The moment the first body hit the ground, the camp exploded into chaos.
Shouts. The scrape of metal. The pounding of feet.
Lucius barely had time to process the sight of the twisted Parthian corpse before the night came alive with movement.
The palisade shattered.
Something huge crashed through the outer barricade, sending wooden stakes flying like broken spears.
Lucius raised his shield just in time to block a splintered log that slammed into his position, knocking him back a step. Men screamed. The second watch, caught off guard, scrambled into defensive positions.
Then the shadows poured in.
?
An Enemy Unlike Any Other
At first, Lucius thought they were Parthians.
They wore the same armor, moved with the same deadly precision. But as they emerged into the firelight, he saw the truth.
Their eyes burned. Not with rage or bloodlust—but with something unnatural.
Some had faces twisted in silent agony, their bodies moving like puppets on strings.
Others snarled like animals, their weapons raised high.
But it was the way they moved that sent ice through Lucius’ veins.
Too fast. Too fluid.
Like men who no longer felt pain.
Or fear.
Septimus’ voice cut through the madness.
“STAND TOGETHER! HOLD THE LINE!”
?
The Clash
The first wave hit them like a storm.
Lucius gritted his teeth, bracing himself.
The moment a Parthian soldier lunged at him, he reacted on instinct. His shield met the blow, his muscles straining as the impact rattled through his bones.
CLANG!
The enemy barely flinched.
Lucius’ gut twisted—this was wrong. His opponent should have felt that, should have staggered—
Instead, the Parthian kept coming.
Lucius drove his gladius forward.
A clean thrust. Right under the ribs. A killing blow.
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The enemy jerked. Twitched. But did not fall.
Lucius’ eyes widened.
How?
Then the Parthian’s mouth twisted—not in pain, but in something close to a smile.
Lucius yanked his blade free just in time to dodge a counterstrike.
No blood spilled.
No scream of pain.
His stomach turned. What were they fighting?
?
Septimus Takes Command
Septimus’ voice rang out, sharp as steel.
“LEGIONARIES, FORM UP!”
His sheer presence snapped the men out of their fear.
They tightened their formation, shields locking together in a solid wall of iron.
Lucius fell into position, his heart hammering in his chest.
A battle against the Parthians was one thing.
A battle against something that refused to die was another.
Septimus knew it too. His expression was grim, his sword raised high.
And then, beyond the melee—Lucius saw them.
The figures on the ridgeline. Still watching.
Unmoving. Unshaken. As if they knew exactly how this would unfold.
And in that moment, Lucius realized something.
This was not an ambush.
This was a test.
-----
The line wavered.
Not because the legionaries were weak. But because their enemies refused to fall.
Lucius slammed his shield into an oncoming Parthian, sending the enemy stumbling back. He followed with a thrust—a perfect, trained strike to the throat.
Steel met flesh. The blade pierced deep.
And yet—
The Parthian did not drop.
His head snapped back, his body jerking unnaturally. Then he moved again.
Lucius barely yanked his gladius free before the Parthian’s arm lashed out, swinging wildly with a jagged spear. The attack lacked precision. Lacked skill.
But it was relentless.
They don’t feel pain. They don’t die like men.
A sickening realization sank in. These weren’t soldiers anymore.
They were something else.
“STAND FAST!”
Septimus’ voice cut through the chaos like a warhorn. His blade slashed down, carving a Parthian from shoulder to stomach. Blood sprayed. The wound should have been fatal.
But the damn thing kept crawling forward.
Lucius saw it now. The same pattern. The unnatural movement. The refusal to die.
A legionary to his left—a veteran named Gaius—drove his pilum through an attacker’s chest.
The Parthian kept pushing forward, impaling himself further, uncaring.
Gaius’ breath hitched. “Gods…”
Then the Parthian grabbed him.
Lucius heard the sickening crunch of bone snapping as Gaius was ripped backward into the darkness.
Gone.
The line faltered.
Panic crept in.
Then—
Septimus roared.
“HOLD, DAMN YOU! HOLD THE LINE OR DIE WHERE YOU STAND!”
His fury snapped them back into formation.
Shields locked. Spears thrust forward. The wall of Rome did not break.
?
Behind the formation, Optio Varro had seen enough.
He rushed to Septimus, voice low but urgent.
“Sir, this isn’t a normal attack.”
Septimus’ glare was like stone. “I can see that.”
Varro shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. This—this feels planned. Like they want to see how we react.”
Septimus didn’t reply immediately. But Lucius saw the way his grip tightened on his sword.
He knew.
He had felt it, too.
?
Lucius risked a glance beyond the battlefield.
Up on the ridgeline—they were still there.
Watching.
Unmoving.
Dark figures against the night, their presence like a weight on Lucius’ chest.
For the first time in his life, he felt something he had never associated with battle.
Dread.
Not fear of dying. Fear of the unknown.
Who were they?
And why did it feel like they were waiting for something?
Lucius blinked.
For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt a faint pulse in his mind.
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<td style="width: 98.8688%">[Imperium Arcana System…]</td>
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The words were muted. Distant.
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<td style="width: 98.8688%">[…assessing…]</td>
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</table>
Lucius’ breath caught.
The system had been silent for weeks. Ever since Anatolia.
Now, suddenly—it was awake.
But it wasn’t offering him anything. No abilities. No warnings.
Just observation.
As if it, too, was watching.
Lucius clenched his teeth, focusing back on the fight.
Whatever this was—it wasn’t over yet.