The dawn did not break over the Albion Hills; it bled.
A bruised, violent purple seeped across the eastern horizon, casting long, skeletal shadows through the dense canopy of the ancient forest. Beneath that fractured light, the First Cohort of the Roman Empire moved like a singular, breathing organism of steel and silence.
Five hundred men. Five hundred veterans clad in runic-etched mithril, their crimson cloaks perfectly uniform, their heavy scuta shields locked tightly against their sides. They did not march with the thunderous, earth-shaking rhythm they had used against the beastmen. Here, deep in the territory of the unknown, they employed the terrifying stealth of a modern tactical unit.
Auxiliary mages, seamlessly integrated into the infantry lines, maintained overlapping spheres of [Mass Silence] and [Mirage]. The metallic clink of armor, the snapping of twigs, the heavy breathing of men—all of it was swallowed by the magical void. To an outside observer, the forest was empty.
At the vanguard, Maximus rode a massive, midnight-black destrier, its barding forged from blackened steel. Flanking him were his ten Adamantine Royal Guards, faceless behind their visored helms, emanating a quiet, crushing pressure that bent the very grass they walked upon.
"Distance, Marcus," Maximus murmured. His voice carried only through the internal magical link established among the command staff.
"Two kilometers, Your Imperial Majesty," the legate replied instantly, his eyes fixed on the shifting treeline. "The Sky Legion scout reports the human force has halted on the plains ahead. They have formed a perimeter around a small agrarian settlement. Another human cavalry force has just engaged them."
Maximus's mind worked with cold, calculating precision. A small agrarian settlement. Carne Village. And the cavalry force must be Gazef Stronoff.
He had arrived at the exact nexus point of this world's history.
In the original timeline, Gazef Stronoff, the Warrior Captain of the Re-Estize Kingdom, would ride out to face the Sunlight Scripture to buy time for the villagers. He would be battered, exhausted, and pushed to the brink of death before the Sorcerer King, Ainz Ooal Gown, swapped places with him using a cash-shop item, proceeding to effortlessly massacre the Theocracy's special forces.
But Maximus was not a passive observer. He was the Emperor of Rome, and an empire did not hide in the shadows while others shaped the geopolitical landscape. If Ainz Ooal Gown was currently in Carne Village, playing the role of a mysterious savior, Maximus would introduce an entirely new variable to the undead overlord's flawless calculations. He would steal the stage. He would take Gazef Stronoff's debt of gratitude, and he would put the Slane Theocracy to the sword.
"Halt," Maximus commanded.
The entire cohort froze instantly. Not a single man took an extra step.
They had reached the edge of the tree line. Beyond the ancient oaks and twisting roots lay a vast, gently rolling plain. In the distance, a small, rustic village was encircled by an invisible, shimmering barrier—a warding spell.
But Maximus's attention was not on the village. It was on the slaughter unfolding in the center of the plains.
Seventy men in heavy, pristine white plate armor stood in a loose, semi-circular formation. Their tabards bore the symbol of the Slane Theocracy. Standing at their center, exuding an aura of arrogant, fanatical certainty, was a man with sharp features and a distinct facial scar: Nigun Grid Luin.
Floating above the Theocracy soldiers were creatures that defied natural law. They were humanoid in shape, yet entirely devoid of humanity. Beings of solid, radiant light, clad in gleaming armor, their faces featureless beneath shining halos. Wings of pure, burning mana extended from their backs.
Archangel Flames. The baseline summoned angels of the Yggdrasil magic system.
Surrounded by these celestial constructs, a small band of exhausted cavalrymen fought for their lives. At their head was a man fighting with the ferocity of a cornered lion. He wielded a bastard sword, his armor dented and scored with scorch marks. Gazef Stronoff.
Maximus watched as an Archangel Flame swooped down, its sword of light leaving a glowing trail in the air. Gazef roared, his muscles bulging as he activated his martial arts. "[Sixfold Slash of Light]!"
His blade blurred, striking the angel six times in the span of a single heartbeat. The creature shattered into a burst of golden particles, dissipating like glass dust. But Gazef stumbled, his chest heaving, blood leaking from a dozen shallow cuts. Behind him, two of his men were impaled by other angels, their screams echoing across the silent plains as they were pulled from their saddles and butchered.
"Summoned constructs," Marcus whispered, his eyes narrowing behind his visor as he analyzed the battlefield. "They bleed no blood and feel no fatigue. The swordsman leading the cavalry is skilled—his technique mirrors our [Fatal Edge]—but he is draining his stamina. He will be dead in three minutes."
"That man," Maximus said smoothly, his eyes tracking Gazef's desperate parries, "is the Warrior Captain of the neighboring kingdom. He is the strongest human in this region. The men killing him belong to a fanatic religious state that views all other nations as inferior."
Marcus's grip tightened on his adamantine gladius. "They rely heavily on those flying constructs. Their infantry formation is loose, sloppy. They believe themselves untouchable."
"Arrogance is a disease, Marcus. Rome is the cure." Maximus drew his own blade, a masterwork of runic steel that pulsed with a faint, violet light. He turned his destrier parallel to the tree line, facing his five hundred legionnaires. The spheres of silence dropped, allowing his voice to carry.
"Men of the First Cohort!" Maximus's voice rang out, infused with the subtle, morale-boosting aura of the Flag of the Roman Empire. "Before you are zealots who hide behind constructs of light. They seek to slaughter the exhausted and the weak. They believe they are the instruments of the divine."
He pointed his blade toward the battlefield.
"Show them what true power is. Show them the discipline of Rome. No prisoners. Leave only the Warrior Captain alive."
"ROMA INVICTA!" the cohort roared, the sound exploding from the tree line like a thunderclap, shaking the morning mist from the branches.
Down on the plains, the battle abruptly froze.
Gazef Stronoff, breathing heavily, leaning on his sword, snapped his head toward the forest. Nigun Grid Luin, who had been wearing a cruel, mocking smile, frowned in irritation, turning his gaze toward the sudden eruption of noise.
What they saw emerging from the forest would be burned into the history of the New World forever.
It was not a disorganized charge of mercenaries. It was a tidal wave of silver and crimson. Five hundred heavily armored infantrymen advanced in perfect, terrifying synchronization. Their boots struck the earth as one, producing a rhythmic, mechanical THUD-THUD-THUD that vibrated through the soles of Nigun's feet. At the center of the formation rode a man possessing an aura so overwhelmingly regal, so fundamentally dominant, that the air itself seemed to bow around him.
"What is this?" Nigun hissed, his eyes widening. "Mercenaries? Who dares interrupt the holy work of the Slane Theocracy?!"
Gazef, wiping blood from his eye, stared in absolute shock. He had seen the armies of the Re-Estize Kingdom, and he had seen the Imperial Knights of Baharuth. But this? The armor these men wore gleamed with magical enchantments that made his own kingdom's treasures look like dull iron. The sheer killing intent rolling off their formation was suffocating.
"Captain!" one of Gazef's surviving men cried out. "Are they... allies?"
"I don't know," Gazef rasped, his grip tightening on his sword. "But stay back."
Nigun's irritation flared into anger. "Ignorant fools. Angels! Leave the Warrior Captain. Eradicate this new filth!"
At his command, thirty Archangel Flames pivoted in the air, their faceless visages locking onto the advancing Roman line. With a collective hum of holy energy, they dove from the sky like falling stars, their flaming swords raised to cleave the interlopers into ash.
Maximus, riding at a measured trot behind the front lines, did not even blink.
"Testudo!" Marcus roared, his voice magnified by magic. "Anti-Magic Stance!"
The first three ranks of the cohort shifted instantly. The massive, curved scuta shields locked together, forming an impenetrable roof of silver and adamantine rims. Simultaneously, the legionnaires channeled their mana into the runic engravings on their armor. "[Magic Resistance: High]! [Fortress]!"
The Archangel Flames slammed into the Roman tortoise formation.
To Nigun, the expected result was obvious: the holy fire of the angels would melt the shields, incinerate the men beneath, and break the formation in a single, glorious strike of divine retribution.
Instead, a deafening cacophony of metallic CLANGS echoed across the plains.
The angels bounced off the locked shields. Their flaming swords sparked harmlessly against the runic mithril, the holy fire dispersing across the surface of the interlocking defense like water on polished stone. The Roman line didn't just hold—it didn't even slow down. The THUD-THUD-THUD of their march continued, completely unbothered by the heavenly host attempting to break them.
Nigun's jaw went slack. "Impossible... What level of magical resistance is that? Who are these people?!"
"Pilum!" Marcus commanded.
The shield wall opened for a fraction of a second. The second rank of legionnaires stepped forward, their arms drawn back. In their hands were heavy javelins, the tips glowing with a fierce, crackling blue energy.
"Loose!"
Two hundred runic javelins launched into the air. They tore through the sky with the shriek of artillery fire. The Archangel Flames, recovering from their failed dive, were caught completely off guard.
The javelins struck with devastating kinetic and magical force. [Armor Pierce] and [Shatter] enchantments activated upon impact. The angels were pierced through their radiant armor. One by one, they exploded into golden dust, shrieking in high-pitched, metallic dissonance. In a single volley, twenty of the Theocracy's prized summons were wiped from existence.
Gazef Stronoff's jaw dropped. He had nearly died fighting just a handful of those angels, pushing his body past its physical limits. These unknown soldiers had just swatted them out of the sky like bothersome insects, without breaking their march.
"Attack!" Nigun screamed, panic finally piercing his religious arrogance. "Scripture, engage! Use [Holy Smite]! Burn them!"
The men of the Sunlight Scripture, elite magic casters in their own right, raised their staves and holy symbols. A chorus of chanting filled the air as columns of searing white light descended from the sky, crashing into the Roman lines.
But the legionnaires were prepared. The auxiliary mages embedded within the cohort raised their hands. "[Maximize Magic: Anti-Evil Ward]! [Greater Magic Shield]!"
Violet domes of energy snapped into existence above the Roman ranks. The holy pillars of light struck the shields and deflected, scattering into harmless showers of glowing sparks.
The Roman engine of war reached the Theocracy's lines.
"Break formation! Engage at will!" Marcus bellowed.
The shield wall dropped, and the butchery began.
The Roman legionnaires moved with a terrifying, surgical efficiency that made the Sunlight Scripture look like children playing with sticks. They activated their martial arts in perfect unison. "[Cutting Edge]! [Fatal Strike]! [Evasion]!"
A Theocracy caster tried to block a Roman gladius with a magical shield. The runic blade cleaved through the magical barrier and the man's collarbone in one fluid motion. Another zealot tried to summon a defensive spell, but a legionnaire bashed him in the face with the rim of his shield, shattering his nose and jaw, before running him through the stomach.
Blood sprayed across the pristine white armor of the Slane Theocracy. The screams of dying fanatics replaced their chanting. The Romans did not shout. They did not battle-cry. They killed in absolute, professional silence, moving from one target to the next with brutal economy of motion.
Maximus rode slowly through the center of the carnage, his destrier stepping over the twitching bodies of the Scripture casters. His ten Adamantine Guards walked beside him, effortlessly swatting away any desperate attacks with the flats of their blades.
Nigun was backing away, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His elite unit—the pride of the Slane Theocracy—was being dismantled in seconds. It wasn't a battle. It was an execution.
"Protect the Captain!" the surviving Scripture members yelled, forming a desperate ring around Nigun.
Maximus brought his horse to a halt ten paces from Nigun's position. He looked down at the Scripture Captain with a gaze so utterly devoid of empathy it made Nigun's blood run cold.
"You boast of holy work," Maximus said, his voice echoing cleanly over the sounds of dying men. "Yet you cower behind dying mortals. Your gods are remarkably absent today."
"You... you heretic!" Nigun spat, his face contorted in a mix of terror and rage. He reached into his robes and pulled out a crystal that glowed with a blinding, transcendent light. "I don't know what vile corner of the world you crawled from, but you will not mock the Six Great Gods! We hold the ultimate trump card! You forced my hand!"
Gazef, leaning heavily on his sword a short distance away, felt a wave of oppressive, suffocating mana wash over the plains. He recognized that crystal from legends. A sealing crystal of the highest order.
"Whoever you are, get back!" Gazef yelled at Maximus. "That's a high-tier summoning item! It holds something beyond human comprehension!"
Maximus did not move. He merely rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle. Ah, the Dominion Authority. A mid-tier Yggdrasil summon, supposedly capable of wiping out a city. Let's see how it compares to the System's Magic Library.
Nigun crushed the crystal in his fist. "Summon Highest Tier Angel! Descend, Dominion Authority!"
The sky tore open.
The clouds parted violently as a pillar of pure, blinding light crashed into the earth. The sheer force of the summon generated a shockwave that knocked Gazef and his remaining men off their feet. Even the Roman legionnaires braced themselves, planting their shields into the dirt.
From the pillar of light emerged a creature that looked like an abstraction of divinity. It was a massive cluster of shining, crystalline wings, covered in unblinking, glowing eyes. At its center lay a core of searing holy energy, holding a massive scepter. The aura it projected was heavy, suffocating, a localized gravity of religious awe.
"Behold!" Nigun screamed, tears of manic joy streaming down his face. "This is the highest angel! The being that once defeated the Demon God! Tremble before its majesty! Your armor means nothing! Your discipline means nothing! You are nothing but dust before the divine!"
Gazef felt absolute despair. The power radiating from the angel was beyond anything he had ever felt. It was death itself, wrapped in holy light. He looked at the armored king on the black horse, expecting to see terror.
Instead, Maximus let out a long, slow sigh.
"Is this it?" Maximus asked, his tone dripping with profound disappointment.
Nigun choked on his laughter. "W-what?"
"I expected a god. You summon a glowing bauble." Maximus slowly dismounted his horse. He handed the reins to one of his Royal Guards and stepped forward, unbothered by the crushing aura of the Dominion Authority.
He didn't need to do this personally. Marcus and the Royal Guards could likely bring it down with a coordinated strike. But Maximus understood the theater of power. Gazef Stronoff was watching. The Slane Theocracy was watching. And somewhere, hidden away in Carne Village, Ainz Ooal Gown was undoubtedly watching.
It was time to establish a baseline. It was time to show the world that Rome did not fear the supernatural. Rome conquered it.
"Angel!" Nigun shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Maximus. "[Holy Smite]! Obliterate him!"
The Dominion Authority shifted. Its many eyes focused solely on Maximus. The core of its body pulsed, gathering an immense amount of mana. A seventh-tier spell. The very spell that had eradicated a Demon God two centuries ago.
A beam of pure, incandescent blue-white light fired from the angel, wide enough to engulf a house, aimed directly at the Roman Emperor.
"[Maximize Magic: Absolute Void]," Maximus spoke calmly, tapping into the vast repository of arcane knowledge granted by the System's Magic Affinity.
He raised a single hand, his palm facing the incoming beam of divine destruction.
A sphere of absolute, pitch-black nothingness expanded from his palm. It wasn't a shield; it was a localized tear in reality. The seventh-tier [Holy Smite] slammed into the black sphere and was simply... swallowed. There was no explosion. There was no shockwave. The divine energy poured into the void and vanished, silently erased from existence.
The plains fell utterly, horrifyingly silent.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
Gazef Stronoff forgot how to breathe. The ultimate attack of the Slane Theocracy's trump card—a spell of legend—had been casually caught in the palm of one hand and snuffed out like a candle.
Nigun fell to his knees, his mind fracturing. "No... no, no, no... That was a seventh-tier spell. Only the gods... only the gods can..."
"Your angel," Maximus said, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated in the marrow of everyone present, "is flawed. It relies on singular, predictable strikes. Now, allow me to demonstrate true arcane supremacy."
Maximus lowered his hand and stared up at the Dominion Authority. He reached deep into the System's reserves, bypassing the tier-magic limits of the New World, accessing the raw, unfiltered power of the Magical Library.
"[Grand Tier Magic: Spear of Longinus]."
The air around Maximus warped, the temperature plummeting instantly. In his right hand, mana materialized, condensing, compressing, and folding in on itself until it formed a massive, ten-foot spear of blinding, blood-red energy. The sheer density of the magic crackled, tearing tiny fissures in the air around the blade. The aura of the spear was not holy, nor was it demonic. It was pure, conceptual destruction.
With a smooth, fluid motion, Maximus hurled the spear.
It broke the sound barrier instantly. A sonic boom shattered the glass in Nigun's remaining potions and dropped several men to their knees, their ears bleeding.
The red spear tore through the sky, leaving a burning scar in the air. The Dominion Authority raised its scepter to defend itself, but it was useless. The spear struck the angel directly in its glowing core.
For a fraction of a second, time seemed to stand still.
Then, the Dominion Authority exploded.
It wasn't a shower of golden particles like the lesser angels. The sky violently ruptured. A shockwave of red and gold energy blasted outward, vaporizing the clouds above and scorching the earth below. The shriek of the dying angel was a sound that defied description—a cosmic wail of agony that echoed across the Albion Hills.
When the light faded, there was nothing left. No angel. No core. Just a faint smell of ozone and the drifting ash of vaporized mana.
Nigun Grid Luin stared at the empty sky, his mind completely broken. He collapsed forward into the dirt, weeping uncontrollably, babbling prayers to gods who could not hear him.
Maximus turned away from the sky, his crimson cloak settling around his shoulders. He looked at Marcus.
"Bind the Captain of the Scripture. Kill the rest. Leave none alive," Maximus ordered.
"As you command, Imperial Majesty," Marcus replied, raising his sword. The First Cohort surged forward, their blades making short, brutal work of the remaining, catatonic Scripture members.
Maximus walked slowly across the blood-soaked grass until he stood before Gazef Stronoff.
Gazef struggled to stand up straight. He was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his breathing ragged, but his warrior's pride refused to let him kneel before a foreign conqueror, even one who possessed the power of a god. He leaned heavily on his sword, looking up into Maximus's calm, unreadable face.
"I... I am Gazef Stronoff," he managed to say, his voice rough. "Warrior Captain of the Re-Estize Kingdom. I... owe you my life, and the lives of my men."
"You fought well, Gazef Stronoff," Maximus said, his tone carrying a note of genuine respect. "You possess a warrior's spirit, even if your kingdom has left you to die like a dog."
Gazef flinched. The words stung, precisely because they were true. The nobles of his own faction had maneuvered him into this suicide mission. "Who... who are you? I know the banners of the Theocracy, the Empire, and the Holy Kingdom. But I have never seen your silver armor. And the magic you wield... it is beyond anything I have ever heard of."
"I am Maximinus Messala, Emperor of the Roman Empire," Maximus declared. "And you have never seen our banners because we are new to this continent. We have established our borders in the Albion Hills."
Gazef's eyes widened. "The Albion Hills? But that is demi-human territory. The Broken-Fang tribe—"
"They are no more," Maximus interrupted smoothly. "They submitted to Rome, or they burned. I pacified the region a few days ago."
Gazef felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with his wounds. An army that could casually annihilate the most powerful demi-human tribe in the region, casually swat down angels, and whose ruler could one-shot the highest-tier summon of the Slane Theocracy... This 'Roman Empire' was a superpower that had appeared out of thin air.
"Why did you save me?" Gazef asked, his grip tightening on his sword handle. "An empire with your strength does not act on a whim."
"Because a man of your loyalty and skill is wasted on a corrupt kingdom," Maximus said bluntly. "I watched you fight. You knew you were going to die, yet you stood your ground to protect the villagers behind you. I respect that. Rome values strength, but it reveres duty."
Maximus reached into his inventory—the motion obscured beneath his cloak—and withdrew a small, ornate vial filled with a shimmering crimson liquid. A high-grade healing potion purchased from the System Shop.
He tossed it to Gazef, who caught it clumsily.
"Drink it. It will heal your wounds and restore your stamina," Maximus instructed. "Return to your King. Tell him that the Roman Empire has arrived. We seek trade, diplomacy, and peace with those who respect our borders. But tell him also what you saw here today. Let the nobles of Re-Estize know what happens to those who cross us."
Gazef stared at the potion, then back at Maximus. "You are letting me go?"
"You owe me your life, Gazef Stronoff. I am a patient man. One day, I will collect on that debt. Until then, serve your King."
Maximus turned his back on the Warrior Captain, a deliberate display of absolute confidence. He walked back toward his destrier, mounting it in one fluid motion.
Marcus rode up beside him, hauling the bound, weeping form of Nigun Grid Luin across the back of a pack mule. "The rest are dead, sire. The field is ours."
"Good. We return to Nova Roma. Our presence is known. The board is set."
As the Roman cohort fell back into perfect formation and began their march back toward the forest, Maximus allowed his gaze to drift slightly to the right, toward the small village of Carne in the distance.
He didn't use a spell to check, but his instincts—honed by years of combat and elevated by his new stats—prickled the back of his neck.
Someone is watching.
Deep within Carne Village, hidden behind the walls of the village chief's house, a towering skeletal figure clad in opulent, dark academic robes stared intently into a floating mirror of magical viewing.
Moments ago, Momonga—now Ainz Ooal Gown—had been preparing to step onto the battlefield. He had given Gazef Stronoff a cash-shop item to swap places, fully intending to emerge as the dramatic savior, test the strength of this world's magic, and establish himself as an untouchable supreme being.
But his bony fingers hovered over his staff in absolute, stunned silence.
The glowing red orbs in Ainz's eye sockets flickered rapidly as he processed what he had just witnessed.
What the hell was that?! Ainz's internal voice shrieked in panic, utterly contrasting his calm, majestic outward appearance. Silver armor? Roman legions? That wasn't in any Yggdrasil lore! And that magic... that wasn't a standard spell! The way he canceled [Holy Smite]... was that a World Item? A Super-Tier spell? No, the cast time was zero! Who is this Maximinus? Another player? A developer?!
Albedo, standing beside Ainz, leaned closer to the mirror, her beautiful face contorting into a mask of pure, possessive rage. "Ainz-sama... that lower lifeform dared to steal your glory. He effortlessly destroyed the summon that you were meant to crush. Shall I mobilize the Floor Guardians? We can wipe this 'Roman Empire' off the map before they become a nuisance."
Ainz raised a skeletal hand, forcing his aura of majestic calm to remain absolute, though internally he was sweating buckets. If he had skin, it would be crawling.
"No, Albedo," Ainz said, his deep, resonant voice echoing in the room. "Do not act rashly. This... Emperor... possesses unknown magic and highly disciplined troops. He knew exactly what the Slane Theocracy was. He knew about the angel. He acted with absolute certainty."
Ainz stared at the image of Maximus retreating into the forest, his mind working in overdrive. If this man was a Player, he was not operating by Yggdrasil rules. The magic he used felt completely alien. It was too efficient, too lethal.
"We will observe, Albedo," Ainz commanded, desperately trying to sound like a mastermind playing a multi-dimensional game of chess. "This Roman Empire has revealed their hand too early. They have made an enemy of the Slane Theocracy, and they have indebted the Warrior Captain to them. We will remain in the shadows, gather information, and let these nations tear each other apart. Only then will Nazarick move."
"As expected of the Supreme One," Albedo breathed, her eyes shining with manic devotion. "Your wisdom knows no bounds. You allow the fools to exhaust themselves before claiming the world!"
Ainz gave a slow, majestic nod, while internally screaming: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON! I NEED TO READ UP ON ROMAN HISTORY IMMEDIATELY!
Miles away, riding at the head of his victorious cohort, Maximus allowed a small, predatory smile to touch his lips.
He had saved Gazef. He had captured the leader of the Slane Theocracy's black-ops unit, which meant he would soon extract every secret they held regarding World Items and the Black Scripture. And most importantly, he had forced Ainz Ooal Gown into a state of paranoia.
Nazarick operated on overwhelming force, but Ainz's greatest weakness was his extreme, almost paralyzing caution when faced with the unknown. By demonstrating unimaginable, non-Yggdrasil power, Maximus had ensured that Nazarick would not attack him directly. Ainz would wait. He would scheme. He would try to understand the 'Roman Empire.'
And while Ainz wasted time observing, Maximus would be building.
"System," Maximus thought.
[Yes, Host.]
"Integrate the newly discovered magical principles of Yggdrasil Tier Magic observed today into the Magical Library. Cross-reference their weaknesses against Roman runecraft."
[Acknowledged. Integrating data... Data integrated. Magical Library updated. Host has leveled up due to the defeat of a high-tier entity. New skills available in the Shop.]
"Excellent."
Maximus looked up at the sky. The sun was fully up now, burning away the mist and casting brilliant, golden light over the marching legionnaires.
The Great Tomb of Nazarick believed they were the only gods to descend upon this world.
They were about to learn that gods could bleed, and that Rome was eternal.