Elara Valeria stumbled through the shimmering doorway, the last remnants of the Roman fort dissolving behind her. The transition was less a step and more a physical lurch of the universe. The stench of iron and wet earth vanished, replaced by an assaulting smell of rich coffee, ancient paper, and something sharp.
Her ears, accustomed to the howl of the Caledonian wind and the clang of steel, were suddenly assailed by a cacophony: a low, resonant hum she couldn't place, the distant, frantic wail of something called a 'siren,' and a rhythmic, almost meditative tick-tock from a hundred different sources.
Her knees buckled. The world spun, not with the chaos of battle, but with an overwhelming, almost sickening sense of too much. She hit a surface that gave beneath her — a velvet armchair the color of dried blood — and slumped onto it, her gladius clattering to the polished wooden floor. Her shield, still gripped tightly, felt impossibly heavy.
Quinn Paradox, meanwhile, smoothly stepped out of the glowing doorway. He didn't even glance at her collapsing form. He simply reached behind him, and the oak shop door, which had been a portal to 120 AD, folded inward with a soft click, revealing itself to be nothing more than a very convincing wall panel. The warmth of the shop, an unnatural constant, settled over them.
Quinn peeled off his trench coat, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. He hung it meticulously on a brass stand that looked like a Victorian coat rack, but shimmered with faint, unseen energies.
"Ah, good. You're not a puddle," Quinn mused, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, smoothing the part that remained inexplicably perfect. His mercury-grey eyes scanned the room, not Elara.
"Most people from the second century disintegrate on first contact with a decent Wi-Fi signal. You have remarkable fortitude, Centurion."
Elara pushed herself up, her muscles screaming. Her head throbbed. She looked around the shop, which had gone from a warm, inviting light in her panicked vision to a bewildering maze of… things. Glass cases filled with glowing, pulsing artifacts she couldn't name. Shelves packed with books, their spines a riot of colors and strange symbols. A giant, humming silver box stood in a corner, emanating a cold mist.
"Where… where am I?" she rasped, her voice rough. "Is this the afterlife? Are you… Plutus? Hades?"
Quinn finally turned to her, a faint, almost dismissive smile playing on his lips. He picked up a small, folded white cloth from a nearby table.
"No, Centurion. This is 548 Hudson Street, Manhattan. Roughly two thousand years after your 'death.' And I am merely Quinn Paradox, your… benefactor."
He flicked the cloth at her.
"Clean the mud off my chair, please. It's Louis XIV; he was a very loud man, and his furniture is just as sensitive."
Elara stared at the cloth, then at the elegant, impossibly clean armchair, then at the man before her. Her Roman mind, trained for order and logic, struggled to process the sheer audacity.
"I am a Centurion of the Ninth Legion. I do not clean furniture."
Quinn merely raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with amusement. "And I am a man who just pulled you out of an erased timeline. Consider it… a retainer fee. Unless you'd prefer to go back and finish dying in the mud."
The unspoken threat hung in the air. Elara's jaw tightened. She took the cloth. The smooth fabric felt utterly alien in her calloused hands.
Quinn led her through the maze of antiquities, which, to Elara, shimmered with strange lights and hums she couldn't quite decipher. He gestured to a large, ornate grandfather clock that pulsed with an internal, golden light.
"This, Centurion, is an anchor. It connects us to the flow of time. And right now, your personal anchor is… rather frayed."
They stopped in a small, well-lit office in the back, surprisingly minimalist compared to the main shop. A large, dark wooden desk dominated the room, covered with what looked like polished stones and ancient scrolls, but also flat, glowing surfaces. Quinn sat behind it, leaning back, the picture of casual power.
"Your timeline, Valeria," Quinn began, his voice losing its playful edge and becoming coolly academic, "was scheduled to end. Not naturally, but by pruning."
He tapped a glowing slate on his desk. A holographic display flickered into existence between them, showing a complex, branching tree of timelines. One branch, vibrant green, suddenly withered and began to shrink, turning to ash. Elara saw familiar landmarks: Hadrian's Wall, the distant outline of Rome. It was her world. Her life. Dying.
"That is Vergil," Quinn explained, his voice flat. "Or rather, Aethelgard. Once, he was a friend. Now, he's a god who believes the universe is a messy draft. He seeks to 'perfect' it by freezing all time into a single, sterile moment of 'order.' And he started by deleting your century."
Elara's breath hitched. "Deleted…?"
"Erased. Rendered un-happen. You, Valeria, were not supposed to be here. You're a ghost, a glitch in the system. Which is precisely why you're valuable."
He then conjured the holographic Archive interface she had briefly seen at the fort. It floated between them, showing her own profile.
[PARADOX ARCHIVE: NEW ASSET ACQUIRED]
Name: Elara Valeria
Designation: The Last Centurion (Ninth Legion)
Era: 120 AD – The Frozen Frontier
Combat Class: Vanguard / Chrono-Static Defender
Sync Rate: 0.5%
Note: Low Sync increases the risk of the asset returning to the Void.
"This, Elara, is my Archive," Quinn stated, gesturing to the glowing display. "You are now an 'Asset' within it. Your continued existence is now tied to this shop, and to my… System. The higher your 'Sync Rate,' the more stable you become. And the more powerful. Eventually, you'll unlock abilities you can barely dream of."
Elara stared at the interface, at her own name reduced to a data entry. She felt a cold anger building.
"You didn't save me because it was right," she finally said, her hand instinctively going to where her gladius should be.
Quinn leaned back further, a faint smirk returning. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, adjusting his part in a nearby silvered mirror.
"'Right' is a matter of perspective, Valeria. What's 'right' about letting an entire timeline be erased? No, I saved you because you're a high-tier Vanguard with a 5-star growth potential. And because I can't carry a heavy bronze eagle and fight Echoes at the same time."
He tapped another icon on the display. A holographic image of a massive, bronze Roman eagle standard, glinting with golden light, appeared. It pulsed with a contained energy that Elara instantly recognized.
"The Standard of the Lost Ninth," she breathed, her anger momentarily forgotten.
"How…?"
"It's still in your fort. A focal point of temporal energy. Vergil's Echoes are converging on it. I came for it, and you. But now that you're in my system, you're invaluable."
He paused to look her in the eyes.
"Now I need your help to retrieve it."