The book was heavier than it looked. The cover was plain black, no title, no decoration—just this rough, almost leathery texture that made my fingers itch. I don't know why, but the moment I picked it up, I felt this weird chill. Like the thing was… alive. Or maybe that's just me overthinking.
Still, curiosity's a curse, right?
I opened it.
The first page was almost blank except for a single line, written in this bold, ancient script:
"Only those who survive the Law will know the truth of Rome."
I swear my chest tightened reading that. It wasn't just a sentence—it felt like a warning.
The next page was where it started.
Rome. Not the crumbling ruins people see in my old world's history books. No, this was the Rome of now. The one still breathing, still stomping across continents with iron boots, still feared by kingdoms. Here, they called it Imperium Ferreum—The Iron Empire.
And from what I was reading, that name wasn't just for show.
"In the Iron Empire, the child is not born free."
That's how it began.
They didn't see babies as something innocent. No cute cooing, no soft lullabies. The second a child is born in Rome, they are not just a son or daughter—they are property of the state. The parents can hold them for a few days, but then, soldiers come. Always soldiers.
The book described it like this:
The mother cries. The father stands still, fists clenched, but says nothing. The soldiers do not comfort them. They take the child and leave. This is Rome.
I felt my skin crawl.
From the age of three, every Roman child enters The Forge. That's what they called their education system. Not "school". The Forge. Because in their eyes, kids aren't supposed to be taught, they're supposed to be forged—like weapons.
And they meant it.
No toys. No games. No random running around. Every movement is drilled. Every word is practiced. Every breath is measured.
The book said something that made me freeze:
"They do not raise children. They raise soldiers. If a child cannot become one, they do not live long."
I read that sentence three times.
At five, they begin combat training. Wooden swords for one year, then iron ones. By seven, they are expected to kill wild animals—alone. If they can't, they are beaten. If they still can't, they disappear. No one asks where they go. No one ever sees them again.
At eight, they learn "The Silence". A Roman must never cry. Never whine. Never complain. If a child sheds tears in public, they're whipped—not for the tears, but for the shame it brings to Rome.
The scariest part? The punishments.
The book described something called The Black Room.
It wasn't a dungeon. It was worse. It was just… a room. Completely dark. No sound. No smell. No food. No water.
Kids who disobeyed were put in there for a day. Then two. Then three. By the fourth day, most would beg for death. By the fifth, they either came out silent forever… or never came out.
By twelve, every Roman child is assigned to a Legio Puerorum—a "Child Legion". They don't go to battle yet, but they march. Every day. Miles and miles under the sun, carrying heavy packs. Their bodies become hard, their faces expressionless.
At fourteen, they are tested.
The book didn't call it an exam. It called it The Trial of Iron.
No one knows the exact details because the ones who survive never talk about it. They're forbidden to. But the whispers say it involves surviving alone in enemy territory for a month—with nothing but a dagger and a piece of bread.
Only those who pass are allowed to call themselves Romans. The rest… are erased from the Empire's records.
And then I saw the part that made my stomach twist.
Rome has no word for "childhood".
It doesn't exist in their language. They believe that the moment you can walk, you can march. The moment you can speak, you can swear loyalty. The moment you can hold something, it should be a weapon.
The book even had a chilling proverb, carved into the gates of their capital:
"Better a grave than a weak Roman."
I don't know why, but reading that sent a shiver through me.
The education was more than just fighting. They were taught history—but only Roman history. Mathematics—but only for war logistics. Reading—but only to read Roman laws. Anything else was seen as a distraction.
They didn't just control bodies. They controlled minds.
One section of the book was about "The Purge of Thought".
Once a month, every child had to stand before an Instructor and answer questions about their loyalty. If they hesitated, even for a second, they were punished. If they showed doubt, they were sent away—some say to labor camps, others to disappear entirely.
By now, I was gripping the book so tight my knuckles had gone white.
The last few pages were about adulthood. Or rather, what Rome considered adulthood—because here, it began at sixteen.
By then, if you passed all the trials, if you survived all the punishments, if you obeyed without question, you became part of the Roman war machine.
And there was no escape.
The final paragraph was burned into my mind:
"To be Roman is to be iron. To be iron is to never bend. Those who bend are broken. Those who break are forgotten."
I closed the book slowly. My hands were shaking. Not because of what I'd read… but because I realized something.
If this is how Rome makes its people, then an empire like that doesn't just fight wars.
It wins them.
I Thought, Sometimes, the scariest thing isn't a monster. It's a human being who's been turned into something worse—and believes it's right.
And for the first time since coming into this world, I felt something heavy in my chest.
Not excitement.
Not curiosity.
Fear.
Pure, cold fear.
Because I knew—if I ever had to face a Roman, I wouldn't be fighting a man.
I'd be fighting a weapon.
And weapons don't show mercy.
(Continued In Chapter 17)