Gaius Valerius Maximus felt the cold bite of steel against his shoulder—but it was not Roman steel. He staggered, eyes opening to a sky that burned crimson, streaked with strange, writhing clouds. The scent of iron and charred wood hit him like a legionary charge, and for a heartbeat, he thought he still stood on the northern frontier.
Then he noticed the shape.
A monstrous beast, taller than any horse, with fur black as night and eyes that glowed like molten amber, stepped from the ruins of a smoldering village. Its claws tore deep grooves in the dirt, and its breath fogged the air, smelling of sulfur and decay.
Gaius's hand went to his gladius, gripping the familiar weight. His armor was battered but serviceable; his crimson cloak was torn in one corner. His cohort was gone, the standards of Rome nowhere in sight. Only him. Only discipline.
"This… is not Rome," he muttered.
The creature growled—a sound like a hundred stones grinding—and lowered its massive head. Gaius tightened his grip. His mind raced through tactics, formations, traps, anything that might save him here. None applied.
Then, instinct.
He lunged forward, slashing low to avoid the beast's claws. Its hide was tough, thicker than any armor he had faced, but the edge of his blade drew a line of dark blood. The monster recoiled, and Gaius used the moment to leap back, rolling behind a fallen beam from the ruined village.
A fire flared in him—not fear, not anger, but the unyielding order of a Roman general. He could not command legions here, could not raise standards or rally cohorts—but he could adapt. He always had.
He drew a deep breath, scanning the landscape. Ruins stretched as far as he could see. Crystals pulsed with faint blue light in the rubble, and twisted trees—taller than oaks, with bark like blackened steel—rose against the crimson sky. This world had rules, and Gaius would learn them.
The beast charged.
Gaius met it head-on, gladius flashing, shield raised. Sparks flew as claw met metal. He rolled aside, stabbing into its flank, and felt the satisfaction of a precise strike. The monster howled, staggering, but it was far from dead.
From the forest edge, a flicker of movement caught his eye: a figure, smaller than him but moving with uncanny grace, leapt between the trees. A woman? Or another creature of this world? Gaius couldn't tell. He noted her presence, mentally filing it for later. Allies, enemies, or neutral parties—he would decide when the time came.
The ground beneath them trembled, as though the world itself was alive and watching. Gaius steadied himself. A Roman general had faced rivers, forests, and deserts. He had fought barbarians who believed the gods themselves marched with them. This world, monstrous and alien, was no different. It demanded command, discipline, and strategy.
And he had all three.
With a roar, he advanced, slashing, parrying, and driving the beast back. Each movement was precise, practiced, lethal. He was not merely surviving—he was asserting order.
When the fight ended, the creature lay panting, wounded but not defeated. Gaius stood over it, chest heaving, eyes unblinking. The world had tested him—and he had met the challenge.
"Rome does not die," he whispered, voice hard as steel. "And neither will I."
As the crimson clouds twisted overhead, Gaius looked toward the distant mountains, where smoke and shadow promised both danger and opportunity. This was a world of chaos—but chaos could be conquered. And he would be its general.
The first battle had been won. The war for survival—and perhaps empire—was only beginning.