The Parthians were breaking.

  Their horsemen wheeled away, some trying to regroup, others turning to flee. But the legion did not relent.

  Lucius moved with them, his body driven by instinct and fire. His gladius was slick with blood, his breath coming in sharp, measured bursts.

  And the system was awake.

  Every movement felt sharper. Faster. His eyes tracked the battlefield with unnatural clarity—seeing every opening, every weakness, every chance to kill.

  He had never felt more alive.

  ?

  The Killing Field

  A Parthian archer on horseback drew his bow, eyes locking onto Lucius.

  Too slow.

  Lucius was already moving.

  He ducked under the shot—felt the arrow slice past his helmet—then lunged forward, slashing at the horse’s legs.

  The horse screamed, collapsing. The archer tumbled to the ground, rolling in the dust, scrambling for his dagger—

  Lucius was faster.

  He drove his gladius through the man’s chest, pinning him to the earth.

  The Parthian’s breath hitched. His eyes widened. Then—stillness.

  Lucius yanked his blade free.

  He did not stop to think. He did not let himself hesitate.

  He turned—another enemy.

  A rider barreling toward him, spear raised.

  DIE OR MOVE.

  Lucius pivoted, sidestepping at the last second.

  As the rider passed—he lashed out with his gladius, slicing through the man’s side.

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  The Parthian cried out, nearly falling from his horse. Blood poured down his armor, his grip faltering.

  Lucius didn’t wait. He stabbed upward—under the ribs, into the lung.

  The man shuddered. Then slumped forward, dead.

  Another kill. Another step forward.

  And Lucius was still standing.

  ?

  The System Unveiled

  The moment the last enemy fell, the world shifted.

  The air grew heavy. The sounds of battle faded into a distant hum.

  Then—

  A glowing interface flickered before Lucius’s eyes, written in no language he had ever learned, yet perfectly understood. He could feel the words more than read them, as if they were being etched directly into his mind.

  Lucius staggered, gripping his helmet.

  What is this?

  His heart pounded. His hands trembled. He could see it—this system, this arcane force woven into his very being.

  And then, in the depths of his mind—

  A whisper.

  “You are chosen.”

  The voice was ancient. Hollow. Infinite.

  Not Roman. Not human.

  Lucius gasped, struggling to remain upright. The world snapped back into focus. The battle was over. The screams had faded. The blood had dried.

  Yet something had changed.

  ?

  The Aftermath

  By the time the last Parthian fell, the battlefield was a graveyard.

  The sand was stained red. Bodies littered the ground—some Roman, many Parthian.

  Lucius stood among them, his gladius heavy in his grip. His arms trembled. His breathing was ragged.

  But he was alive.

  And more than that—

  He had won.

  The veterans passed him now, some giving nods of approval. Even Marcus, blood splattered across his armor, clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “You fought well, Regillus.”

  Lucius swallowed hard. His throat was dry. His mind still raced.

  But deep inside, a single thought burned.

  I am not the same man I was this morning.

  He looked at his hands. They were no longer those of a recruit.

  He had killed. He had survived.

  And this was only the beginning.