The night air of the Albion Hills carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and now, the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Maximus did not flinch at the news. He merely adjusted the heavy crimson cloak draped over his shoulders and stepped past the Royal Guard. The flap of his command tent fell shut behind him, plunging him into the chaotic, flickering light of the camp's torch-lit perimeter.
The legionnaires had already secured the area. There was no panic, no disorganized shouting—only the terrifying, mechanical efficiency of Rome. Soldiers in runic-etched mithril armor stood in a perfect, interlocking shield wall around the perimeter, their spears angled outward into the dark tree line.
In the center of the muddy clearing knelt the survivors.
Three demi-humans, bound tightly with thick hempen ropes, were forced into the dirt. They were grotesque parodies of men and beasts—hunched, muscular creatures with coarse gray fur, elongated snouts, and yellow, slitted eyes that darted around the camp in suppressed panic. One of them, a massive brute missing half its left ear, bared bloodstained fangs and unleashed a guttural, clicking snarl at the approaching Emperor.
Beside Maximus, Marcus drew his adamantine gladius an inch from its scabbard. The faint, hum of high-tier enchantment vibrated through the air.
Maximus raised a single hand, his palm flat. Marcus slammed the blade back home with a sharp clack.
"They thought us easy prey," Marcus said, his voice a low, disciplined rumble. "A soft human caravan, perhaps. They breached the outer stakes before the sentries spotted them. Fourteen dead on their side. None on ours."
Maximus stopped a few paces from the captives. He stared down at them, his face an unreadable mask of stone. Internally, his mind raced through the encyclopedic knowledge he possessed of this world. Demi-humans in the Albion Hills. It made sense. This region was a violent borderland, a buffer zone between the human-dominated realms of the Re-Estize Kingdom, the Slane Theocracy, and the beastman territories. Humans in this world were traditionally weak, treated as livestock by species with naturally thicker hides, sharper claws, and innate magical abilities.
These creatures had expected a slaughter. Instead, they had run headfirst into a meat grinder of enchanted mithril and veteran legionnaires.
"Do any of you speak the human tongue?" Maximus asked, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly over the crackle of the campfires.
The three beastmen exchanged bewildered glances. The largest one spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the toe of Maximus's iron-shod boot. It barked a string of harsh, barking syllables, eyes full of feral defiance.
Maximus did not move his foot. He did not break eye contact. Instead, he reached inward, tapping into the Magic Affinity the System had granted him. He visualized the vast, branching tree of arcane knowledge housed within his capital's Magical Library. The spell he needed was elementary in this world, yet invaluable.
"[Comprehend Languages]," Maximus muttered.
A subtle, cool wave of mana washed over his eardrums and vocal cords. The chaotic barking of the beastman suddenly snapped into harsh, jagged clarity.
"—weak skinless runts!" the beastman was snarling. "The Great Chief will mount your heads on spears! You smell of soft meat! We will eat your young and burn your wood!"
"Your Great Chief," Maximus said, his voice now translating perfectly into their native tongue, "sent his warriors to die for nothing. He is a fool, and you are the consequence of his foolishness."
The beastmen froze. The sheer shock of hearing a human speak their dialect with aristocratic precision drained the blood from their furred faces. The largest one struggled against his bonds, eyes wide. "You... you speak the tongue of the deep woods? What kind of human are you?"
"I am the Emperor of Rome," Maximus stated softly. "And you are trespassing on my sovereign territory. How many warriors does your Great Chief command?"
The creature bared its teeth again, though the bravado was fading. "Thousands! Enough to drown this little camp in blood! You have metal skin, but you are few. The Chief of the Broken-Fang tribe will hear of this. The shamans will curse your bones!"
Maximus digested the information. Thousands. A significant localized threat, but a fractured one. If this 'Broken-Fang' tribe was a dominant force in the immediate vicinity of his beachhead, they had to be eradicated. He could not afford a drawn-out guerrilla war in the hills while trying to construct a fortress, nor could he afford to let the demi-humans alert the Slane Theocracy to his presence before he was ready.
Nazarick. The Black Scripture. Zesshi Zetsumei. These were the true threats that haunted the corners of his mind. If the Great Tomb of Nazarick had already transported to this world, the Sorcerer King Ainz Ooal Gown would be playing his own game of world domination. Maximus needed an absolute, impenetrable power base, and he needed it before the undead overlord turned his empty eye sockets toward the sea.
Maximus turned to his legate. "Marcus."
"My Lord."
"This land is infested. These creatures answer to a local warlord a few days' march from here. They boast of thousands." Maximus looked back down at the captives. The coldness in his eyes was absolute. "Execute the two older ones. Leave the youngest alive. He will guide our forces to their main camp."
The beastman's eyes widened in horror. "Wait—!"
Marcus did not hesitate. He gave a sharp nod to the two legionnaires standing behind the captives. Twin flashes of runic silver cut through the night air. The dull thuds of severed heads hitting the earth followed a fraction of a second later.
The youngest beastman, barely more than an adolescent by its stature, screamed—a high, pitiful yelp of terror—and scrambled backward into the mud, thrashing against his ropes. He stared at the headless corpses of his kin, then up at the towering, unmoving forms of the human soldiers. In this world, humans were supposed to cower. They were supposed to break. These humans did not even blink at the sight of blood.
Maximus stepped forward and knelt, bringing his face level with the trembling captive.
"You will show my legions the path to the Broken-Fang camp," Maximus said, his tone devoid of malice, carrying only the inevitability of a collapsing mountain. "If you lead us true, you will live to see tomorrow's sunset. If you lie, or attempt to lead us into an ambush, I will have my mages peel your mind apart layer by layer until you beg for the death your friends just received. Nod if you understand."
The creature swallowed hard, tears of pure terror tracking through the dirt on its snout. It nodded frantically.
"Good." Maximus stood, turning his back on the prisoner. "Marcus, double the sentries. Have the mages cast [Alarm] and [Detect Life] around the perimeter. At first light, we begin construction of the fort. Once the walls are up, we march on the Broken-Fang tribe. We will carve our borders in their blood."
"Roma Invicta," Marcus saluted, striking his fist against his breastplate.
"Roma Invicta," the surrounding legionnaires echoed in perfect, terrifying unison.
The dawn brought a flurry of orchestrated, mechanical activity that the New World had likely never witnessed. Where the kingdoms of Re-Estize and Baharuth relied on peasant conscripts and disorganized labor, the Roman Legion was a self-contained engine of industry and war. Every soldier was an engineer; every cohort a construction crew.
As the sun breached the rolling green peaks of the Albion Hills, the temporary wooden palisades were already coming down, replaced by a deep defensive trench. Earth mages, integrated seamlessly into the legion's auxiliary units, chanted in unison, their hands pressed to the soil. Great slabs of bedrock groaned and shifted, rising from the earth to form the foundational walls of a true Roman castrum. Behind them, soldiers mixed a specialized alchemical mortar brought from the capital, layering quarried stone with a speed that bordered on the supernatural.
Maximus stood atop a small rise overlooking the construction site, a steaming cup of herbal tea in his hand. Below him, the camp was a symphony of hammer strikes, shouted orders, and the rhythmic marching of patrols.
"The perimeter is secured up to five kilometers, Your Imperial Majesty," came a voice from above.
Maximus glanced up. A massive, golden-feathered griffin descended from the morning clouds, the wind from its powerful wings flattening the tall grass. Mounted on its back was a centurion of the First Sky Legion, clad in lightweight, aerodynamic mithril plate. The rider spurred his mount gently, bringing it to a halt before dismounting and taking a knee.
"Report," Maximus said.
"The aerial view confirms the prisoner's claims, sire. Approximately twenty kilometers north-northeast, nestled in a deep ravine, there is a massive encampment. Thousands of crude tents, wooden palisades, and a large concentration of demi-humans. We observed patrol groups moving through the woods, likely searching for the raiding party that attacked us last night."
"Did they spot you?"
"No, sire. We maintained an altitude above the cloud cover, utilizing [Invisibility] spells on the mounts as instructed."
"Excellent work." Maximus took a sip of his tea, his eyes fixed on the northern horizon. The geography was becoming clearer. The Albion Hills were vast, but they were not infinite. If he pushed too far north, he would run into the borders of the Re-Estize Kingdom. Too far east, and he would provoke the Slane Theocracy—a nation of human supremacists armed with players' relics from Yggdrasil. The Theocracy would view his empire not as an ally, but as a terrifying anomaly to be controlled or destroyed.
He could not afford the attention of the Black Scripture. Not yet. His Royal Guards were outfitted in adamantine and possessed incredible physical prowess, easily matching Orichalcum or Adamantite-ranked adventurers in this world. But Zesshi Zetsumei and the Captain of the Black Scripture were outliers, anomalies who could shatter mountains. Until Maximus unlocked the higher tiers of the System's power, or mass-produced high-tier magical artillery, he had to operate in the shadows.
Establishing a stronghold here, by annihilating a localized demi-human threat, would go unnoticed by the human nations. They would merely assume the beastmen were fighting among themselves.
"Marcus," Maximus called out without turning.
The legate stepped up the ridge, fully armored, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. "My Lord."
"Leave one cohort to hold the castrum and oversee the earth mages. Take the remaining forces, including the Sky Legion detachment. We march on the Broken-Fang ravine. I want this dealt with before midday."
Marcus's eyes gleamed with anticipated battle. "What are the rules of engagement, sire?"
"Total subjugation," Maximus said coldly. "Break their military strength completely. Kill anyone who raises a weapon. But leave the non-combatants and the young alive. A dead population provides no labor. A terrified, subjugated population provides a foundation. We will show them that Rome is not merely an army—it is a force of nature."
Three hours later, the Roman war machine arrived at the edge of the ravine.
The Broken-Fang encampment was exactly as the scout had described. It was a sprawling, chaotic mess of hide tents, fire pits, and crude wooden barricades wedged into a deep scar in the earth. The stench of roasting meat and poor sanitation drifted up to the ridge where the legion had arrayed itself.
Down below, thousands of beastmen milled about. Some were sharpening rusted weapons, others were sparring, and many were gathered around a massive central pavilion where a truly gargantuan beastman—nearly nine feet tall, with scars crisscrossing its muscular torso—sat on a throne of bone. The Great Chief.
Maximus stood at the vanguard of his army, looking down into the valley. Behind him stood two thousand heavy infantry, their shields locked, their spears leveled. To his flanks, auxiliary archers notched arrows glowing with faint runic light. Above, hidden in the glare of the midday sun, the Sky Legion circled, waiting for the signal.
The captive beastman, chained by the neck and held by a Royal Guard, whimpered as he looked down at his home.
"This is the might of your chief," Maximus said to the trembling creature. "Watch closely. And remember what happens when you challenge Rome."
Maximus raised his right hand.
The valley below suddenly erupted into alarm. A sentry had spotted the line of gleaming silver armor atop the ridge. Horns blew—harsh, dissonant blasts that sent the encampment into a frenzy. Thousands of beastmen grabbed their weapons, roaring in bloodlust, swarming toward the single narrow path that led up the ravine wall to the Roman position. They moved as a mob, a chaotic tide of fur, muscle, and rusted iron, trusting in their overwhelming numbers and physical superiority to crush the human invaders.
Maximus did not lower his hand until the first wave of beastmen was halfway up the slope.
Then, he dropped it.
"[Maximize Magic: Fire Storm]," Maximus chanted softly.
He didn't need to shout. The System's magic bypassed the need for grand theatrics. A massive, swirling vortex of crimson flame materialized in the center of the charging horde. The roar of the fire drowned out the battle cries of the beastmen. In an instant, hundreds of creatures were incinerated, their screams cut short as the superheated air scorched their lungs to ash. The front line of the horde disintegrated.
Before the survivors could process the magical devastation, Marcus barked a command. "Archers! Volley!"
A dark cloud of arrows blotted out the sun. But these were not normal arrows. They were forged by dwarven runecraftsmen, imbued with [Piercing] and [Explosive] enchantments. As the arrows rained down into the packed masses of demi-humans, they detonated upon impact. Plumes of dirt, rock, and shattered bone geysered into the air. The ravine echoed with the concussive booms of a hundred localized explosions. The beastman charge shattered completely, panic replacing their bloodlust in a matter of seconds.
"Sky Legion! Break their center!" Marcus roared.
From the clouds above, fifty griffins folded their wings and dived like golden missiles. As they neared the ground, the riders hurled heavy pilums—Roman javelins—straight into the heart of the encampment, right at the Great Chief's pavilion. The javelins struck with the force of ballista bolts, tearing through the chieftain's bodyguards and collapsing the massive tent in a shower of splintered wood and torn canvas. The griffins swooped upward, their razor-sharp talons raking across the faces of the terrified beastmen before soaring out of reach.
The Great Chief emerged from the wreckage of his tent, roaring in fury. He was untouched, his sheer vitality protecting him from the initial strike, but he was surrounded by the broken bodies of his elite guard. He looked up at the ridge, his eyes locking onto Maximus, who stood impassive amidst the carnage.
With a roar that shook the earth, the Great Chief abandoned strategy. He activated his martial arts. "[Beast Aura]! [Unstoppable Charge]! [Greater Body Strengthening]!"
His muscles bulged grotesquely, dark red aura flaring around his body. He bounded up the slope with terrifying speed, ignoring the arrows that bounced off his hardened fur, his massive war-axe raised to split the Roman Emperor in two.
"Hold the line," Maximus ordered, his voice steady.
The legionnaires did not flinch. They did not break. They locked their shields, the adamantine-reinforced rims clanging together to form an impenetrable wall of silver.
The Great Chief slammed into the shield wall with the force of a battering ram. The impact sounded like a thunderclap. The first line of legionnaires was pushed back a few inches, their boots digging deep trenches into the soil, but the wall held. The runic enchantments on the mithril shields flared brilliantly, absorbing the kinetic energy of the blow and dispersing it across the entire formation.
The Chief's eyes widened in disbelief. No human could withstand that strike. Before he could raise his axe for a second blow, Marcus stepped through a gap in the shield wall.
The legate moved with blinding speed, his adamantine gladius glowing with a pale blue light. "[Fatal Edge]! [Armor Pierce]!"
Marcus thrust the blade upward, slipping it cleanly under the Chief's ribcage and piercing straight through his heart. The massive beastman gasped, the red aura flickering and dying around him. Marcus twisted the blade and pulled it free in one fluid motion, stepping back into the formation as the lifeless giant collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Silence fell over the ravine.
The surviving beastmen, witnessing the effortless slaughter of their greatest warriors and the instantaneous death of their invincible Great Chief, broke. They threw down their weapons and fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads into the blood-soaked earth, whimpering in absolute submission.
Maximus walked slowly down the slope, his Royal Guards fanning out around him in a protective diamond formation. He stopped beside the corpse of the Great Chief and looked out over the sea of kneeling, broken creatures.
"I am Maximus," he declared, his magically amplified voice echoing off the canyon walls. "And this land now belongs to Rome. You will lay down your arms. You will submit to the rule of the Empire. Those who serve will be fed, protected, and given purpose. Those who resist will share the fate of your Chief. There is no negotiation. There is only Rome."
The subjugation was swift and absolute. Over three thousand beastmen were taken captive. The legion systematically disarmed them, sorting the strong from the weak, the laborers from the children. Maximus wasted no time. He ordered the prisoners to be marched back to the castrum. They would serve as the foundational labor force to expand the fortress and mine the surrounding hills. By the time the human nations realized someone had pacified the Broken-Fang tribe, Nova Roma would be an impenetrable fortress of stone and adamantine, defended by forces they could not comprehend.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red, Maximus stood alone at the edge of the ravine, overlooking the smoldering ruins of the encampment.
Footsteps approached from behind. Marcus.
"The prisoners have been secured, my Lord. Casualties are negligible. A few bruised ribs, nothing the medics can't heal with a minor potion." Marcus paused, looking at the profile of his Emperor. "It was a flawless victory."
"It was a skirmish, Marcus," Maximus corrected quietly. "Do not let arrogance blind you. These were rabble. Brutes relying on innate strength rather than discipline or magic. The true powers of this world will not fall so easily."
"You speak as if you know who they are, sire."
Maximus turned his head slightly. "Assume that there are individuals on this continent capable of leveling cities with a single spell. Assume there are warriors who can cleave through our shield walls as easily as you cleaved through that chieftain. We must build our strength in secret. We must establish a foothold so strong that when we finally step onto the world stage, we cannot be dislodged."
Marcus nodded slowly, his expression solemn. "Then we continue the expansion. What are your orders for tomorrow?"
"We consolidate. Have the earth mages reinforce the castrum walls. Begin mapping the surrounding fifty kilometers. I want to know every river, every cave, every resource node. And..." Maximus hesitated, his eyes narrowing toward the eastern horizon, where the Slane Theocracy lay hidden beyond the hills. "Issue an order to the scouts. If they encounter human patrols bearing symbols of the Six Great Gods—priestly robes, sunburst insignias, or heavily armed clergymen—they are to retreat immediately. No engagement. We do not trigger a holy war before we have the logistics to finish it."
"It shall be done, Your Imperial Majesty."
As Marcus turned to leave, a lone griffin rider plummeted from the darkening sky, landing heavily near the command tent. The rider slid off his mount and sprinted up the ridge toward Maximus, his face pale, breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Sire!" the scout panted, dropping to one knee. "Forgive the interruption, but it is urgent."
"Report," Maximus demanded, his posture instantly shifting from contemplation to command.
"I was patrolling the eastern perimeter, nearing the edge of the hills where the plains begin. I spotted a force moving through the valley. Not beastmen, sire. Humans."
Maximus went completely still. "A local militia? Merchants?"
"No, sire. They were armed. Heavy plate, unified colors. But that's not what caught my attention." The scout swallowed hard, his eyes wide with remembered shock. "It was their vanguard, sire. They were marching behind a detachment of knights... and floating above them, chained to massive iron wagons, were creatures of pure light. Angels, sire. Actual angels."
A cold spike of adrenaline pierced Maximus's chest. Angels. Heavy plate. The eastern border.
The Sunlight Scripture.
The timeline suddenly snapped into terrifying focus in Maximus's mind. The Sunlight Scripture of the Slane Theocracy, commanded by Nigun Grid Luin, only mobilized with angelic summons for high-priority assassination missions. Specifically, the assassination of Gazef Stronoff, the Warrior Captain of the Re-Estize Kingdom.
Which meant he was not just in the New World. He was in the exact moment the Great Tomb of Nazarick had arrived. The Sorcerer King was making his first move.
Maximus turned back to the horizon, his jaw tight. The game had already begun, and the board was set.
"Marcus," Maximus said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "Mobilize the First Cohort. We march east at dawn."
(Hi guys, I actually forgot about this story and this account)