The battle ended suddenly.

  One moment, the Parthians were pressing forward, their cavalry cutting through the Roman lines like a blade through flesh. Then, as if a silent command had been given, they pulled back.

  Not in retreat—in withdrawal.

  Lucius stood among the dead, panting. His gladius dripped blood, his muscles burned, and his body screamed for rest. But his eyes remained locked on the warlord.

  Even now, the black-armored figure remained still, his warhorse motionless, watching.

  Then, without a word, he turned his mount.

  The Parthian warlord rode away, his warriors following like shadows pulled from the earth.

  No desperation. No disorder.

  Just silence.

  Lucius exhaled sharply, his grip on his sword tightening. He didn’t understand why, but his gut told him—this wasn’t over.

  Not even close.

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  Whispers in the System

  The legion regrouped.

  Centurions shouted orders, soldiers dragged the wounded from the blood-soaked dirt, and the dead—too many dead—were laid in rows beneath the flickering torchlight.

  Lucius stood with Marcus, neither speaking as they watched the aftermath.

  Then—

  Lucius frowned. His system had been quiet since the warlord left, but now… something felt off.

  The usual clarity of the system’s messages was fuzzy, like a voice speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

  The words shifted.

  Lucius’ breath caught.

  For a split second, he saw something—just a flicker.

  A string of symbols. Not Latin. Not Greek. Not any language he recognized.

  And then—gone.

  Replaced by a simple message:

  Lucius’ pulse thundered.

  Something had been there. Something his system had tried to show him—and then erased.

  His fingers clenched around his gladius.

  The warlord might have left the battlefield.

  But whatever had happened tonight… his presence still lingered.

  And the system—his system—was hiding something from him.