The war room was quiet, but it was the quiet of a coiled spring.
Three days had elapsed since the ink dried on the non-aggression and trade treaty with the Sorcerer Kingdom—a diplomatic triumph that had required every ounce of Emperor Maximus's patience and Ainz Ooal Gown's unsettlingly polite pragmatism. In the wake of that monumental accord, the imperial capital of Nova Roma had slipped back into its relentless, rhythmic heartbeat. Galleys choked the deep-water harbor, their holds laden with grain from the western river valleys and amber from the northern forests. Merchants thronged the marble-paved fora, arguing over denarii and silk tariffs, while engineers laid down the foundations for the new aqueduct network designed to supply the swelling population of the annexed provinces.
For the first time since the Roman Empire had been cast into this unfamiliar world, there was a semblance of an horizon. A horizon where the map was no longer entirely bleeding at the edges.
Maximus stood leaning over the massive calfskin relief map in the center of the imperial command chamber, a brass divider clutched idly in his right hand. He was tracing the trade route connecting E-Rantel to the southern military roads when the world dissolved.
There was no sound. No premonitory rumble of the earth, no sudden drop in barometric pressure.
Just a flash of stark, electric sapphire across his field of vision.
Maximus froze, his fingers tightening on the brass divider until his knuckles whitened. Floating in the empty air directly before his eyes, rendered in the crisp, unyielding typeface of the imperial administrative interface, a single notification glared with malevolent clarity.
[Emergency Quest Detected]
Quest: Defend the Capital
Description: An unidentified hostile force has entered the Imperial capital.
Primary Objective: Protect Nova Roma.
Secondary Objective: Prevent the destruction of the Imperial Palace and major infrastructure.
Secondary Objective: Repel the invading force.
Secondary Objective: Eliminate or capture the invading commander.
Failure Condition: Capital falls.
Reward: [Gacha Ticket ×3], [Territorial Expansion Blueprint], [Imperial Treasury Boost]
Maximus stared at the final line. One Gacha Ticket. The System was rarely this generous, and it was never vague about failure. If the capital fell, the consequences would be unimaginable. He closed his hand. The translucent blue window shattered into digital dust and vanished.
Across the map table, Gaius paused mid-sentence, his quill hovering over a stack of provincial tax reports. Beside him, Calca lowered a dispatch from the southern provinces, her brow furrowing as she noticed the sudden shift in the Emperor's posture.
"Maximus?" Calca's voice was quiet, laced with immediate concern. "What was that?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," Maximus replied, though his voice lacked its usual warmth.
Gaius sighed, setting his quill down with a sharp clack against the mahogany table. "That expression usually means we need to worry tremendously."
Before Maximus could answer, the heavy oak doors of the command chamber burst inward. A Praetorian captain stood in the threshold, his crimson cape swirling around his bronze cuirass. The man was a veteran of the Re-Estize conquest, yet his chest heaved as though he had sprinted fully armored from the lower city. He dropped to one knee, the metal of his greaves ringing against the marble floor.
"Report," Maximus commanded, his voice echoing like a whip-crack in the silent room.
"Your Majesty." The captain swallowed hard, fighting to steady his breathing. "An unidentified structure has appeared in the central district. Specifically, the Imperial Square."
Maximus stepped away from the table, his mind already calculating distances, troop deployments, and civilian evacuation routes. "What kind of structure?"
"We don't know, sire. It was not constructed. It simply... manifested."
"What happened?"
The captain hesitated, his eyes darting toward Gaius and Calca before returning to the Emperor. "Creatures emerged. Flying beasts. They resemble large reptiles. Dozens of them. And... they are armed. They have riders, Majesty."
Maximus's expression hardened into a mask of cold iron. His first thought had been dragons, perhaps a rogue faction of the Frost Dragons, but the captain had specified reptiles with riders. That meant an organized force. It meant a military invasion occurring directly in the heart of his empire.
"Marcus," Maximus said, not raising his voice, knowing the general was already stepping through the doorway behind the Praetorian.
General Marcus entered in full parade armor, the silver plating gleaming under the enchanted glow-globes. "Majesty. My forces are already moving."
"How long?"
"The First and Second Legions are mobilizing. The Praetorian Guard has secured the palace perimeter. We are locking down the civilian quarters now." Marcus looked toward the massive arched windows that overlooked the lower city. "What are we facing?"
"Unknown," Maximus said. "Seal the Imperial District. Deploy the Legions. Bring the heavy artillery into the square."
Marcus's eyes gleamed with a sudden, predatory light. "Now that's more like it."
Gaius pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please do not sound excited about this. One day, I would like an ordinary month."
"You married yourself to an Emperor," Calca said softly, though her hands were already moving to gather her combat vestments.
Maximus strode past them, his crimson cape billowing behind him. He did not know who had dared to strike at the heart of Rome, but they were about to learn a very painful lesson about the architecture of an empire.
Miles away, in the center of the Imperial Square, hell had already broken loose.
Only moments prior, it had been a perfectly normal Roman day. The fruit merchant had been in the middle of a heated, highly exaggerated argument with the fishmonger over the placement of a cart. Two legionnaires off-duty had been haggling with a street vendor over the price of hot spiced wine. A group of students from the Imperial Academy were debating the logistical triumphs of the southern campaigns, gesturing wildly at the colossal bronze statue of the Roman Eagle that dominated the plaza, its wings spread toward the heavens.
Then, the earth moved.
It was subtle at first—a strange, discordant vibration beneath the paving stones that set the water in the fountains trembling. A draft horse pulling a cart of amphorae suddenly stopped, its ears pinning back flat against its skull. The beast let out a distressed whinny and refused to step forward.
The fishmonger frowned, looking down at his rattling stall. "What was that?"
"What?" the fruit merchant asked, distracted.
The ground shuddered violently. This time, there was no mistaking it. The arguments ceased. The horse reared up, snapping its leather traces. Several people screamed as a jagged line split the ancient paving stones, running directly through the center of the square.
The sound grew deafening—a deep, tectonic groan of stone grinding against stone. Dust blasted upward in a thick, blinding geyser. The citizens scattered, diving behind overturned carts and marble pillars.
When the dust finally cleared, the square was no longer empty.
It had not been excavated. It had not been built. It had simply torn its way into reality. Two enormous stone pillars, dark as obsidian and carved with elaborate, jagged patterns that hurt the eyes to look at, rose from the ruined pavement. Between them stretched a massive archway. There was no Roman eagle. No Latin inscriptions. No recognizable magical sigils from the New World.
But the most terrifying aspect was the space between the pillars. It was filled with a darkness that drank the morning sunlight, a swirling, abyssal void that seemed to stretch into eternity.
A Roman patrol arrived within three minutes, twenty-four legionnaires moving in perfect, lockstep unison under the command of a scarred veteran centurion named Titus. Titus had marched through the blood-soaked fields of Re-Estize. He had watched enemy fortresses crumble beneath Roman siege fire. He had killed men, monsters, and things that defied categorization. But he had never seen a hole in reality.
"Clear the square," Titus ordered, his voice a calm, stabilizing anchor in the rising panic. "Everyone move back. Form a perimeter."
The citizens obeyed, scrambling away as the legionnaires raised their scuta—towering rectangular shields—forming a wall of painted wood and iron. Titus stared at the impossible structure.
"Has anyone reported an explosion? An earthquake?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the dark void.
"Nothing of this scale, Centurion," his adjutant replied.
"Magic?" Titus glanced over his shoulder at the patrol's battle-mage, a young man clutching a silver-tipped staff.
The mage stepped forward, his face pale. He raised a hand, muttering an incantation. Magical energy flickered around his fingers in a web of golden light, extending outward to probe the structure. The moment the light touched the dark pillars, the mage recoiled violently, crying out as if he had been burned.
"Report!" Titus snapped.
"I... I don't understand it, Centurion," the mage gasped, clutching his wrist. "There is no readable spell structure. It's not a localized teleportation array. It's... it's empty. But it's tearing at the fabric of the leylines. I cannot detect what lies beyond it."
Titus drew his gladius, the steel whispering against the scabbard. "Then nobody touches it."
Before he could give the order to fall back, a sound echoed from the Gate.
It was a faint scraping, like iron dragging across stone. Then came a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in the chests of every man present.
Titus's blood ran cold. "Formation!"
The legionnaires snapped together instantly. Shields locked tight, forming an impenetrable wall. Swords rested on the iron rims, ready to thrust.
A deafening screech shattered the morning air.
The first creature exploded from the darkness. It was a nightmare of leathery wings, emerald scales, and a beak-like maw lined with razor-sharp teeth. The wyvern tore through the air at incredible speed, the sheer force of its wings nearly knocking the front rank of legionnaires off their feet.
"Wyvern!" Titus roared, bracing his shield.
But the beast did not come alone. Another emerged. Then three more. Then ten. Within seconds, the sky above the Imperial Square darkened with a swarm of winged predators.
Yet, the true horror was not the beasts, but what sat upon their backs. Men. Armored soldiers wearing polished breastplates, plumed helmets, and heavy leather straps, wielding lances and recurve bows. They looked down upon the marble majesty of Nova Roma with a mixture of confusion and predatory greed.
For a heartbeat, neither side moved. The invading riders had clearly expected to emerge into a defenseless, primitive settlement. Instead, they found themselves hovering over a sprawling metropolis of marble and stone, surrounded by highly organized, heavily armored soldiers who did not look the least bit intimidated.
High above, an enemy officer raised his sword and shouted an order in a harsh, guttural language. The wyverns folded their wings and entered a steep dive.
"SHIELDS!" Titus bellowed.
The legionnaires dropped to one knee, interlocking their shields above their heads to form the testudo—the tortoise formation. The wyverns swooped low, their riders unleashing a volley of heavy arrows. The projectiles hammered into the Roman shields with the sound of a brutal hailstorm, but the iron-bound wood held.
"Archers!" A shout echoed from the perimeter of the square as a cohort of Roman auxiliaries rushed into position. "Loose!"
A thick cloud of black-fletched arrows tore into the sky. The wyverns twisted violently, trying to evade the sudden retaliation. One beast took an arrow directly through the membrane of its left wing. It shrieked in agony, entering a terrifying death spiral. The rider lost his grip, and both beast and man smashed into the façade of a nearby merchant's guild. Stone shattered in a cloud of dust and debris.
Titus broke formation, pointing his gladius at the cratered building. "Take the rider!"
Six legionnaires rushed the rubble. The enemy soldier was already staggering to his feet, coughing on the dust. He drew a long, curved sword, his eyes wild with adrenaline. A Roman soldier thrust his shield forward; the enemy rider slashed at it, the impact driving the legionnaire a step back. But the Romans did not fight as individuals. The second legionnaire hooked his shield under the rider's guard, throwing him off balance, while a third brought the flat of his blade hard against the side of the man's helmet.
The rider collapsed to his knees, immediately surrounded by four Roman blades aimed directly at his throat.
Titus stalked forward. "Drop the weapon."
The man stared blankly, breathing hard. He shouted something unintelligible, spitting blood onto the paving stones.
Titus didn't hesitate. He slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's temple, rendering him instantly unconscious. "Bind him. We need him alive."
Above them, the remaining wyvern riders realized the square was a death trap. They broke formation, scattering across the city skyline, seeking softer targets in the market districts and residential sectors. One wyvern raked its claws across a terracotta rooftop, sending a deadly shower of tiles raining down onto the fleeing civilians below.
But the Roman response was a terrifying machine waking from its slumber.
Emergency bells began to toll across the city—a deep, rhythmic bronze clamor that signaled a Class-One military crisis. Within minutes, the streets transformed. Roman officers, trained relentlessly for urban defense, took command of every intersection. Heavy infantry barricaded the main avenues. Battle mages took positions on the aqueducts and rooftops, layering the airspace with kinetic wards and anti-air enchantments.
The heavy thump-thump-thump of marching boots vibrated through the city as the First Legion, forty centuries of disciplined killers, poured out of the military district. They moved not with the chaotic panic of a city under siege, but with the cold, calculated precision of an executioner.
In the Imperial Square, General Marcus arrived with the vanguard of the artillery. Heavy ballistae, mounted on reinforced wooden chassis, were wheeled rapidly into position, their massive torsion springs groaning as they were cranked back.
Marcus stood on the elevated steps of the Senate building, his eyes tracking the circling wyverns. "Ballista crews! Mark targets!"
"Targets acquired, sir!"
"Fire at will!"
The heavy steel-tipped bolts launched with a sound like a thunderclap. They moved too fast for the wyverns to dodge. One bolt punched cleanly through a beast's chest, killing it instantly. Another shattered a wyvern's wing, sending it plummeting into a fountain. The sky rained blood and shattered armor.
Suddenly, a new sound resonated from the Gate—the synchronized marching of thousands of boots.
The Saderan Empire had sent its infantry.
They poured through the dark portal like a flood of steel. Hundreds, then thousands of foot soldiers wielding heavy shields, spears, and short swords. They marched under banners depicting strange beasts and unknown heraldry. Their commander, a tall man in gilded armor, stepped out of the darkness and looked upon the city.
He expected chaos. He expected a primitive militia fleeing in terror.
Instead, he saw a wall of Roman iron.
The First Legion had arrayed itself in a massive semi-circle around the Gate. Six ranks deep, their red cloaks stark against the gray stone. The Roman soldiers stood in absolute, terrifying silence. No battle cries. No banging of swords against shields. Just the cold, unwavering stare of professional killers waiting for the order.
The Saderan commander hesitated. He shouted a command, trying to hide the sudden tremor of doubt in his voice. His infantry charged, raising a guttural roar as they sprinted across the square.
Marcus watched them come. He didn't blink. He waited until the enemy was within fifty paces. Forty. Thirty.
"First rank," Marcus said quietly. The order was relayed down the line by the centurions. The legionnaires lowered their shields, locking them together into a solid wall of iron and wood.
"Hold." The Saderans closed the distance. Twenty paces.
"Hold." Ten paces. The ground shook beneath the weight of the charge.
"Advance."
The Roman line moved forward as a single, unstoppable entity.
The collision was catastrophic. Saderan bodies smashed into the immovable wall of Roman shields. Bone cracked. Armor crumpled. The invaders tried to hack and slash their way through, but the Roman formation was flawless. Between the gaps in the shields, the short, brutal gladii thrust forward in a rhythmic, mechanical motion. Thrust. Twist. Retract. Step forward.
The Saderans began to die in droves. Their front ranks were pulverized against the Roman wall, while their rear ranks continued to push forward, crushing their own men in the middle. Panic began to set in. The Saderan officers screamed conflicting orders, trying to flank the Roman line, but the Romans simply adjusted, wrapping around the invaders like a closing fist.
From the rooftops, Roman archers rained suppressing fire onto the rear of the Saderan formation, preventing them from retreating back through the Gate.
Emperor Maximus arrived at the Senate steps just as the Saderan lines began to break. He stood beside Marcus, his crimson cape blowing in the wind, observing the slaughter with a detached, clinical eye.
"They fight like barbarians," Marcus spat, entirely unimpressed. "No unit cohesion. Their equipment is standard, but their discipline is nonexistent."
"They believed they were marching into an easy conquest," Maximus observed. "They brought an invasion force, but they forgot to bring tactics."
He turned his attention away from the dying soldiers and focused on the massive, dark archway of the Gate. The enemy commander was nowhere to be seen among the front lines. He was likely holding back, observing from the safety of the portal.
"Marcus," Maximus said, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "Do not destroy the Gate. And do not push through it."
Marcus frowned, his bloodlust momentarily curbed. "Sir? We have them on the run. If we push through now, we can secure the beachhead on the other side."
"No," Maximus said firmly. "We do not know the geography on the other side. We do not know the atmosphere, the ambient magic levels, or the size of the reserve force waiting for us. To push an army through a bottleneck into an unknown variable is a fool's gamble. We hold the line here. Let them bleed themselves dry against our walls."
Marcus nodded slowly, recognizing the strategic wisdom, even if it frustrated his desire for immediate conquest. "Understood, Majesty. We will form a hard perimeter around the structure."
By late afternoon, the battle was over.
The last of the Saderan infantry threw down their weapons and surrendered, dropping to their knees in the blood-slicked square. The wyverns that had survived the anti-air barrage fled back through the Gate, disappearing into the void. Roman medics moved efficiently through the carnage, tending to the few Roman wounded and separating the living enemy soldiers from the dead.
Maximus stood in the lower dungeons of the Imperial Palace, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and iron. Before him, chained to a wooden chair, sat the Saderan commander they had managed to drag from the fray. The man's gilded armor was gone, replaced by a simple linen tunic. His face was bruised, and his eyes darted nervously around the torchlit room.
Gaius stood to the Emperor's left, holding a ledger. To the right stood an Imperial scholar, a master linguist who had spent the last three hours using translation magic and linguistic deduction to crack the prisoner's language.
"I have established a baseline, Majesty," the scholar said, bowing deeply. "Their language shares crude syntactical roots with ancient Aulic, though heavily bastardized. I can communicate the core concepts."
"Begin," Maximus ordered.
The scholar turned to the prisoner and spoke a harsh, clipped sentence. The commander flinched, then answered in a trembling voice.
"He says his name is Legate Appius," the scholar translated. "He is a commander of the Saderan Empire."
Maximus stepped forward, his boots echoing sharply on the stone. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "The Saderan Empire. Where is this empire located? Ask him what world lies beyond the Gate."
The scholar translated. The Legate answered, his voice gaining a fraction of its former arrogance.
"He calls their land Falmart, Majesty. He claims it is the center of the civilized world."
Maximus let out a dark, hollow laugh. "The center of the civilized world. And why did this 'civilized' empire attack Nova Roma without provocation?"
When the question was translated, the Legate looked away, his jaw tightening. He spoke rapidly, defensively.
The scholar's face remained impassive as he translated. "He says the Gate appeared on a Hill, in their territory. The Emperor of Sadera, Molt Sol Augustus, ordered the expedition. They believed the Gate led to a primitive, untamed land rich in resources. They came to claim our wealth, enslave our people, and expand their borders."
Gaius closed his ledger with a sharp snap. "They came for slaves and gold. How remarkably mundane."
Maximus did not take his eyes off the Legate. The Saderan Empire had made a catastrophic miscalculation. They had opened a door, expecting to find sheep, and instead found a den of wolves. But Maximus was not a man who fought defensive wars. If an enemy struck at Rome, Rome did not merely defend. Rome conquered.
"Tell him something," Maximus said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper.
The scholar readied himself. "What shall I tell him, Majesty?"
Maximus leaned down so that he was eye-level with the Legate. He looked past the fear in the man's eyes, projecting the full, terrifying weight of the Roman Empire into his gaze.
"Tell him he made a mistake. Tell him he invaded Rome. He killed Roman citizens." Maximus stood up, his crimson cape settling around him. "Tell him that he has not discovered a new territory to conquer. He has discovered the instrument of his own empire's destruction."
The scholar translated the words perfectly. The Legate's face was drained of all colors. He slumped back in his chair, finally realizing the magnitude of what they had awakened.
Maximus turned and left the dungeon, Gaius falling into step beside him.
"What now, Maximus?" Gaius asked as they ascended the spiral stairs toward the surface. "We hold the Gate, but we are essentially under siege from an unknown dimension."
"We are not under siege, Gaius. We hold the high ground," Maximus corrected him. "The Saderan Empire lost an entire legion today. When an empire loses a legion, they do not simply accept the loss. They will demand answers. They will want revenge. And they will send a larger force to save face."
They emerged onto the upper balconies of the Imperial Palace. The sun was setting, casting the city of Nova Roma in a wash of gold and blood-red light. In the center of the city, the Gate stood silently, a dark tear in the fabric of their reality. Surrounded by thousands of Roman legionnaires, heavy ballistae, and magical wards, the portal was entirely sealed off.
Suddenly, a faint, rhythmic sound drifted across the city.
It was coming from the Gate.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
War drums.
The Saderans were returning.
Maximus smiled, cold and sharp. He felt the familiar, electric pulse of the System deep within his mind. The emergency quest was still active. The final objective remained unfulfilled. Rome had survived the vanguard, but the true war was only just beginning.
He rested his hand on the marble balustrade, looking out over the iron ranks of his invincible army.
"Let them come," the Emperor whispered into the evening wind. "Rome is waiting."
(thoughts on the story?)