Prologue: The Price of Fate

  The spear had tasted blood before.

  It had been bathed in the ichor of gods, the lifeblood of monsters, the last breaths of heroes who dared to wield it. And now, it rested once more, cold and waiting.

  A voice echoed through the chamber, ancient and knowing. “It always ends the same way.”

  Figures loomed in the darkness, shadows cast by an unseen fire. One stepped forward—a being of impossible presence, draped in celestial power. Their fingers brushed the weapon’s haft, and the air trembled.

  “It has already begun,” another voice murmured.

  A pause. Then a sigh, deep as the void.

  “No,” the first corrected. “It began long ago. And this time, even the gods will not be spared.”

  The chamber grew silent, save for the slow, deliberate pulse of power from the cursed spear. It had chosen its next wielder.

  The war had already been decided.

  The only question was who would live long enough to realize it.

  Chapter 1: The Cursed Spear

  “What is life without a little fun?”

  If you’re a Roman guard, the answer is simple: nonexistent. Especially if you work for Nero, aka the worst emperor in history. If you guessed his name, congrats—ten points to you. Now, how do I know for a fact that no one was worse than Nero? Because I was there.

  Oh, and I may or may not have time-traveled because of magic and some questionable decisions. Long story. You’ll figure it out by the end of this chapter. Or book. Hopefully.

  Anyway, my name is Marcus Aurelius Octavius (yes, the most Roman name in existence). But my demigod friends just call me Mark.

  P.S. I’m the son of Athena. Surprised? Yeah, me neither.

  So, there I was—one of Nero’s strongest guards, standing before the Emperor himself. He lounged on his golden throne, swirling a goblet of wine, wearing the kind of smirk that usually preceded a public execution. His white tunic gleamed like freshly polished bone, and the laurels in his hair were woven with gold, because of course they were. The room smelled of incense and rotting fruit, which seemed appropriate for someone who was half-king, half-corpse.

  “You’re going on a little mission,” he said, voice dripping with amusement.

  Translation? I was about to be fed to something with too many teeth.

  My job? Retrieve the spear of Romulus. Yes, that Romulus—the founder of Rome, the guy who’d been dead for centuries. His legendary spear was locked away in the most heavily guarded, cursed, and monster-infested ruin in the empire.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  And how many men did I get for this mission?

  One.

  Me.

  Fantastic odds, right? Let’s break down my choices:

  Option A) Obey Nero.

  Survival chance: 1.098%.

  Nero’s mood: Amused if I die. Murderous if I survive but fail.

  Option B) Try negotiating.

  Survival chance: 0.9876%.

  Nero’s mood: Murderous. No change.

  Option C) Reject Nero.

  Survival chance: -10,987%.

  Nero’s mood: Also murderous. Wouldn’t even get the chance to run.

  Option D) Accept the quest, then try to escape.

  Survival chance: Negative infinity. Nero doesn’t take betrayal well.

  So yeah, I picked A, because it was the only option where I technically had a chance to live.

  Not that it made things any better. I got no ceremony, no grand send-off—just thirty minutes to prepare for a mission that should’ve taken an entire legion at least a week.

  At least I got some gear: a gold-tipped spear, an imperial gold sword, a shield, and a few life-saving snacks—ambrosia and nectar. Not bad, but definitely not enough for what I was about to face.

  Because the second I stepped into enemy territory, I was greeted by—

  A swarm of velociraptor demons.

  Yes. Twenty. In the first wave. And from the shrieking in the distance, at least fifteen more waves behind them.

  They had scaly red skin, hooked talons that could gut a man in seconds, and eyes that burned like molten lava. Their screeches were so high-pitched they felt like arrows piercing my skull.

  I barely survived the first one, already using half my ambrosia just to stay on my feet. If this kept up, I’d run out before I even saw the spear.

  I needed a plan. Fast.

  The Plan: Step One: Ditch my armor so I wouldn’t be a shiny, obvious target. Step Two: Throw my spear somewhere far away, make them think I’d fled in that direction.

  Problems:

  1. It wasn’t foolproof.

  2. If it failed, I’d be demon food before you could say, “Holy Athena.”

  But hey, I’m a demigod. Risky, probably fatal plans are kind of our thing.

  Did it work? Well, considering I’m alive to tell the story—sort of.

  I avoided immediate detection, but the demons weren’t fooled for long. They started sniffing the air, their forked tongues flicking like they could taste my sweat.

  So, heart hammering like a war drum, I ran.

  I sprinted across cracked marble floors, dodging fallen columns and ancient statues that had been half-eaten by time and monsters. Arrows whizzed past my ears. A javelin nicked my shoulder. I ducked under a collapsing archway, barely missing being crushed by centuries-old debris. Seriously, why is it always boulders?

  Then I saw it.

  The legendary spear of Romulus.

  It wasn’t just ancient. It radiated power—a golden glow, sharp enough to slice through the darkness. It was embedded in a stone pedestal, runes glowing along the shaft. I could feel the energy thrumming in the air, alive, like the spear was waiting for someone to claim it.

  I reached for it—

  And the second my fingers brushed the handle—

  The world shattered.

  A pulse of darkness swallowed me whole. My vision went black. My lungs seized. My ears filled with a deafening roar that sounded like the screams of a thousand dying warriors.

  I saw flashes—battlefields soaked in blood, the rise and fall of empires, Romulus himself carving the first stones of Rome. Then—

  Pain.

  White-hot agony surged through my veins. My limbs felt like they were on fire, like the spear was rewriting me from the inside out.

  And then—

  I was somewhere else.

  The ruins were gone. The demons? Gone. The battlefield? Gone.

  I was somewhere else.

  The ground beneath me was impossibly smooth, like polished marble but unnatural. The air reeked of something acrid—burnt oil? Smoke? And the noise—a chaotic mess of rumbling, screeching, and voices shouting in a language that wasn’t Latin or Greek.

  I turned, my heart pounding.

  Impossible structures loomed over me—towers taller than any palace, made of glass and metal instead of stone. Bright, glowing symbols flickered on their surfaces, but they weren’t runes. They shifted too fast, blinking in and out of existence like sorcery.

  Hundreds—no, thousands—of people surrounded me, dressed in strange tunics and bizarre sandals that left no footprints. Some carried tiny, glowing tablets, staring at them as if expecting an oracle’s vision. Others moved inside strange, boxy chariots—except they had no horses, no wheels I could see, and they roared like caged lions.

  I took a step back, my grip tightening on—

  Nothing.

  The spear—Romulus’ spear—was gone.

  My breath caught in my throat. It had been in my hands. I had touched it. I should have it. But it wasn’t there.

  I checked my belt, my back, my arms. Nothing. Just my sword, shield, and the armor that marked me as one of Nero’s guards.

  But the spear?

  Lost.

  My pulse thundered in my ears. I had fought monsters. I had survived Nero’s cruelty. I had taken on a mission that should’ve killed me. And after all of that—after nearly dying to get the spear—I didn’t even have it.

  I clenched my fists. Think, Mark. Think.

  I still had my memories. My past. My knowledge of Rome, the gods, my training. I wasn’t completely defenseless. But without the spear, everything was pointless.

  A deep, echoing laugh rumbled through the sky, like the gods themselves were mocking me.

  I had no idea how I got here. No idea where

  the spear had gone.

  All I knew was this—

  The past wasn’t finished with me yet.

  And if I didn’t figure this out fast?

  The future wouldn’t exist.