

Quintus mentally filed those questions and more away. As curious as he was, he didn’t have the time or ability to answer them now. That would be Gaius’s job. Still, he’d make note of them in the report he’d have to make about this.

“There’s more.” Secundus added as Quintus thought. “It seems that their skill slots have also undergone changes. Two of them are now group slots like the Legion has. They lack granularity though and can only be assigned across the entire auxiliary unit—which the System currently recognizes as only these six.”

“How do you know?” Quintus asked.

Secundus shrugged. “I can’t be certain. But these are the only ones we’ve found so far.”

“I see… All right. Inform me immediately if that changes. And ensure that they assign [Warpath] and [Coordinated Bulwark] to mirror the Legion.” Quintus felt as though it were a reasonable decision. If Tiberius wanted to change it, then he certainly could when he returned. But until then, they could work to catch up to the Legion in those skills.

“Yes, sir.”

Quintus turned toward the six men. “Is there anything else I should know?”

The group shook their heads. Despite the setback of being returned to level one, they all showed obvious excitement at the development. It wasn't hard to understand why. These men had all joined the auxiliaries with nothing more than common or uncommon classes. The idea of gaining a rare class such as this, along with all of the stat points it promised was like a dream come true. Not to mention the immediate access to rare skills.

The centurion nodded. “Very well. Secundus, I will be pulling these six aside for today. Until the Legatus says otherwise, any men that receive an Auxiliary class will be put through more rigorous training to bring them up to Legionnaire standards. I will provide details as to what that should entail later.”

Secundus saluted as he looked past the six men and toward the remaining auxiliaries. Busy as they were, most couldn't help but sneak glances in this direction. More than a few of them even looked jealous. 

Quintus frowned. That wouldn’t do. While jealousy could spur men to achieve greater things, it could just as easily poison the cohesion of the unit. It was a possibility he had to address.

“Auxiliaries!” His shout carried across the training fields, immediately drawing the eye of every man across it. Quintus cleared his throat and gestured to the six behind him.

"These men before you have proven their loyalty and dedication to the Legion. Because of their efforts, they have been raised far above the common man—a reality proved by their newfound classes and the gifts associated with them. Should they continue to apply themselves, they may even one day become brothers to us in the Legion—and thus become powerful enough to send their enemies quaking where they stand.”

Quintus clasped his hands behind his back. “Look to them as an example of what can be accomplished when you put forth the proper effort. Strive to not only meet, but exceed their example, and perhaps you too shall be rewarded in kind.”

There was a shout of affirmation and a flurry of salutes as the Primus Pilus finished. Looking out across the sea of faces revealed a whole variety of responses—awe, envy, and still some jealousy. But in the eyes of each man, he also saw something else. A spark of determination and excitement.

The chance to improve their lot in life with a rare class was a priceless opportunity. Now that attaining something like that was shown to actually be possible, Quintus wouldn't expect them to put forth anything less than double their efforts.

He truly hoped that they would deliver. If they did one day prove themselves worthy of becoming his brothers, he would welcome them with open arms.

Quintus turned to the six. “Follow me. We have some more work to do.”

The men nodded, but it was clear that they were curious. One dared to speak up. “What would you have us do, sir?”

He turned to look at the men. He would need to make a full report on this matter, and the more detail he could give, the better.

“We need to determine what happens when you level up. For example, what kind of stat points your class earns.” Quintus gave them a wolfish grin. “And what better way to do that than to go hunting?”

B2 Chapter 55: Curiouser and Curiouser

B2 Chapter 55: Curiouser and Curiouser

Tiberius tensed as the old mage appeared next to him. The sheer speed of the man had to be the result of some sort of spell. At least, that’s what he hoped. The alternative was that this mage’s level was so high that he could almost instantly move through multiple ranks of Legionnaires without so much as breaking a sweat.

Neither option was a good one.

Before Tiberius even had time to draw breath, the mage had already launched into a battery of questions.

“You're the leader of these soldiers, yes? You must be. I see the nexus of power and how it weaves around you. Tell me, are your men really level four? If not, then I must know how they managed to confound both my [Mana Sense] and my apprentice's [Appraisal]. Perhaps you are a specialist with a full suite of high-level minion skills? Although… no, you can't be the same level as the others. Where does your men's seemingly limitless stamina come from then? Do the same effects apply to their mana use?”

The old man’s hand darted forth with the speed of a striking viper and seized Tiberius's wrist, ensuring he couldn't escape the onslaught of questions. His expression was one of enthusiasm that bordered on mania. He didn't even seem to notice the dozen Legionnaire guards whose blades were now leveled directly at him.

Tiberius lifted his free hand, ordering them to stand down. If this man wanted him dead, there was nothing he could do about it. That much was abundantly clear. 

Fortunately, despite how it looked, Tiberius didn't feel any malice from the man. Just unrestrained curiosity that bordered on mania. He reminded Tiberius of one of those madmen some called philosophers. 

Tiberius cleared his throat to interrupt the mage’s ramblings. He spoke in a calm, level tone that didn't betray how unsettled he felt. "In my culture, it is common courtesy to introduce oneself  upon a first meeting. You speak to Emperor Tiberius Rufius Maro of Rome. By what name might I address you?"

The old man stopped his tirade mid-sentence and blinked. He straightened, releasing Tiberius's arm before taking a half step back. "Ah. It seems that I've forgotten my manners. You'll have to forgive me, I don't get out much anymore. I am Grand Mage Claude Arcturus. You can call me Claude. Now, about your level—"

Tiberius held up a hand before the eccentric mage got going again. "This is hardly the place to hold an extended conversation—and I suspect that your questions will require a discussion at length." He remarked dryly. "Come. Let us relocate to a more suitable location."

He noted that the man still hadn't so much as glanced at the ring of Legionnaires pointing swords in his direction. His apprentices didn't seem to pay them much mind either, as though the armed soldiers were hardly worth consideration.

"Ah, right you are!" Claude grinned. "Where do you want to talk?"

Tiberius gestured to the mansion in the distance."The former baron's estate should do nicely. If you'll follow me—"

"Bah, walking is too slow." The bedraggled mage waved him off. "Let me."

Before Tiberius could even object, the man had seized his wrist once again. From this distance it became clear that this mage wasn't simply old like his apprentices were. He was ancient. His wrinkles had wrinkles.

The world seemed to shift and suddenly Tiberius was standing in the baron's study. He stumbled slightly from the disorientation. The mage released him, crossing to one of the plush chairs and flopping into it like he owned the place.

"There we are!" Claude sighed contentedly. "See? Much faster.”

Tiberius was forced to revise his assessment of the man. If his apprentices were walking calamities, then the master himself may as well have been the incarnation of a god descended to the earth.

He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths until the world stopped spinning. “A bit of warning would have been appreciated. Especially considering that my men may perceive that as an attack.”

“Ah, you’ll have to excuse my manners. I simply was too excited.” Claude waved the rebuke off in a manner that suggested he wasn’t even remotely apologetic.

Tiberius could only shake his head. He crossed the room and sank into the chair on his side of the table. His heart rate was only now decreasing back to normal levels. True to his word, Claude wasted no time in peppering him with questions before he’d even finished sitting.

“So! Your men. Where does their seemingly boundless stamina come from? Are they constructs, or flesh and blood humans as they appear? What skills do you have slotted to enable all of this?”

Tiberius raised his hand again to interrupt the man. “Grand Mage Claude—”

The mage snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, just call me Claude. I’ve never been one to insist on formality.”

“...Very well. Claude.” Tiberius corrected himself, though it still felt somehow wrong to refer to the man so casually. “The information you are requesting is not something to be shared lightly. I would classify these answers as closely-guarded secrets of Rome and its military. For that reason, I see no reason to give them away so readily. So tell me—why should I share this information with you.”

Claude blinked. The question seemed to surprise him. He leaned back in his chair. “Well, because I’m interested in it, that’s why.”

Tiberius waited for him to elaborate, but Claude remained silent. The Legatus sighed internally. “And what reason do I have to indulge your interest?”

In all honesty, placing himself between the mage and something that he wanted didn’t strike Tiberius as a good idea. But the man had yet to resort to aggression, which made him a little more comfortable with pushing the issue. Besides, he would not simply roll over and show his belly out of fear.

“Because things that I find interesting need to be researched, young man.” Claude explained patiently as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They represent holes in our understanding of the universe that need to be filled. Do you not feel the wonder at the sensation of mana flowing through your channels? Does it not make you want to uncover the deeper mechanisms of its workings, the secrets that underpin the very core of spellcraft?”

“I am not a mage.” Tiberius said flatly. Being called a “young man” was a new one for him. And while some may have found it flattering considering the amount of gray in his hair, he certainly didn’t feel that way. Not when the man before him was so clearly ancient.

“Ah! So you don’t have a mage-type class!” Claude grinned. “Now I'm even more curious.”

Tiberius's eyes narrowed. The man's eccentricity made it too easy to mistake him for a fool. He had to be more careful, lest he reveal even more information without intending to.

“Well, then perhaps I shouldn't expect you to understand the inexorable draw of this world's many mysteries.” Claude continued. “Regardless. I’m certain that my findings would be of use to you. In a practical sense, not just in an academic one.”

“You would share your findings, then?”

“Of course! It’s only polite.” Claude agreed easily.

Tiberius considered that, then shook his head. “You seem confident in yourself. But aside from your assurances, I have no guarantee that your findings really will be of use.”

“I am confident. Haven’t you heard of my works in the field of material enchantment?” At Tiberius’s blank look, the man sighed. “Kids these days. They never remember to credit their elders…”

“Is this your specialty then?”

“Oh, no, I got bored with that centuries ago.” Claude scoffed. “My latest area of research is in [Meteormancy]. Weather magic. Not the study of how to drop big rocks on your enemies like some younguns seem to believe… Although I will admit that I did dabble in such things during my younger years. Back in the day, I could summon a fireball big enough to level this city!”

The man sighed nostalgically. His words reminded Tiberius once again of a philosopher. Although the simple fact that this mage’s research could generate spells capable of such destruction earned him quite a bit more respect.

Tiberius’s brow furrowed. “My understanding is that it’s exceedingly rare for a person to change specialties. Especially one of your abilities.”

“Eh, that’s only for people who aren’t confident in their skills. Or rather, their ability to level skills from scratch. Honestly, I can’t imagine limiting myself like that.” The mage shook his head with an amused chuckle. “Granted, mages all have a few core skills that they need to take in order to even practice magic, but the others? I make sure to change them out every time I find sufficient reason to.”

That bit of information got filed away for later. There had been a few Legionnaires that dabbled in skills that might as well have been magic. But evidently, actual mages were a different beast entirely. Perhaps this was why they hadn’t yet managed to produce a mage like the one they’d fought a few weeks ago.

Claude continued. “Anyway. That’s why I’m so confident. There’s a reason they call me a Grand Mage, you know. Heck, they should call me a Grander Mage with how many fields I’ve revolutionized. I’ve only caught the barest glimpse of your men at work and I could already give you half a dozen ways to better use your seemingly inexhaustible supply of stamina—and that’s without even knowing its source.”

“And you’re certain that our… abilities… will hold your interest for more than a fleeting moment?” Tiberius pressed.

“Well, that depends. I’m certainly interested at the moment, so that’s promising. And if you and your people are related to the strange phenomenon we’ve been picking up in this area—”

“Phenomenon?” Tiberius interrupted.

Claude nodded. "Why, yes! A few months ago, we were testing the latest improvements to [Call Lightning]. Fascinating spell, by the way. Very flexible. There are so many ways to tweak it during casting. I’ve recently started experimenting with changing the radius via the specific application of external foci, and—”

Tiberius cleared his throat. Claude blinked, then rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Anyway… during our experiments we picked up an incredible surge of energy—more than once. On a scale that should be impossible to produce by any known entity on this planet. Any known by me, at least, and I know a lot.

The mage spread his hands wide. “That's why we're here. To find out what in the world could have caused it. And so far, you and your men are the best lead I've got.”

Tiberius rested his chin atop his hands. From the looks of it, having this mage on their side could be an incredible boon. While they had made great progress on understanding this world and its System, magic was the one field that had proved most difficult for them to grasp. To have an expert like this teach them would surely be an incredible help. And if he were willing to do more…

“... Perhaps we can reach an arrangement.” Tiberius said. “I have a few conditions.”

“Fire away.” Claude motioned for him to get on with it. 

“First, you will share any and all findings with the Legion in a timely manner—and only the Legion.” Tiberius emphasized. “I have no desire for our enemies to benefit from your research.”

“Done. Next?”

“Second, you will instruct a subset of my men in the use of magic and its related skills.”

“I'm far too busy.” Claude tilted his head. “But I suppose my apprentices can do that. Next?”

“Finally…” Tiberius scrutinized the mage’s expression. “You will agree to directly assist the Legion in matters of war.”

Claude made a sour face. “Have to say no to that one. I don't like taking part in wars. I have better ways to spend my time. Besides, what group happens to lay claim to a piece of land for the given moment doesn't interest me.”

Tiberius nodded. That last condition had been a longshot, but he'd decided it was worth trying anyway. “Very well. What about your apprentices?”

“They can help unless I need them for something. After all, they are my apprentices.” Claude pointed out. 

“Understood. And your… pet?”

The mage brightened. “Oh, Rufus? I wouldn't mind if you took him out for some exercise. Though he won't hurt people. I trained him well.”

Tiberius bit back the urge to contradict the man, choosing instead to nod. “Then it seems we have a deal.”

“Wonderful! Now, for my first question—”

“Fortunately for both of us,” Tiberius interrupted for what felt like the dozenth time, “One of my subordinates has taken the liberty of documenting our class and its capabilities. Here.”

It took a moment of rooting around for Tiberius to find what he was looking for—Gaius’s reports. The second in command has continued taking charge of the efforts to research the System and compiled his findings into a single ever-expanding collection of papers. It was a useful reference for Tiberius, even if the boy’s writing remained far more verbose than he would have preferred.

Tiberius slid the stack over toward Claude. “Take a look.”

The old man reached forward eagerly and began to read. He flipped through the pages at speeds that made Tiberius wonder if he was even reading their contents. Yet as the seconds ticked by in silence, he saw the mage’s bushy eyebrows begin to rise. Higher and higher they climbed, like caterpillars on a tree, until it seemed as though they’d leave his forehead entirely.

After what couldn’t have been longer than a minute or two, the mage set the papers back down on the desk with a solid whumph.

"Well. I'm sold. How do I become a Legionnaire?"

B2 Chapter 54: Let's Make a Deal

B2 Chapter 54: Let's Make a Deal

Marcus itched at the mask pressed against his face. It was an angular thing made of metal and vaguely shaped like a human face, but with square eyes and a more pointy chin. Its corners pressed into particularly sensitive spots around his eyes, and the lack of breathability left his forehead dripping with sweat. That, along with the Legionnaire's helmet and heavy cloak he wore, left him practically sweltering.

Nevertheless, it couldn't be helped. He understood the reasons—remaining anonymous during the ransom process was essential for him.

Beside him, Gaius and a small group of Legionnaires stood without any such disguises. For them, being recognized by the duke would almost be a boon. After all, they were making no secret of who had captured Hausten and its former baroness. Presenting themselves forthrightly like this would only further solidify them as a real nation rather than a band of brigands.

Still, he couldn't help but sigh. Until negotiations were well behind them, it would be too much of a risk to venture inside the city again. Their passage had already been noted if the shadowy pursuers that Iladrien mentioned were any indication. So while his night on the town had been a fun change of pace, it was a vacation he wasn't likely to get again anytime soon.

A horse bearing a lone rider appeared on the horizon, coming from the direction of the city. The figure soon resolved into that of a wispy-haired man with spiderlike limbs and a fine travel coat. A small pair of spectacles perched atop his beak of a nose. 

The man galloped to a halt in front of Marcus’s group and dismounted carefully. He straightened his coat and stepped forward, his voice clear.

“I am Charles Piedmont, chamberlain to Duke Mark of Redcliffe. I am here to confirm the claims put forth in this letter.”

Charles reached into his jacket pocket. Marcus felt the Legionnaires tense at the motion. The chamberlain froze, seemingly picking up on the sudden increase in tension before continuing to produce the letter. More slowly this time. 

One of the soldiers stepped forward to retrieve the letter, then passed it to Gaius for inspection. It took only a few moments of scrutiny before the officer nodded. “This is indeed the letter we sent. You agree to our conditions then?”

The chamberlain swallowed and nodded. “I am in your care. But know that if anything should happen to me, much less to Mariella and her daughter, then you will be hard pressed to find a more tenacious enemy than the duke.”

Gaius chuckled. “Rest assured that we mean you no harm. It is in our best interests for negotiations to go smoothly. Now, if you would.”

With a hesitant nod, Charles raised his arms. He was patted down for any hidden weapons, then he climbed atop another horse in front of a Legionnaire. A blindfold covered his eyes as the rest of the group mounted up and rode off.

Their destination wasn't too far away. However, the switchbacks and extra turns they took to confound the chamberlain’s senses significantly increased their travel time. Marcus was certain that Gaius didn't mind. The presence of horses out here had lifted the man's spirits considerably, prompting them to buy what they could. But some of the ideas he was hearing to get the beasts home… well, Marcus was curious to see them put into action.

As they moved, Gaius calmly explained how things were going to go.

“For everyone’s safety, including that of our two hostages, we will not reveal their exact location. Otherwise, the temptation to push forward with a rescue attempt may prove too strong—and we wouldn't want to risk them coming to harm in the chaos of such an event...”

Marcus followed Gaius’s words as he kept an eye on Charles. So far, he detected no hint of deception or anything indicating an imminent betrayal. Just the standard nervousness one might expect in such a situation, albeit masked by a veneer of feigned confidence.

As for the spiel itself, Marcus had obviously assisted in preparing it. Though not a noble himself  he was certainly used to running in those circles—which meant he could speak their language. Hearing rationale and speech patterns in line with that would make the man far more comfortable and confident in the Legion's intentions. 

The group entered into the copse of trees and ushered the old man into a tent before removing his blindfold. He blinked in the dim light before focusing on the figure seated before him.

Baroness Mariella von Latimore sat unrestrained and ungagged in a small chair. In her lap sat the cherubic figure of her daughter. The mother combed through the little girl's hair with a fine brush.

The pair were in just as good of health as Marcus could hope. They looked a little disheveled, sure, but certainly not malnourished or harmed.

The baroness’s eyes widened at the new arrivals. “Uncle Charles!”

She scooped up her daughter and leapt to her feet, rushing toward the chamberlain. A legionnaire moved to block her path, but Gaius reached out a hand to stop him. The two met in what Marcus found to be an unexpectedly warm and familial embrace.

The heartwarming scene was somewhat ruined as Marcus saw her slip a small note inside Charles's pocket. The sight made him shake his head internally. The woman was persistent, he'd give her that.

"You're alive." Charles stepped back and smiled with relief. "Are you unharmed?"

Mariella nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. "We are unharmed. But Klein…"

She trailed off, her gaze going distant at the mention of her late husband. The chamberlain also fell silent as he understood her meaning. He squeezed her and her daughter tightly.

After a moment, Marcus stepped forward. He pitched his voice down and affected an accent that fit in with the Romans around him. "You've seen that they live. Are you satisfied?"

Charles turned to him and shook his head. "Not yet. I must speak to her to verify that this is no illusion."

Marcus nodded. "Understood. However, I will have you step back. Just in case."

He placed a hand on the man's shoulder as a pair of Legionnaires stepped toward the baroness. At the same time, Marcus activated [Sleight of Hand] to snag the little paper from Charles's pocket without anyone noticing.

The woman resisted as she was gently pulled away, but the Legionnaires didn't budge. She scowled, glaring at the men momentarily before her daughter began to wiggle restlessly. Her expression softened as she began to gently bounce the girl.

The baroness and chamberlain began to talk, albeit with a few feet of distance between them now. As they spoke, Marcus quietly sidled up to Gaius and slipped the officer the note he'd pilfered. The officer glanced down and raised an eyebrow, but obliged and read the paper out of sight.

Marcus returned his attention to the conversation. Despite its relatively mundane nature, it was abundantly clear that they weren't simply making small talk. The topics bounced around as though both participants had the attention span of a squirrel. Marcus could pick out where the conversation felt off, slightly stilted or contained non-sequiturs that were just strange enough to be unnatural.

It was clear that their speech was being obscured by some sort of skill—one that encoded their words. Unfortunately, without a counter he had no way of actually knowing what messages were being passed along. Maybe the baroness was trying to pass along their location? Unlikely. They'd taken care to ensure that she didn't have an exact idea of where they were either, though she might be able to give general directions to the Legion camp. Maybe they were simply encoded wellness checks.

He whispered as much to Gaius. The young officer nodded, tucking the baroness's note away in a pouch at his waist. "I'm not surprised. Likely they have some manner of verification in place in case of an event such as this. I would. Still, we'll move camps after this for the sake of caution."

Marcus nodded in agreement. They'd set up the meeting location in a separate copse of trees than the one the Legion had made camp in. However, it never hurt to be too careful.

“All right, that’s enough,” Gaius interrupted them. “You've had plenty of time to confirm it’s actually her. That was all we needed you to do.”

Charles stood up and straightened himself, tugging his clothes in order before clearing his throat. “I have been authorized by the Duke to negotiate her release immediately. He’s willing to pay what you requested—double, if you allow both of them to return with me immediately.”

Marcus's eyebrows shot up at that. Perhaps they had been a little too conservative in their pricing if the man was this willing to pay. One glance at Gaius's face suggested that he was honestly considering the chamberlain's offer.

"We have no guarantee that you will make good on your payment once you are in possession of the hostages." Gaius pointed out. "Unless you have brought such a sum on your person?"

Charles shook his head. "Obviously not. Unless you believe that I've somehow managed to conceal multiple chests worth of gold on my person and snuck them past your inspection."

Marcus almost chuckled. In theory, it was possible. It just would have required a dimensional storage device worth more than the ransom itself.

"I thought not." Gaius replied. "Releasing them both incurs too much risk o us, as I'm certain you understand. However… as a gesture of good faith, I'd be willing to release the girl to your care."

Charles started. "Truly?"

"Of course." Gaius smiled. "We are no savages. We have no taste for the ransoming of children. Rather, her inclusion in the letter was simply a means to inform you that she is safe and in our care."

Marcus practically felt whiplash from the bald-faced lie. But the sheer smoothness with which the officer delivered the line made him reconsider how many points Gaius might actually have in charisma.

The information caused Charles’s stern countenance to soften significantly. He still eyed the Legionnaires with wariness, of course. That was only to be expected. But it did earn them a dip of his head..

“Milord will be pleased to hear that. I accept your offer gladly. Then—”

“No.”

Every head in the room turned to face the baroness. She clutched her daughter tightly to her chest as she stared Gaius down.

“No.” She reiterated. “She will not leave my side.”

Charles blinked in surprise. “Mariella,” he began in a conciliatory tone. “She'll be safer away from all of this. More comfortable, too. Besides, it won't be long before you'll be able to rejoin her."

"I don't trust them." The baroness said flatly. "Who's to say that they won't simply kill or capture you both once you're out of sight?"

"That would be detrimental to both parties." Gaius pointed out. "If we wanted to do that, then we could have taken the good chancellor here hostage at any time. Besides, what harm have we done to you and your daughter? We're simply trying to make a show of good faith."

"Was it 'good faith' when you killed my husband?" Mariella snapped.

"He died in battle—a battle he himself chose to engage in, might I remind you."

"Only because you tyrants surrounded our city and took us prisoner. I'm beginning to think that holding hostages is all that you know."

Marcus stood back as he watched the argument unfold. The baroness's objections aside, the negotiations were going more smoothly than he'd anticipated. Too smoothly. At this rate, they'd be able to resolve everything without even meeting the duke.

It might have been ideal in the short term, but not for Marcus's plans. He wanted more out of this negotiation than simple gold. He wanted to use this opportunity to speak to the duke, to feel out his allegiances and disposition. It was the reason why he'd insisted at setting the ransom at such an exorbitant amount—to increase the chance of being called before him. Unfortunately, he'd apparently underestimated the man's wealth and love for his family.

Glancing up, it seemed as though some sort of agreement was on the verge of being reached. One that resulted in Mariella's daughter being allowed free. That meant that Marcus was running low on time. He needed to figure out an in, and fast. One that didn't call for sabotaging the Legion or their negotiations, either.

He stepped forward. "Chancellor. I believe we will need to speak with the duke before these negotiations are over."

The man arched an eyebrow. "I see no need for that. As I said, I've been vested with the authority to carry out negotiations here."

"This is not about the ransom. It is about other matters. Ones that will soon find themselves at his doorstep."

"How incredibly vague. If you wish for me to pass on a message, then I shall consider it. But the duke is a busy man."

Sighing, Marcus raised a hand to his face and removed his mask. He really would have preferred to remain anonymous. But he needed to leverage whatever tools he had at this point. Besides, at the rate that the Legion was conquering things, maybe his status as a wanted man in Novara wouldn't persist for much longer after all.

Charles's brow furrowed. "You. You seem familiar somehow…"

“[Royal Bard] Marcus Silvanus D'Angelo, at your service,” he introduced himself with a flourishing bow. "You may have heard my works. There are quite a number of them that have gained notoriety amongst the nobility."

"You works?" The chamberlain frowned in thought for a moment before seeming to recall something. His tone turned dry. "Ah, yes. If I recall, the 'Trysts of the Twin Princesses' has sparked quite a bit of talk in the capital."

Marcus couldn't help but grin. "Ah, so you have heard of me."

"The king has made sure that every noble in the kingdom has." Charles said. "He's made them quite aware of the reward for your head, and the consequences for aiding you."

The bard waved the man's words off. "You understand the risk I take by revealing myself, then. But I assure you, we will make a meeting worth his time. There are great changes on the horizon—ones that I am certain the duke will want to remain ahead of. And I see no better opportunity to clear the air between our two factions."

"You ally yourself with these people, then?" Charles nodded toward Gaius and his Legionnaires. "Have you turned traitor against Novara, too?"

"Traitor? No." Marcus shook his head. "In fact, what I do is for the best interests of its people."

Charles pursed his lips and considered the proposal. He clearly harbored distaste for Marcus, especially given the current situation. But the combination of liberally-applied [Charm] and [Silver Tongue] was nothing to be taken lightly.

"...I will see what I can arrange." The chancellor finally relented. "After our dealings here are through."

"While our dealings are in progress." Gaius corrected. "I have no desire to be assassinated while speaking to the man simply because we've lost our leverage."

Charles looked affronted at the very suggestion, but nodded with a sigh. "Very well. I will arrange a meeting upon my return."

The chancellor and the baroness's daughter were readied for their return trip to the city. Meanwhile, Gaius and Marcus remained in the tent. A handful of Legionnaires remained with them and guarded the baroness herself. The woman continued to glare sullenly at anyone who looked her way.

"I'm surprised." Gaius began. "I didn't expect you to push for a meeting like that."

Marcus shrugged. "I feel that it can be good for all of us. Not just regarding the ransom, but also to exchange information. Besides, I have an idea."

That made Gaius raise his eyebrows, and Mariella's expression darken. "If you so much as attempt to harm a hair on my father's head…"

Marcus shook his head. "Of course not. I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. I was not lying when I said that I act in the best interest of Novara's people, you know."

It really wasn't a lie. After all, being alive certainly was in most people's best interests.

B2 Chapter 53: Fetch

B2 Chapter 53: Fetch

Duke Mark of Redcliffe was having a hell of a week.

He ran his fingers through what remained of his hair one more time as he read through another stack of reports. Absentmindedly, he shook his hand behind him. Another few strands of hair fell to the floor. He had managed to go nearly sixty years without going completely bald, no matter how much his wife begged to differ. But the stress of recent events was finally beginning to wear on even those last holdouts atop his head.

The barony of Wellshire had fallen. It was no longer counted by the System as a part of the Redcliffe duchy. As for who had taken it, only a few scouts had managed to break through and return to tell the tale. But best he could tell, the culprits seemed to be a strange sort of army that didn't resemble that of any country he knew. The same army, perhaps, that Baron von Latimore had spoken of.

The reports weren't even the worst of it, though. Rather, it was a lack of communication that really had him panicking. His daughter was always quite consistent about sending him correspondence and the latest drawings she'd done of his beautiful granddaughter. Yet he hadn't heard from her since Wellshire had fallen.

The uncertainty as to her fate had him in shambles. It had only been a week, but that was too long for him. If he didn't hear back soon, then he'd have to send a force out to investigate himself, something he could hardly spare. Not without aid from the king, which didn't seem like it would be coming anytime soon. Though who knew? Perhaps the vain man would have a change of heart.

One could dream.

To top it all off was the latest news from the western front. The orcs' latest push seemed to be targeting his section specifically. It was anyone's guess as to why. His soldiers were some of the best trained in this kingdom. Why the orcs would try to fight them instead of taking on one of the weaker flanks, the Duke didn't know.

But whatever the reason, it seemed to be working. The casualty reports had not been kind. And without more reinforcements that were certain not to come, things were looking bad. They would either have to fall back or spend many more lives to hold their position for even a few weeks.

Falling back came with a host of other problems politically, but the idea of losing more men for this stupid war—one that he was less and less certain they should even be fighting—was unconscionable. Even if certain others didn't seem to see it that way.

The Duke put pen to paper and scrawled out his orders. One of his scribes would spruce the words up and make them actually presentable, then he would review and sign them before sending them out to the front. His troops were to hold for as long as they could, right conservatively to avoid losses, but retreat before things became too dire. If possible, they would retreat in a way that would prevent pursuit, even if it meant shifting focus to the other soldiers along the line.

Showing strength to the orcs was clearly not working as a deterrent. Perhaps a little bit of subterfuge would be more useful.

The Duke groaned, stretching in his seat as he finished drafting the orders. A knock at the door drew him out of his distracted thoughts. It would either be a maid bringing in the tea or his chamberlain bringing in another stack of reports.

“Enter.” He called, looking across his desk. It was piled high enough with paperwork that finding room for anything else would be a challenge. No matter. If they needed room, they'd clear some.

As the door opened, he was a little surprised to see both a maid and his chamberlain enter. The maid had evidently predicted the lack of space. She brought with her a small table on which she placed the tea and a small collection of sweetmeats by his side. He began to nibble on them as he accepted the mail from his chamberlain and began to flip through it.

Most of the letters consisted of personal correspondence from relatives maintaining the veneer of polite society—invitations to balls, weddings, lunches, and other events that he doesn't honestly care about.

None of them bore the seal or handwriting of his daughter, unfortunately. And he was certain that he would have to make appearances at some of these events. But right now, he tossed them off to the side.

Next was some more correspondence about the war, which he set atop the reports before him. Those would require his personal attention. But before he dove in, there was one more letter that caught his eye. 

The envelope itself wasn't anything special. Yet the address on its face was in a hand he didn't recognize, which was unusual nowadays. Good confusion only increased upon inspecting the seal. An eagle crest had been stamped into it, the bird's wings spread broad and proud.

He looked up at his chamberlain with a frown. "Charles. What house is this from?"

The Chamberlain blushed slightly. "I must admit that I don't know, sir. But it came through proper channels, and I'm assured that its contents are important.”

The Duke frowned, picking up a letter opener and slicing it open. He scanned the paper curiously. Yet it took only moments for that curiosity to morph into something else entirely.

A series of emotions threatened to flicker across his face and disrupt his usual composure. Even then, he couldn't help but clench his fist, crumpling the piece of paper in his grasp.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes and sighed up into the ceiling. He relaxed his fist and ran his hand through his hair again. A few more strands came loose.

Eyes still closed, he tossed the paper onto the table towards Charles.

"Read that and tell me what you think."

There was a moment of silence as the chamberlain obliged. The duke heard the other man swallow. "I think that I will need to prepare to travel, my lord."

Duke Mark nodded and sat forward. His pained expression held just a hint of hope behind it. "I trust you, Charles. I can't send anyone else. Not if I want to be certain."

Charles looked almost as unsettled as the Duke felt. The man had helped to raise his daughter, after all. They had been as close as family, close enough that Mariella still called him uncle Charles.

The chamberlain nodded. "I understand, sir. Then… with your leave…"

At a gesture from the duke, Charles sketched a quick bow before turning on his heel. He practically ran out of the room to prepare for the journey ahead.

The door shut behind the man, leaving the duke alone in his office once more. He slumped back in his chair and sighed. It felt as though a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders, only for that same weight to be immediately dropped on his head.

He massaged his temples to ward off the headache building there. His daughter and granddaughter were alive. At least, the letter claimed they were alive. And considering what he knew about the fall of the Wellshire barony and its capital of Hausten, it wasn't difficult to imagine who might have taken them.

His mind returned to those conversations with the baron about the threat to his lands. The duke had more or less left the matter to his son-in-law since he had no shortage of his own problems to deal with. Unfortunately, that meant that he wasn't quite as informed of the situation as he otherwise could have been. But he could draw some conclusions from even this.

That they were willing to ransom his daughter meant that they weren't complete savages. They'd also invoked his honor as a noble and cited the preservation of his lineage as a reason for sparing their lives, indicating that they had at least some understanding of Novaran culture and nobility. That meant they could be reasoned with. Although he did wonder at the conspicuous absence of the baron in these negotiations.

The duke closed his eyes. Despite the unthinkable nature of the situation, the negotiations themselves were beginning in a fairly routine manner. Still, some of the stipulations and precautions they'd put into place indicated that they clearly didn't trust the duke in the slightest. But that hardly mattered. He was more than willing to play along if it brought his family back to him.

Sitting up once again, he began to make his way through the rest of the mail. He felt reinvigorated. As harrowing as the situation was, it was still the best news he'd had in weeks.

***

"The Emperor of Rome, Tiberius Rufius Maro!"

Lucius announced as Tiberius stepped forward. His guards stayed close, flanking him and ready to act at the slightest sign of aggression.

He stood with his head held high and his back straight, projecting strength and confidence befitting of his station. Yet the two men before him did not react as he expected. Rather, they both visibly started in surprise, their eyes going wide. One of them even dropped a stack of fliers emblazoned with the same pink dragon that Tiberius recognized from the report.

Tiberius nodded to each of the two men in turn, hiding his own surprise at their reaction. "Good sirs."

The pair of apprentices exchanged glances. "Um… Hello, sir."

The one that had spoken gave a hesitant bow, followed shortly after by the other. Inwardly, Tiberius felt himself relax slightly. It may be too early to say for certain, but these two didn't seem nearly as arrogant as he had feared. It was almost as though they didn't realize their own strength.

"Forgive my sudden intrusion," Tiberius began, still erring on the side of caution. "I was informed that two mages of respectable strength had been spotted wandering about the city. I have no qualms with your presence here, so long as you remain peaceful. However, I will admit to some curiosity as to your purpose."

"Oh!" The first apprentice relaxed. Tiberius noted that the second one remained in his bow as he gathered up the fallen fliers, his beard dragging against the ground. "We're looking for my master's pet. His name is Rufus. He's a large pink dragon. He got away from his handlers… well, maybe a week or two ago. You wouldn't happen to have any information on him, would you?"

Tiberius simply stared at the man for a long moment. The handful of sentences simply carried far too many absurd implications for him to process at once. Not just the confirmation that dragons did exist, but also that the one these two called "master" owned one as a pet—an unbelievably strong one, according to his men. What's more, the pair seemed far too earnest and serious to be playing a joke on him.

"...I do, in fact." Tiberius volunteered. "My men have reported a creature matching that description being sighted in the area. Some have even made contact with it."

The gray-bearded apprentice sucked in a breath. "He didn't hurt anyone, did he? Rufus is usually very good at not hurting anyone. Not unless he's supposed to, anyway.”

Setting that ominous remark aside, Tiberius shook his head. “No. Although he did display quite a taste for horseflesh.” He said dryly. “Is that another trait of your ‘Rufus’?”

The mage's shoulders slumped in apparent relief, although he continued to grimace. "Ah. Yes. He's… well, he received a life-sized horse chew toy a few birthdays back. He, er, enjoyed it more than anyone could have predicted. Much to the region's chagrin. Sorry about that."

That certainly explained the lack of horses they'd observed since arriving here. Though the explanation was so absurd as to almost be unbelievable. 

"If you have suffered damages, I'm sure my master will be willing to work out a reasonable form of repayment." The mage continued, scratching his chin.

Tiberius nodded. "That would be quite generous. I would welcome the opportunity to meet this 'master' of yours regardless. Has he accompanied you to the city?"

"Oh, yes! He's actually…"

The man trailed off as some sort of commotion became audible from further down the street. Tiberius craned his neck to see what was happening, only to find a group of Legionnaires massing at the end of the street. A centurion rushed out from the gathering crowd.

"Legatus, sir. You should evacuate. There is a dangerous and unstable individual headed this way."

"How dangerous?" Tiberius demanded. The guards around him had already drawn their blades and unslung their shields.

"We don't know. No one has been able to successfully appraise him or get an idea of his level. But the way he moves…" The centurion shuddered.

Just then, a figure emerged from around the corner. He wore what had once probably been resplendent blue robes patterned with planets and embroidered with bolts of lightning, though their richness was ruined somewhat by the small burn holes and vibrantly colored smears across their surface. The rest of his appearance mirrored the state of his robes, the bone-white hair and beard stretching well past his waist where it wasn't singed off or sticking out at haphazard angles.

"Ah! That would be him." One of the apprentices spoke up and raised his hand in a wave. "Master! Over here!"

As Tiberius took in the strange and obviously eccentric figure, their gazes met. The white-haired man's eyes widened as his face stretched into a broad smile.

Then he was at Tiberius's elbow.

He blinked. Tiberius hadn't even seen the man move. He'd simply… appeared. Faster than Tiberius, his guards, or the Legionnaires massing along the street could react.

"You!" The mage grinned maniacally. "Good, I'm glad I found you. I have questions."

B2 Chapter 52: Stay A While

B2 Chapter 52: Stay A While

Marcus quietly rolled out of bed, careful not to wake its other occupant. That was easier said than done considering that freeing himself required him to move her sprawled leg and arm.

He crept around the edge of the bed as softly as he could manage, finding his clothes and slipping them on. As he got dressed, he took in the slender figure that lay partially obscured by the sheets. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the morning light that seeped through the window, her hair glittering like finely spun copper strewn across the pillows.

Marcus smiled at the sight. He laced up his boots, standing with a quiet squeak of leather. He hoped to be gone before she awakened, but the soft rustling of sheets informed him that he may not be so lucky.

The pretty young serving girl gazed sleepily up at him through one half-lidded eye. She blinked, long and slow, before murmuring something sleepy and almost unintelligible. A line of the song that had gotten her upstairs the night before.

"...Just brush my cheek before you go…"

Marcus stepped forward, gently brushing his fingers from her temple to her chin. The girl smiled as her eyes drifted back closed. When her breathing had once more returned to its slow and regular cadence, he turned toward the door and left.

As it clicked shut behind him, he sighed.

"Are you ready to leave?"

The voice nearly made Marcus jump out of his skin. His head snapped up to find Iladrien leaning casually against the wall next to his door. The cloaked elf raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"By the gods, friend!" Marcus blew out a relieved breath and lowered his voice to a hiss. “How long have you been waiting there?"

"Not long. I came out once I heard you begin to stir." The elf nodded to the door. "An acquaintance of yours?”

"Ah… you could say that. A new acquaintance." Marcus answered, still wondering how the elf had heard him get up from across the hall. His stats had to be something else. "Not one I intend to stay acquainted with, though."

"Ah. A mistress, then." Iladrien nodded knowingly.

Marcus stared. "You blush at the idea of a brothel, but a mistress is fine?"

"I did not blush. Brothels are not a foreign concept to me either, though I admit to not having frequented them much. " Iladrien defended himself. “Anyway, let's be off. Gaius will want to hear what we've learned sooner rather than later.”

The pair headed downstairs. As they reached the common room, the tavernkeeper looked over from the early risers she was serving at the bar and beamed. "Ah! Good morning, master bard! Leaving for the day, are you?"

"Indeed, milady. Though it'll be for more than the day, I'm afraid." Marcus swept his arms out in an apologetic shrug. "I am grateful for your generous hospitality, but it seems that this is where we must part ways. My journey beckons me onward."

"Oh, come now." The woman pleaded. "Surely one more night won't hurt. Think of the audience you'll have! Yesterday was incredible, but now that word is getting out that you're here? I'm certain there will be even more patrons flocking to see you!"

It didn't take the most insightful individual to see the naked greed in the woman's eyes. It wasn't hard to understand why. Marcus wasn't the only one who had made a killing last night, and the tavernkeeper's mood this morning had lifted quite considerably because of it.

Still, Marcus couldn't help but chuckle a bit. He was no stranger to women begging him to stay just one more night. But he had honestly expected the plea to come from a different source this morning.

He shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid I can't. But rest assured that, when I return to this area, your fine establishment shall be at the forefront of my mind."

The tavernkeeper tried for a bit longer to persuade Marcus, but quickly realized that he wouldn't budge. She bid the pair a slightly disappointed farewell after they got a little bit of food in their bellies. As the pair made their way back to the front gate, Marcus found himself softly humming the song that the serving girl had so softly muttered.

“I am no bride of Mars, nor bound to Vesta's name,

Yet last night, I bore the sword of steel and flame.

Do not speak of fate or right and wrong—

Just hold me in your arms 'til I am strong.”

It was a newer composition of his, one that took inspiration from an old favorite while incorporating some newer ideas from the Legion's culture. It had played well with the soldiers he'd tested it on, but last night was his first time playing it for an audience of Novarans.

He'd sprinkled in a few other such songs throughout the night, testing the tales of strange armies and foreign heroes. New songs and stories were always a risk, as they were never as beloved as the old classics and favorites—at least, not unless one truly sold them with a flawless performance. And Marcus’s performances were always flawless.

It didn't take them long to reach the gate. The guard from yesterday was nowhere to be seen, hopefully off getting some much-needed rest after his shift. But Marcus no longer needed to bribe anyone now that it was open for the day. 

They approached the little outpost the Legionnaires had put together the night before—which did not, in fact, end up with a wall. Most of the carts and individuals that had camped out the night before had packed up and headed into the city, but enough remained that the tent hardly even looked out of place. Aside from the precision with which it had been erected, that is.

As Marcus and Iladrien approached, they saw a group ofLegionnaires "casually" sitting around the cookfire. A few waved at them as one stood and headed inside the tent.

"Hail, Ma—er, Yonnas! Andra!" One of the men called out, fumbling with the aliases the two had chosen. "How was your night?"

"Wonderful. Although not as restful as I may have hoped." Marcus winked. He heard Iladrien snort at his side. "Ah, but before you get too jealous… I've brought a gift for you all."

From beneath his cloak he procured a bottle of relatively fine liquor that he'd purchased from the tavernkeeper before leaving that morning. It had cost him a pretty penny, but after the previous night's windfall, he could afford to splurge.

The men's previously stern and tired faces broke into wide grins at the sight. Marcus passed the bottle over with a flourish. "Be sure to share, now. Although I won't tell a soul if that bottle doesn't make it back to camp."

"You'll be lucky if it makes it through the morning." One of the men chuckled. He jerked a thumb at the tent. "I'd invite you to stay and drink with us, but you'll want to get in there to make your report. They're waiting for you."

At Marcus's questioning look, the man just shrugged and gestured again. The pair headed into the tent, moving aside the flap to see Gaius sitting inside. The officer wore a cloak to conceal his armor from curious eyes and looked up from his conversation with another Legionnaire as they entered.

"Ah! Marcus, Iladrien!" Gaius greeted them as he waved the other soldier away. "I was beginning to worry that you'd been held up by something unexpected."

"Apologies, sir." Iladrien ducked his head gracefully. "Though I was up with the first light, I found it prudent to wait for my companion to rouse before attempting to move about the city."

"It's not that late yet." Marcus protested. "It's not even midday…"

Gaius chuckled. "Well, I do hope the delay means that you have some good information for me. Let's hear it."

Marcus was happy to oblige. He went down the list of questions that the young officer had tasked him with answering. Almost every one of them had an answer of some sort, most of them seeming to satisfy Gaius's curiosity adequately enough. The younger man took notes as Marcus spoke and Iladrien occasionally chimed in with a clarification or additional comment of his own.

"All right." Gaius sat back with a sigh. "This is good work. Thank you both. Now, the main matter that we came here for—with the information you've gathered, how do you suggest we approach the duke about the ransom?"

Marcus nodded. He'd been proactive in casting a sound-dampening [Glamour] about the tent when they'd first begun their conversation, so he felt relatively comfortable speaking candidly about such things. "The Duke won't see anyone without an appointment. Not unless it is a king's messenger or someone of similar authority. Therefore, approaching him without warning would be unlikely to gain his attention successfully. Even if it did, we'd be far more likely to incur his wrath and get our messenger captured than accomplish our goals as intended."

"Agreed." Gaius nodded. "Then, what do you propose?"

"We send him a letter first. One detailing the situation and establishing a meeting place where he or a representative can meet us to confirm our claims. Then, we take the baroness and her daughter there, let him confirm that we both have them and that they are alive and well, and begin proposing negotiations from there."

Gaius mulled the proposal over for a moment before nodding again. "That seems reasonable. We should set the meeting for a day or two hence, just to give us time to fortify a location adequately. Are you certain that a letter will reach him any more quickly, though? Or even be taken seriously to begin with?"

Marcus indicated the direction of the city with his head. "Give me twenty minutes and a small purse of coins. I'll be able to ensure that the duke is presented with your mail first thing after lunch. Well…" He hesitated, thinking of the time. "Maybe dinner."

"All right. I can begin drafting something right away. I may need your advice to ensure that we're not committing any social blunders, however."

"Ah, don't worry about that." Marcus waved him off. "I actually have a letter already written, if you'd like to see?"

Gaius seemed to perk up at the prospect. "Please. If we're being honest, I don't enjoy paperwork nearly as much as everyone seems to believe."

The bard chuckled and retrieved a folded sheet of parchment from a hidden pocket. He'd worked on it as discreetly as he could between songs and stories at the bar. It was a masterfully composed ransom note, full of veiled threats and promises of safety. It invited the duke for a talk about terms, but in such a way that neither the Legion nor their captives would be left exposed and at his mercy.

Gaius nodded with respect. "This is good work. Thank you, Marcus. I'm more glad than ever that Tiberius sent you along."

Marcus smiled and doffed his cap. "I humbly accept your praise. Of course, I'm certain that you would be able to do just as well without my assistance—"

The man waved him off. "Oh, cut the pandering, Marcus. We both know you're built for diplomacy and flowery words. Me, I prefer a more… direct approach."

The bard's smile didn't waver. "Of course. One that may well work, once the Legion's reputation has spread more. Unfortunately, I fear that there has not yet been time for the proper… respect… to take hold."

If it ever would take hold. Marcus didn't doubt the Legion's power or ability to follow through with its threats. But until they had either reached a much higher level or spread word of their accomplishments far and wide, he was certain that others would. Hence the importance of his presence.

"There is another matter that should be addressed." Iladrien added. "That of our hidden observers."

"Oh?" Gaius raised a questioning eyebrow.

The elf nodded. "Indeed. Throughout the morning, there were silhouettes that appeared to be following us along the rooftops. Watching us. I know not their alignment, but it is no stretch to suggest that it is not a friendly one."

Marcus blinked at the elf in surprise. "When did you see this?"

"All morning, as I said. You didn't notice?" Iladrien tilted his head. "I thought they were rather obvious about it. They followed us to the gate, but didn't venture outside."

"That is… less good." Gaius sighed. "It means that someone has noticed our presence here. Maybe even the duke himself."

"Should we deal with them, sir?"

For the first time, one of the Legionnaires standing around the edge of the tent spoke. Gaius glanced over and shook his head. "That would be a quick way to have our presence marked with even greater interest. No. For now, we keep an eye on them and let them be. We haven't given them any reason to take action. Not yet."

With that all taken care of, Marcus and Gaius quickly went about finalizing the ransom letter. The bard and the elf slipped back into the city soon after, taking extra precautions to avoid being tailed and covering their tracks while Marcus plied the appropriate palms with coin. Before long, a sealed envelope with expedited priority was headed toward the duke's estate with the afternoon mail.

B2 Chapter 51: Posting Up

B2 Chapter 51: Posting Up

Tiberius leaned back in his seat, his stomach as full as the plate before him was empty. Around the table before him sat a collection of Hausten's most influential merchants, their own food still mostly intact. The men and women wore an array of finery and what were certain to be rare and expensive accessories about their persons, ones that Tiberius himself could only somewhat appreciate in light of their gaudy peacocking.

But despite their attempts to exude calmness, Tiberius could tell the merchants were anything but. A few hid their absent-minded fidgeting beneath the table while others took in their surroundings with sharp eyes despite outwardly carefree demeanors. Not a single one of them acted or spoke in line with their true thoughts. Just like politicians, really.

“Truly, I look forward to doing business within your territory, Emperor Tiberius.” One of them said with an almost genuine-looking smile. “Why, already I have seen a number of things that I and my closest associates would take great interest in acquiring for ourselves—materials and skill specializations both."

"Indeed." A pudgy man agreed with a rapid series of nods. He was the only other man with an empty plate before him. "I can certainly see routes forward for such things. Especially if the exports of iron from Stonewa— er, Stonester are able to be regulated back down to previous levels once more…"

A tawny merchant decked out in deep red velvets scoffed. "Davin, as soon as they do, you'll simply find something else to complain about. Just be grateful that the emperor here is even willing to negotiate rather than overthrow your chokehold on the metal trade outright."

Davin sniffled. "An offer which I very much appreciate. Unlike those who would use these uncertain times to sneak through trade agreement rewrites to their exclusive benefit. But I'm sure you would know nothing about that, Tain."

The two men gave each other saccharine smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Tiberius simply sighed inwardly. All of the merchants had been engaging in such petty battles throughout the entire lunch, though these two were by far the worst offenders. It had been quite informative regarding each person's specialties and what they wanted out of these dealings. But at this point, it was beginning to grate on Tiberius.

He briefly closed his eyes. Tiberius had taken to granting audiences like this somewhat regularly as a way of keeping in touch with the more influential members of the local populace. It was something that he was making an effort to be more aware of. An emperor should be knowledgeable about the goings-on of his empire, after all. Though he kept things casual for his own sanity.

Yet the way these merchants acted had him reconsidering the whole ordeal. Not to mention their complaints. Sure, the influx of raw ore from Stonester might lead to a temporary decrease in profits for this Davin fellow. But as the market demand caught up from the Legion's own uses and the demands of their burgeoning empire, that wouldn't be the case for long. Especially as they began to disseminate the more interesting ores that his men had been working on refining.

As the merchants went back and forth, Tiberius started to tune them out. Instead, he considered the state of their most recent conquest.

He was finally almost satisfied with the state of the Wellshire barony. It had taken nearly a full week to get things in order. But while they technically had control of the territory according to the System, Tiberius had little faith in the amount of respect that commanded. He much preferred to confirm things the old fashioned way.

His Legionnaires had spread out across the countryside to sweep over the rest of the province. It had taken time for them to cover everything, but less than expected.

One of his more enthusiastic centurions had discovered that the effects of [Warpath] could be activated if one harbored an intent to forcefully subjugate their destination, regardless of whether a blue peaceful agreement was reached upon their arrival. The discovery had cut the men's already short travel time into a fraction of what it had been.

Of course, the strategy didn't work for everyone. It seemed that the System could sniff out dishonesty or attempts to employ such a workaround duplicitously. But for his more aggressive units? It was quite the boon.

Luckily for the populace, there were only a handful of small towns that attempted defiance. Aside from those cases, his cohorts rushed over the land like a tide, settling any legal disputes, recruiting members for their auxiliaries, and improving defenses. At this point, it was fairly rare for them to station soldiers anywhere other than the largest population centers or at sites of resistance to keep the peace and follow through on any necessary executions.

Interestingly, the people of Wellshire seemed relatively ambivalent toward the change in local leadership. Especially once they learned that taxes would decrease. It made Tiberius wonder at the complete lack of loyalty to their previous rulers. Was it a cultural thing? Or was the late baron simply that bad at his job that they were willing to give anyone new a chance?

Either way, it didn't inspire confidence in how reliable they would be toward Rome. Although they'd make efforts to change that. In a generation or two, they would hopefully be able to convert a majority of the population to true citizens of some sort.

Tiberius returned to the present to hear the merchants still exchanging barely-concealed barbs and attempting to jockey for more influence or better deals. This meeting had long since outlived its usefulness.

He looked toward Lucius, one of his aides, with an expression that would've been unreadable to most. However, Tiberius trusted the man. Lucius had worked with him long enough to understand his look, of that he was certain.

Lucius began to flip through a stack of neverending reports at his side, ones that had arrived during this lunch. He picked one out seemingly at random, his eyebrows rising as he snapped to attention.

“Emperor, there is a matter that requires your attention.”

Tiberius gave an inward sigh of relief as the man stepped forward to hand him the paper. Taking it, the Legatus briefly looked at it and stood from his chair. "It seems that I must cut our meeting short. You all are welcome to stay and finish your meals in my absence."

The merchants stood as the tawny one spoke. “Of course, emperor. Best of luck with your task."

He caught each of them attempting to read the paper in his hand as though they could see through it. However, he kept it subtly angled away from their prying eyes. They bowed obsequiously as he strode out of the room, his personal guard falling into step around him.

Once the door had shut, Tiberius nodded gratefully at Lucius. The aide's mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.

Now that he was free, Tiberius took the opportunity to take a closer look at the report. It was… strange, to say the least.

“Lucius.” The Legatus turned one of the pages toward his aide. “Is this some manner of joke?”

The page was a poster, one soliciting information about a lost pet. That alone was enough to raise Tiberius's eyebrows, since it was clearly something that shouldn't have reached his desk. Except for the fact that the poster didn't depict any manner of creature that he'd ever seen. Instead, the rather detailed drawing of a scaly pink lizardlike beast adorned the poster.

Lucius cleared his throat. “It is not, sir. The depiction of the creature matches the reports we received of the powerful and high-level beast that the Primus Pilus encountered during his return to Habersville.

“The idea that such a creature is considered anyone's ‘pet’ is a matter of concern on its own. Yet more troubling is the matter of the men putting up these posters.”

Tiberius continued reading as Lucius spoke. Evidently, the men in question were almost as noteworthy as their lost pet. Level thirty-seven and forty-five [Mage]s, based on the men that had been ordered to watch them. They'd been seen making their way throughout the town to put up the posters on notice boards and in taverns. 

“Has anyone approached these mages?” Tiberius asked.

The aide shook his head. “No, sir. Not directly, though they have made contact with some of the local populace. The men have orders to observe until further notice. They've caused no trouble, nor has anyone caused trouble for them. So far, at least.

"Considering their levels, approaching them is something that we believe needs to be approached delicately. Our information indicates that spellcasters of that level are not only rare, but a significant threat if agitated. They are practically walking calamities. It might take two or three cohorts to bring each of them down, and we could expect heavy losses, depending on their specialty."

Tiberius nodded. He could believe that. The mage that had fought alongside that adventuring party had been around level twenty, and she'd been hard enough to deal with. Given that power didn't scale linearly, Tiberius was not particularly keen to test themselves against these two. Not without ample preparations and the element of surprise.

"Although…" Lucius hesitated. At a questioning look from Tiberius, the man continued. "There is one more strange matter. Their ages. The men are old—old enough to be my grandfather or great grandfather even. And yet they introduced themselves to one of the local tavern keepers as apprentices.”

"Apprentices?" The Legatus asked to confirm.

"Yes, sir."

He hummed thoughtfully. That obviously implied the existence of a master as well. And given the strength of these two individuals, anyone they would be willing to refer to as "master" would be a terror indeed.

“Where are these men now?”

“They were last seen nearby, at the western square.” Lucius answered immediately. “I can inquire as to their exact location if you wish.”

“Do.” Tiberius nodded. “I intend to speak with these individuals myself.”

The aide swallowed as the guards around them tensed. “Is that wise, Legatus?”

He nodded, forgiving the man's doubt. He understood such hesitation.

“Considering the threat that these two individuals pose, it is in our best interest to treat them as representatives of an independent state rather than as wandering civilians. I also admit some curiosity as to their purpose here. “ Tiberius gestured to the poster. “From everything I have heard, they appear peaceful, but a respectful approach will ensure that things remain they way.”

Lucius hesitated, then saluted. “It will be done, sir. I believe centurion Antonius was the one who delivered the report. I will inquire further with him before we make our way toward the two individuals.”

The aide sent out a pair of runners to fetch the centurion and confirm the location of the mages. By the time Tiberius had reached the exit of the manor, the centurion was marching alongside them. Their escort cut through the bustling crowd of the city allowing Tiberius to walk through a nearly open road unopposed. They moved like a fish upstream, disrupting traffic enough to draw a considerable amount of attention.

As they moved, Tiberius paid careful attention to the disposition of the people. He saw a few dark, fearful looks and mutters, but no overt actions taken against him or the Legionnaires. The lack of rotten fruit was also a marked improvement. Respect was still a ways off, but they would get there. People were already seeing the benefits of living under Roman rule. And once they had finished their improvements to the city, life would get even better.

It didn't take long to reach their destination. Tiberius spotted a pair of old, gray-haired men tacking one of the posters onto a bulletin board as they entered the open square. Despite the relatively business of the area, he noted that people seemed to give them a wide berth.

As they approached, Tiberius quickly realized why. The two men had a presence. They seemed to exude power where they stood, not just in their bearing but in some intangible way that he couldn't describe.

He stood his ground as the pair turned toward him. If these were just the apprentices… Well, perhaps this was even more of a threat than he'd expected.

***

The trouble with cities was that they were always in flux. Always growing, shrinking, being built anew or razed to the ground. It seemed like every time Grand Mage Claude visited one, it had a different name or someone else in charge.

"Hmmm… those helmets and banners don't look familiar." One of his apprentices noted as they entered through the city gates.

"I thought not." Claude rubbed his chin and eyed the strange red plumes atop the nearest soldier's helm. "Who's supposed to rule these lands? It's the Khanate, right?"

Another one of the apprentices looked over. "Er… that was four hundred years ago, master. They were deposed roughly two hundred years ago, and the area fell into chaos until the Novaran Kingdom rose to power. I believe they claim these plains now. Though I seem to recall their military looking different as well…"

"Novara…" Grand Mage Claude searched his memory. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

"It started as a branch of the Gerald Dynasty, from the Immortal Dragon Empire far, far to the north. Then, around a hundred and fifty years ago…"

"Don't care." The Grand Mage waved away the explanation. "You said these guys look different from them too, though? Seems like they're not in charge anymore then."

"It certainly seems that way." The apprentice said, humming thoughtfully.

"All right!" Claude clapped his hands together, drawing the attention of his apprentices to himself. "Let's get started. We're close enough now that we should be in the right vicinity. If we're lucky, maybe we'll get another reading to more accurately pinpoint the location while we're here. If we're not, we can still ask around."

Claude doled out tasks to his apprentices. Some went to find lodging while others were sent to inquire amongst the cityfolk and search for anything with a large magical signature. He cast a simple concealment spell over each of them so that they would avoid being hassled and could go about their tasks in relative peace. Except for the two newest apprentices. They were weak enough that Claude didn't deem it necessary. They got the shit job of putting up fliers looking for Rufus.

The Grand Mage himself found a comfortable spot near the center of the city to sit and meditate. He settled in atop a small bench and closed his eyes, activating [Mana Sense]. His awareness expanded outward and kept expanding until he felt nearly the entire city's fluctuations in his bones.

He sat there for a few minutes, feeling around for anything near the scale of what they had detected. Yet there was nothing. The usual minor ripples caused by skill use, of course, but nothing on the level of what he was hoping for.

Claude focused, remaining aware in case another surge happened to occur by chance. Yet he found his patience being tested as the once distant sound of shouting and construction began to draw nearer. The pounding of hammers and grating of stone on stone filled his ears until it was practically all he could pay attention to.

His eye twitched. After one particularly calamitous thud, Claude's eyes flew open, ready to yell at the laborers working so loudly when people just wanted some peace and quiet. But the words died on his lips.

A massive archway had appeared above the entrance to the square, seemingly out of thin air. Looking down the road, it was simply the latest in a long series of arches that now stretched off into the distance.

Claude stared with renewed interest. A team of eight men wearing those red plumed helmets moved down the road toward him, conjuring new blocks of stone to set atop one another for another arch. They fit the massive blocks together perfectly before using mortar to seal them in place.

He couldn't help but chuckle. Young earth mages like these were always so quick to resort to conjuration. In reality, such acts were incredibly inefficient as skills, and even more so as spells. It was far better to simply move the material one wanted to work with from one location to another. Why, these whippersnappers were liable to keel over at any moment from the sheer amount of mana or stamina they were using. 

Claude crossed his arms and waited. And waited. And waited some more. But the group didn't pass out. Rather, they finished their arch and somehow still had the resources to start on another one. Behind them, a second group chiseled off the rough edges and smoothed it all down to create a more beautiful structure.

His jaw hung open. Claude watched them place three more arches in the space of an hour, not a single one of them showing signs of fatigue, burnout, or even a risk of fainting. It was impossible.

Just as impossible, perhaps, as the phenomenon he'd been searching for.

B2 Chapter 50: Word on the Street

B2 Chapter 50: Word on the Street

“Wait!”

Marcus called up to the gatesmen with a cheery wave and a flash of his brightly-colored cloak. He slung his lute from his back to his front to more clearly convey his profession. After all, no one denied entry to a bard. Not when letting him in could mean an hour or so of entertainment around the barracks and guardhouses.

By himself, Marcus had wheedled his way inside many a town or city far past when he should have been allowed in. Of course, his hooded companion was a different story. But that was why they were running. So long as the gate wasn't down, they stood a much better chance. 

At his shout, the guard turned away from the winch and gave them a quick once-over. He seemed to debate for half a second before stepping toward the still partially open gate and waving Marcus forward. Marcus and Iladrien both redoubled their pace.

“My thanks, good sir!” Marcus said, managing to pant only slightly as they slipped beneath the gate. He flipped a silver coin the guard’s way. The guard caught it, and the coin disappeared so quickly that Marcus wasn't even certain where it had been secreted off to. Either the man had quite an impressive [Sleight of Hand] skill or some specific skill related to taking bribes. Marcus had never heard of such a thing but wouldn't honestly be surprised.

“Of course. Though you're lucky. You made it just in time.” The guard heaved between each sentence as he finished lowering the gate. The massive portcullis settled into place with a thud of finality. As it came to a halt, the guard sighed and dusted off his hands. “Gates have been closing at sundown exactly the past couple of weeks.”

“Oh? That certainly seems early. What brought about that kind of change?” Marcus asked, surprised. Guard shifts were certainly an area of interest to Gaius, as would be the news that led to a heightened sense of security.

“Yep. Sunup to sundown. It used to be midnight to sunup we would close.” The guard said, seeming more than happy to talk. His expression turned bitter. “Means I've still got another four and a half hours on my shift, it does.”

Marcus nodded in commiseration. That certainly explained the willingness to talk. Still, he wouldn't mind listening to the man's complaints so long as they proved informative.

“As for why things changed all of a sudden… Well. There's talk of something going on over in the southeast. Some kind of trouble brewing.”

“Trouble?”

“Yep. Word is there's something nasty that's causing havoc through the whole barony of Wellshire. I heard it wiped out a whole army of adventurers that the baron sent to deal with it—level twenties and thirties, too! I wouldn't expect the place to last another week, if it's not all razed to the ground already.”

Marcus's eyebrows shot up with interest, but he didn't betray a hint of anything else. “My, that certainly is a cause for concern. Tell me, have you heard what form this great threat has taken?”

The guard shrugged. “The details are a bit fuzzy on that one. You hear a lot of different stories from people coming through, you understand. Some claim it's giant spiders swarming out of the forest. Others say the elves have all of a sudden decided to invade. I even heard one crazy old coot babbling about a dragon. A dragon! Can you believe that?”

The guard chuckled and shook his head. Marcus just smiled while Iladrien remained silent next to him.

“Me, I'd guess it's orcs.” The guard continued. “They probably snuck around the other side of Novara somehow. Bad news for the war if that's the case. But anyway. I'm surprised a bard hadn't heard about all this already."

“Oh, I've heard my fair share of tales." Marcus winked. “But none that I’d swear by. Well, not unless I was in front of an audience."

The guard let out a hearty laugh. "Fair enough. Well, I'm sure that you'll hear even more rumors from folks around the city. Though with how things have been, I'd wager they'll want to hear stories of a more heroic sort. If you’re planning on playing, of course.”

"Always." Marcus reassured him. “Do you know any places that might appreciate some entertainment tonight?”

"Hmm…" The guard coughed, and Marcus flipped him another coin. This time it was only a copper, though the guard didn’t look disappointed. They both knew this info was far less valuable than letting someone through the gate at the last minute.

A smile brightened the guard's face. “Now that you mention it, there is one place that comes to mind. The Feathered Crown. It's not too far from here, and the owner is a friend of mine. I'm sure she'd set you up with a good deal. Just tell her Blythe sent you.”

After getting directions, Marcus and his companion bid the guard farewell and headed into the city. Though the gate was closing, that didn't mean that the place itself was any less busy. The streets bustled with people and carriages rushing about. A few small clusters of vendors that had staked out a spot nearest the gate shouted at passerby, hawking their wares or advertising various stores within the city.

Marcus breathed it all in. It had been too long since he had been to a city—a real, proper city. One with all the conveniences and trappings of modern life. Sure, he was still talking all necessary precautions to alter his face with [Glamour] while he was here, but the stamina drain was worth it. It was good to be back.

He continued walking past them all, offering an apologetic smile here or a few words there as appropriate. By his side, he noticed Iladrien taking in the sights with interest, the elven envoy scanning his surroundings as though to fix them in his mind.

"If there's anything in particular you'd like to see, don't hesitate to stop me." Marcus offered. "While an inn will likely be one of the better venues at which to gather information, I can quite easily make do wherever we are."

The elf thought a moment, then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but will decline. I suspect that I'll have enough to keep me busy simply by going about our mission."

He kept his voice low as he answered. They'd previously agreed to let Marcus do the talking, not just because of his familiarity with cities and his status as a bard, but also because of his accent. Elven speech did not endow Iladrien with as distinct an accent as some, but it was distinctly foreign—enough that it may invite questions they did not want to deal with.

Marcus sensed a bit of hesitation in the man's refusal. "Are you certain? Nowhere at all? A market, the crafting district, a theater? I won't judge if you'd like to see some of the, shall we say, seedier sides of the city either.”

"Ah?" Iladrien perked up at the last option. "Is there a public garden in the city then?"

Marcus stared at him. "No. I mean, not one worth noting. Why would you—oh. Oh. What a clever bit of wordplay, friend!"

He chuckled at the elf's wittiness before recognizing the look of confusion written plain across his face. Marcus coughed into his hand. "Er… no. By 'seedier' I meant more… unsavory. Like perhaps a poorer district of the city or a brothel or…"

Iladrien did well to keep his expression still. Yet Marcus could still make out a slight flush to his features. "Ah. I see. Thank you, but no. If you do insist, however, perhaps a market would prove interesting."

"A market. Perfect." Marcus smiled. "I was planning to take us that direction anyway."

He returned his attention to the city around them, mentally reviewing Gaius's list of questions as he did. Most of them he could get answered at any halfway decent inn. The rest were… stranger. Why did the man want to know the going prices for so many goods? Metals and various pieces of equipment made sense, but grain? Was Gaius a soldier or a farmer?

He set the matter aside. What was going through the Legionnaire's head wasn't his concern right now, even if he was a little curious. But if he wanted to get answers at the market, then they'd want to get moving before evening's onset.

***

As the sky darkened, the pair found their way into the dim common room of the Feathered Crown. Its ale-soaked tables were less than halfway full of customers despite the relatively late hour, which was never a good sign for such an establishment. Behind its long counter stood a woman polishing an empty glass with a rag.

A few inquiries from Marcus had let him know that the place had fallen on a bit of hard luck as of late though, so it wasn't unexpected. If anything, it was an opportunity. A quality bard drawing a crowd was usually worth a few drinks, but he was all but certain this place would be willing to throw in a free room or two.

Marcus led Iladrien toward the counter straightaway, his purple cloak drawing looks of interest from the patrons immediately. More interest, it seemed, than the comparatively plain fellow in the hood at his side. The woman behind the bar looked up as they approached, her eyes widening.

"Good evening, milady." Marcus bowed theatrically. "My name is Yonnas, and I am but a humble traveling bard. I—"

"A bard?!" The woman "Oh, thank the gods! Finally, one that hasn't been snatched away by those pricks at the Tipsy Troubadour. Please, please, make yourself at home! We have a stage right over there if you'd like to perform! I'd be sure to make it worth your while!"

The woman was clearly desperate as she practically bustled Marcus to the stage. He held out a hand to calm her. "Please, please milady! Of course I'd love to perform. Especially if you could provide rooms for my friend and I."

The woman's eyes sharpened. "For both of you? Hmmm… perhaps one I can do, but two may be more than I can afford to give… Especially since I guarantee you'll find no cleaner rooms on this side of Dellend!"

"I assure you, you'll see more than their value returned to you in purchased drink by the night's end. Especially if I am motivated by a cut of whatever is brought in." Marcus's eyes glittered.

The pair went back and forth, bartering over what Marcus's services were worth. In the end, he managed to snag two rooms and a small purse of coin for his time, provided that he managed to fill the inn with patrons.

Marcus shook his head with a chuckle and got ready to perform. It truly was nice to be appreciated. Of course, he could easily find a place in a more prestigious and high-class place than this, but doing so would take more time and walking than he really wanted to commit to. Besides, his face was a little more well known among those circles, enough that he didn't want to risk showing it—even disguised as it was.

With one final look over his lute, he settled onto a stool atop the stage. Most of the patrons sitting around the room looked up with interest at the promise of some entertainment, but not all of them. Marcus would have to change that.

He struck up a jaunty tune, an old favorite with words well-known enough to sing along to. The song had men all around the room tapping their feet and shouting along in mere moments. The music spilled out the door and into the streets beyond, and before his first number was over, more laborers and passerby were already peeking their heads in to investigate.

Marcus kept up the energy. Song after song he played, drawing more and more people into the Feathered Crown until it was packed to the rafters. The increasingly inebriated singing of its patrons rose in volume and enthusiasm as the barmaids rushed about to refill tankards and glasses.

He glanced toward a corner of the room. There, Iladrien sat at the only table that wasn't entirely full, a corner booth that would have seated four. He wasn't entirely sure whether he'd managed to keep everyone else away through a skill, a spell, or simply by emitting an unfriendly aura. But whatever it was, it worked. Well enough that Marcus was able to sneak the coins that began overflowing his lute case to the elf every once in a while as he listened in on the conversations around them.

After all, he was making a killing. He always did. How could he not? He was a proper [Royal Bard] bard, not some humble tavern musician screeching away on a flute. His skills were of the sort that impressed kings—or, more recently, emperors.

But a glance about the room revealed that drunkards were not the only ones taking in his performance. A few considerably shadier figures hung about the edges of the room, each doing their best not to watch him too intently. Marcus kept a close eye on them without letting slip that he'd noticed. He wouldn't have been surprised if at least one worked for the duke. 

He tried to get a feel for what they wanted of course. But as the night wore on and the ale flowed freely, there was one more figure that caught his attention. A serving girl with sapphire eyes and just the right amount of curves.

It really was good to be back in a proper city.

B2 Chapter 49: A Night on the Town

B2 Chapter 49: A Night on the Town

The dragon followed the column of Legionnaires, returning half a dozen times throughout the day. Often it brought with it other items such as additional massive tree trunks or boulders that were subsequently “presented” to the Legion—or rather, dropped directly in their path with all the enthusiasm of a child showing off a new toy.

They did try to communicate with it. Marcus knew more than his share of tales about the intelligence and cunning of dragons. Yet this one left something to be desired, to say the least.

Once he worked up the courage to approach and speak with the monstrous scaled beast, his reward was… nothing. A blank stare of incomprehension. The others were met with the same response. Even Iladrien who, for some bizarre reason, actually spoke and understood draconic had no luck. The dragon might as well have ignored them. Though perhaps things would have been different if the elf hadn't left his mount safely behind.

Each time the dragon approached, they managed to mollify it by sending ballista bolts shooting off into the distance. The simple action sent the great creature bounding away like a wolf after a rabbit. Sometimes it would bring the projectiles back and block their path again, refusing to move until another one was fired. Others, it would continue flying away and disappear for hours.

This was one of the latter times. Marcus watched as the sparkling pink form soared across the horizon, dipping down occasionally to explore some of the nearby hills. Deep gouges carved into their sides were visible even from this distance, the depressions made without apparent rhyme or reason.

Needless to say, the whole situation resulted in quite a tense march.

The Legionnaires around him remained on-edge as the day wore on. Gaius in particular kept one eye constantly on their new travel companion, the officer jumpier than a grasshopper on a hot stove. And no wonder. Despite their luck so far, there was no telling when it might run out and see all of them turned into crispy little morsels.

Marcus jogged alongside the column at a steady clip, trying to keep from feeling bored out of his mind. The elves had opted to remain out of sight for the moment, just in case the dragon had a taste for more than just horses, meaning he couldn't even pass the time by continuing his conversation with the diplomat. Not that it would have been particularly fruitful. He was far less confident in his conversational skills while running.

Still, the Legion was moving slow enough that he could actually keep up without feeling too exhausted. Without their horses, they needed to match their pace to accommodate their slowest member—the baroness.

The woman and her daughter weren't marching, of course. The Legion had loaded them onto a hastily-fashioned cart rather than deal with their absolutely sluggish pace. But evidently, pulling a cart was different enough from proper marching technique that the men couldn't take full advantage of their related skills.

Marcus glanced over at the baroness to see her chatting with one of the Legionnaires keeping watch over her.

"Do you have a family back home? A wife, perhaps?"

"No." The man shrugged as though it were hardly worth noting.

"Hum." The baroness adopted a thoughtful expression. "That's surprising."

"...Why?"

She gestured to the soldier. "I would expect that a man such as yourself would find no shortage of interest from any woman."

The man snorted. "Legionnaires don't marry. Though that rule gets… overlooked, occasionally."

"Ah. I see." She shifted her posture to more forthrightly display her "assets". "Is the ban only against marriage? Or…?"

Marcus winced. At first, he had been glad to see that she had seemingly suppressed her antagonism to the Legion. However, the more he listened in on her conversations with the guards, the more he became certain of her plan.

Fortunately, the woman was not exactly skilled in the art of seduction. But between her respectable charisma stat and the fact that she was literally the only woman around for miles, she didn't have to be. Her efforts were subtle enough to not be obvious to the Legionnaires around her. It also helped that there had been nowhere near enough women in Habersville for the entire army, and even fewer unwed ones.

So, as soldiers were wont to do, they smiled at her words and stared at her breasts. Of course, they had enough discipline not to actually harm or touch their captive in any way. Once he'd picked up on the issue, Marcus had also made sure to inform Gaius, and the officer had carefully chosen guards with good reputations from that point on to ensure they watched each other.

Still, Marcus kept an eye on the situation himself. Just in case. None of the Legionnaires seemed stupid enough to make any moves on the baroness they were ransoming off or try to help her escape. But smarter men had done stupider things for the sake of a beautiful woman.

After what seemed like an eternity, the dragon finally disappeared over the horizon. After an hour of marching without seeing hide or scale of the thing, Marcus felt their entire group breathe a sigh of relief. So much so that they quickened their pace in an effort to put some distance between them and the dragon. Though Marcus sincerely doubted it made much of a difference.

A couple of days later, the capital of the duchy came into view. The sprawling city of Dellend stood tall and proud, a bustling crowd milling about its gates. Beyond its white walls, the very tips of the mages’ academy and adventures’ guild stretched toward the sky as though competing to be tallest. The place was second only to the royal capital itself in terms of both size and grandeur.

The Legionnaires made camp some distance away, hidden in a copse of trees set amongst the seas of brown grasses. The Legionnaires quickly erected some defenses and concealed the camp that appeared to spring out of nothing. Between the fact that the road bent around the island of green and the density of the foliage, Marcus felt it would be surprisingly difficult for anyone but a scouting troop to spot them. 

Once the initial flurry of activity had subsided, Marcus slumped onto a felled log with a long sigh and massaged his aching feet. When he'd decided to follow the Legion around and chronicle their exploits, he'd never imagined that it would involve quite this much legwork. If he had, then perhaps he would have reconsidered the whole deal. The idea of a warm bath right now sounded absolutely divine.

He paused. That gave him an idea.

"Gaius," Marcus called over to the officer as he sent a group of centurions about some task or another. Gaius looked at him questioningly. "You intended to wait until tomorrow to contact the duke, correct?"

"That's right. Why?"

"Well, what do you say to me going into the city today to gather some information?" Marcus tapped the side of his nose. "It wouldn't hurt to get the lay of the land a little bit, perhaps find out the latest news from the locals."

Gaius considered his proposal for only a second before nodding. "Agreed. That's not a bad plan. Give me a moment to finish checking in on the last centuries and I'll think of some questions for you to ask."

"Of course, of course!" Marcus agreed easily. "Though I would ask that you don't delay for too long. From this distance, it will take some time still to reach Dellend's gates, especially on foot."

Gaius winced at the reminder of their lost horses. "All right. I'll put together a list within the hour."

"Would you perhaps be willing to accept company?"

Marcus turned to see Iladrien's blonde form approaching, his forest-colored cloak seeming to blend in with the foliage around them even now.

The bard's eyebrows rose. “But of course. Although, are you entirely certain you wish to come? My understanding of your people is that you much prefer scenery such as this to the dark alleys and cold stone of a city.”

Iladrien shrugged. “You are not incorrect. However, one's dislike of such things is no excuse to remain entirely ignorant of them. And I must admit to some curiosity. It has been quite a long time since any of our people have visited a human settlement, aside from your own Habersville.” He nodded to Gaius.

“If that is the case, then your presence in the city may draw undue attention.” Gaius pointed out.

“Ah, don't worry about that.” Marcus patted Iladrien's shoulder and grinned. “I should be able to help on that front.”

The elf stiffened slightly at the gesture of familiarity, but said nothing. The young Legionnaire nodded. “In that case, I have no objections. So long as you remain discreet.”

Marcus's grin widened. “Discreet? What kind of bard would I be to slip through a settlement entirely unnoticed? But, we'll be sure to draw only the right kind of attention.”

Gaius gave an amused chuckle and shook his head. “Fair enough. I'll get to putting together that list then.

***

By the time they arrived at the city, the sun was just beginning to touch the horizon and paint it with hues of deep orange and dusk. Even the crowd hoping to gain entry to Dellend had more or less dispersed for the evening. Those wagons and travelers who were too poor or didn't care to pay for lodging within the city gathered beneath its walls. The result was a makeshift little town of their own on the outskirts, almost like another district entirely.

Marcus looked over their little group. A handful of Legionnaires and elves had accompanied them with the intent to set up camp outside the city. That way, they could provide assistance or run messages back to Gaius as needed.

The Legionnaires looked distinctly uncomfortable, some of them having removed their armor to appear more like a mercenary band than a group of actual soldiers. The elves all wore hoods, Iladrien included, to hide their ears and ageless features. The final result was a band that looked perhaps a little shady and suspicious, but not enough to warrant further investigation so long as they stayed outside of the city.

Marcus watched as the group began erecting a small outpost of their own with the practical efficiency he'd come to expect from the Legion. He couldn't help but shake his head at the sight. Hopefully they wouldn't go so far as to encircle the thing in a defensible wall like they did every other camp. That would be certain to raise some eyebrows.

“This is where we part ways, it seems.” Marcus called to his companions as they worked. "I suppose we'll see you all tomorrow?"

"Seems like it." One of the older Legionnaires scoffed. "Still can't believe you got away with this shit. 'Gather some information' my ass. The only information you're gonna be gathering is about the different venereal diseases in the city."

"How crude!" Marcus looked affronted. "I am a man of duty in all things, dear Augustus. The tribunus laticlavius gave me a list of information to gather, and I intend to do just that. Now, if I happen to be particularly efficient in my mission and find myself with a bit of free time…"

"Whatever." The Legionnaire gave Marcus a hearty slap on the back. "Do us all a favor and bring back some good booze while you're in there. The officers and centurions claimed most of the good shit when we took the last city."

"That, I can certainly do." Marcus grinned. He turned to Iladrien. "Are you ready to go, Andra?"

The elf nodded at the alias they'd agreed upon. "Indeed. Although it appears that a bit of haste may be in order on our part.”

He raised a finger toward the gate. As Marcus followed the direction he'd indicated, he saw the massive portcullis just beginning to lower.

Marcus swore under his breath. "Farewell, lads! Don't miss me too much!"

With that, the two set off at a run.