Roman
Roman and the soldiers ran as one, their collective movement like a well-oiled machine surging through the forest. The sound of their footfalls and the rhythmic clink of armor filled the air as they pushed forward. Roman felt the wind rushing past him, his feet barely touching the ground. Despite the pace, his breathing was steady, his muscles humming with energy.
After a while, the Sergeant, his brow furrowed in confusion, glanced over at Roman. Finally, he couldn't hold back his curiosity any longer.
"How are you able to keep up with us? Who are you really?" the Sergeant asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
"I already told you. I'm Roman," he replied, keeping his tone casual. "I was training with some friends when we got separated. And why wouldn't I be able to keep up? We're not exactly sprinting, and I'm not weighed down with armor like you guys are."
The Sergeant gave him a skeptical look. "That may be true, but the average person would be struggling to keep this pace. Yet here you are, running like it's a leisurely afternoon stroll. You're not even winded. What are your stats?"
Roman feigned a look of mock offense, his voice dripping with exaggerated indignation. "Whoa there, Sergeant! I might not be from around here, but I thought it was common knowledge in this kingdom that asking about someone's stats is incredibly rude."
"Usually, yes," the Sergeant agreed, his eyes narrowing. "But when an entire city is destroyed, and a blood-covered stranger runs out of the woods claiming to have been separated from his friends, I think it's a good time to make an exception."
Roman shrugged, nonchalant. "Nah, I don't see how those things are related. Either way, I'm not giving you that information." He pointed to the left, where enemy soldiers were beginning to charge toward them, weapons raised and shouting battle cries. "And look, now you've got bigger things to worry about than prying into my business."
The alarm spread quickly. Drums and horns blared from the other side of the hill, their ominous tones rolling across the battlefield like a thunderstorm. The enemy was close now, almost cresting the hill. Roman watched as the soldiers around him sprang into action without hesitation, their movements precise and coordinated. This was no ordinary unit—they were elite, honed by years of training and experience.
"Sea Squad, flank left! Earth Squad, right! Everyone else, Richter maneuver!" Sergeant Smithson bellowed, his voice carrying above the din of approaching battle.
The soldiers moved in perfect unison. Two squads broke off to the flanks, creating a pincer formation that forced the enemy to choose their targets carefully. The remaining men spread out, forming a solid line that bristled with shields and spears. They were outnumbered and had the disadvantage of being on lower ground, but they moved with confidence, their focus unwavering.
"Impressive," Roman admitted, casting a sideways glance at the Sergeant, who nodded smugly.
"This is nothing," Smithson replied with a proud grin. "When the Commander returns with the main force, it'll look like a work of art. He's spent years crafting this unit into the finest on the continent." His words were cut short by the earth-shaking collision as the two forces met.
The clash was brutal. Metal clanged against metal, and the ground shook with the impact of bodies colliding. Roman's heart pounded as he watched the carnage unfold, a strange exhilaration mingling with the unfamiliar sense of guilt and horror. It was surreal—on one hand, he felt out of place, as though he were watching some grotesque play unfold before him. On the other, he felt a thrill, a surge of adrenaline that made him want to leap into the fray and test his strength against these foes.
He could almost see the world as a game, each enemy a target to be eliminated, each move a chance to rack up a higher score. His mind raced with thoughts of combos and tactics, of maximizing efficiency. But deep down, a voice whispered that these weren't just enemies—they were people, with lives and families and stories of their own. It was a truth he didn't want to face, not now.
I have to hold back, he thought, clenching his fists. If I lose control again… He glanced at the Sergeant, who was barking orders and directing the men with calm authority. I can't let them see what I'm capable of. Not yet.
But then another thought crept in, dark and insidious. What does it matter? I'm not beholden to these people. I serve no one here. Why should I care what they think? He didn't even know if he was on the right side. Who were the good guys in this war? Who were the bad guys? The lines blurred and twisted in his mind, leaving him feeling lost and unmoored.
He took a deep breath, searching for the calm, still voice that usually guided him. But there was only silence. Ever since that night at the campsite, since he'd let the rage take over and killed those men, he had felt utterly alone. It was as if the rage had severed his connection to something greater, something that had once given him clarity and purpose.
"Sea Squad, push!" the Sergeant shouted, snapping Roman out of his thoughts.
"Uh, how do you expect them to hear you over all of this?" Roman asked, gesturing to the chaos around them.
"They hear me," the Sergeant replied confidently, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. "I know every one of these men, and they follow me because they trust me. It's a bond that's unbreakable."
Roman smiled faintly. It sounded like something his father used to say, back when faith had been a comfort instead of a burden. "It's impressive," he admitted, watching as the soldiers followed the Sergeant's orders, driving the enemy back despite being outnumbered.
"They've got this under control," Roman said, nodding as the soldiers continued their relentless advance.
"This is nothing for them," the Sergeant agreed, his voice filled with pride.
Commander Athel, Capital of Meridia
"This way, Commander." The young servant's voice trembled as he led Commander Athel and his entourage through the gilded halls of the royal palace. The Commander moved with purposeful strides, his portal master, Seth, Jessika, and Z trailing behind him. There was no time for formalities. The situation was dire, and every second counted.
"My King!" Athel called out as he pushed open the massive doors to the throne room, not bothering to wait for the usual introductions. "We are under attack and need to respond immediately."
King Juelius stood from his throne, his expression shifting from irritation to concern. "Commander Athel. You and your unit were not due back for another week. What has happened?"
"Your Majesty, we made it to the Merkwood Forest after finding Eidon reduced to nothing more than a ghost town," Athel reported. "We found these young people there, training."
The King's gaze shifted to the group standing beside the Commander. His eyes narrowed as he recognized one of them.
"Seth! What in the world are you doing here?" The King's voice wavered between anger and relief. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, Father, I'm fine," Seth replied, his voice steady. A murmur rippled through the hall as the nobles realized who the young man was. Jessika and the others gasped in shock, they knew he was from a rich family but not a royal let alone the Crown Prince! The Commander shook his head slightly. This kid was always causing trouble, but at least this time it had led to something useful. They might not have been able to prepare in time without his warning.
"What did you see?" the King asked, his eyes narrowing.
Seth recounted the events in detail, his voice calm and clear despite the gravity of the situation. He described the army they had seen, the destruction of Eidon, and the fight in the forest. The King listened intently, his face growing darker with each word.
"I assume you have already begun mustering the troops?" Commander Athel asked as soon as Seth finished speaking.
The King nodded. "You are in charge. We do did not leave many here in reserve, just about 2000, the rest went north. Get out there and do what you must."
"Sire," the Commander replied with a sharp salute. He turned and strode from the room, his mind already racing through strategies and tactics.
"We should help," Seth said, turning back to his father.
"Absolutely not!" the King snapped. "You should be on your way home. You should never have left the palace grounds in the first place. What were you doing in Merkwood?"
"Training," Seth answered, his voice firm.
"Training? In Merkwood? I have brought the best trainers in the kingdom here to teach you, and you sneak off to the most dangerous forest in the realm?"
"There's nothing else to learn from them!" Seth's voice rose, his frustration boiling over. "I need real challenges, not pampered instructors who are too scared of you to push me!"
The King's face flushed with anger, but before he could respond, a soft voice cut through the tension.
"Seth," the Queen's voice was gentle, soothing. She moved gracefully onto the dais, her presence calming the storm that had been brewing. "Your father is trying to protect you, and this kingdom. Think about it—what would happen if the heir to the throne were killed in battle? How would our people react?"
Seth looked down, his anger fading. "I just want to get stronger," he muttered. "I can't do that locked up in the palace."
The King's expression softened slightly. "We will find a way to help you train, but you must understand, your safety is paramount."
"What about that new dungeon in the Southern Ridge?" the Steward suggested, stepping forward. "It would be a perfect place to test his skills, and it's a controlled environment."
The King's eyes brightened. "Yes, that could work. Once the current crisis is dealt with, you can go with the Commander and clear it. You'll have the challenge you seek, without the risk of real death."
Seth's eyes lit up. "And I can bring my friends?"
The King hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, as a thank you for protecting my son I will also grant you all titles and the land out there will be split amongst you. Build, and protect it as we try to expand our borders into the untamed mountains and whatever may be beyond."
Seth turned to his friends, who grinned and exchanged excited and nervous looks. "There's one more, though. We met him in Merkwood, and he saved our lives."
"What do you mean?" the King asked, frowning.
"We were captured by what we thought were bandits, but they were scouts. They tied us up and were about to…" Seth's voice faltered, and he glanced at Jessika and Lexi, who both looked down, their faces pale. "They were going to hurt the girls. Roman, the guy we met, broke free and killed them all in a matter of seconds. Then he vanished. I think he moved so fast he got lost. We need to find him."
The King's eyes widened slightly. "He killed a group of trained scouts in seconds?"
Seth nodded. "Yes, Father. He was… incredible. I've never seen anything like it. He moved like the wind, faster than I could track."
There were gasps from the gathered nobles. The last person who had displayed such speed was the legendary hero Flash Step Morrow, who had died decades ago in the final battle of the Great War.
"Hmm," the King murmured, deep in thought. "I will have the Commander look for him. If he truly saved your lives, he deserves a reward. And if he is as strong as you say, he could be an invaluable ally."
Seth beamed. "Thank you, Father."
The King nodded, his mind already turning to the looming threat. "Prepare yourselves. Once the battle is over, we'll make arrangements for the dungeon."
Seth and his friends cheered quietly, the tension lifting from their shoulders. But in the back of his mind, Seth couldn't shake the image of Roman standing amidst the carnage, his eyes wild and desperate. He hoped they would find him before it was too late.
Roman
"Damn, so that's what a slaughter looks like up close, huh?" Roman murmured, his voice thick with a grim sort of wonder. Beside him, Sergeant Smithson chuckled along with a few of his men, their laughter tense but genuine.
"You'd better get used to it," the Sergeant replied. "Now, let's get to the top of this hill and see what we're really dealing with." He gestured forward, and the soldiers moved out, their faces set with grim determination. Roman fell in beside him, his heart hammering in anticipation.
They crested the hill together, and the sight that awaited them was beyond anything Roman had imagined. The breath caught in his throat, his mind struggling to process the sheer scale of the force arrayed before them.
"Oh… how?" the Sergeant stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His face had gone pale, and he stood frozen, staring out over the valley below. Some of his men stumbled to a halt beside him, their expressions mirroring his shock and fear.
Roman had expected a large force, but the reality was staggering. The entire valley seemed to be filled with soldiers, stretching as far as the eye could see—a sea of armor and steel, thousands upon thousands of men. And they weren't alone. Huge creatures lumbered through the ranks, chained and muzzled, their eyes gleaming with a terrifying intelligence.
Roman's eyes widened as he spotted a massive, scaled beast among them. It looked like a dragon, but its wings were stunted, and its movements were more lumbering, less graceful. A drake, he realized, recalling the wingless cousins of the dragons he'd read about in this world's lore.
The soldiers around him were paralyzed with fear, their faces drained of color. Roman locked eyes with the Sergeant, seeing his own shock reflected there. He nodded, and the Sergeant returned the gesture, a glimmer of relief breaking through his fear.
Let's get the hell out of—
"Alright, men!" the Sergeant's voice cut through the stunned silence, his tone sharp and commanding. "Now that our warm-up is done, who's ready for some real fighting?" His words were like a spark in dry kindling, snapping the men out of their stupor. Some even managed a chuckle, though their eyes were still wide with shock.
"Looks like they didn't bring enough men for all of us to have a fair fight, so some of y'all will have to share, okay?" The Sergeant's grin was fierce, and he slammed his fist against his chest, the sound like a drumbeat. The men around him echoed the gesture, the metallic thud reverberating through the air.
"These bastards dared to sneak into our country, attack our cities, and now gather in secret to assault another. Are you going to let that stand?"
The response was immediate. Fists struck against armored chests in unison, the sound building into a rhythmic, thunderous beat. It wasn't loud, but the energy in the air was palpable, a fierce determination that seemed to lift the spirits of everyone present—even Roman found himself caught up in it.
"I thought so," the Sergeant growled, his voice low and intense. "Let's show them who the Hydra Knights are. Let's make them earn every step they've taken into our land with blood. Are you with me?!"
The rhythmic thudding grew louder, each beat resonating through the ranks. Roman felt his own heart pounding in time with it, his blood singing with the thrill of the moment.
"I need a weapon. Armor, if you have any spare," Roman said, his voice steady.
The Sergeant looked at him, then nodded. "Glad to have you with us." He called over the quartermaster, who eyed Roman critically.
"Sword's no good for you right now," the quartermaster muttered after a moment, his gaze sharp. "Glaive. This one's special. Brought it from home." He handed Roman a long, ornate polearm with a wicked curved blade mounted proudly atop it. The craftsmanship was beautiful, the blade gleaming in the light. It felt strangely familiar in his hands, as if it had been made for him.
"I've never used one before," Roman admitted, though the weight felt right, the balance perfect.
"Learn," the man replied simply, thrusting the weapon into his grip. As soon as Roman's hands closed around the shaft, a sense of calm and confidence washed over him, banishing the lingering traces of fear.
"Wow," Roman breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"I told you," the quartermaster said with a satisfied nod. He tossed Roman a set of light armor. "This should fit. Get ready."
Roman's confusion must have been obvious because one of the soldiers leaned over and whispered, "Don't question it. It's his skill. His magic lets him match the right gear to the right person for the right situation. It's amazing."
Roman nodded, his heart racing as he pulled on the armor. It fit perfectly, as if tailored just for him. He flexed his arms, testing the range of motion. It felt good. Better than good—it felt right.
"Alright, looking good," the Sergeant called out as Roman stood, the glaive held firmly in his hands. Roman felt a surge of energy, a sense of purpose and belonging that had been missing since he'd arrived in this world. It was back—that feeling of being on the right path, of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
This is it, he thought, his mind clearing. He focused, sifting through the different options available to him, letting that inner compass guide him. The path that resonated strongest was clear: Fight as hard as I can to limit casualties among these men.
"Sergeant, I know you don't know or trust me, but I can take out a lot of them on my own. Where would be the best spot for me to engage, alone, to help you?"
The Sergeant raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "By yourself? Are you looking to die?"
"Not at all. I'm trying to keep your men alive. If I can draw enough of their attention, or at least disrupt them, you won't have to spread your forces so thin."
The Sergeant's gaze was sharp, assessing. "I'm not sure if you're crazy or just plain insane, but I can see you mean what you say." He pointed toward a ridge on the enemy's flank. "If you hit them there, right when we engage, it'll cause chaos. They'll focus on us first because we're the bigger threat. Once you start doing damage, you'll pull their attention, and we can exploit the confusion. If you're not strong enough, you die, and we fight like planned."
Roman grinned, his grip tightening on the glaive. "Sounds good to me. See you in the thick of it." And with that, he was off, covering the distance in a blur.
"Damn, he's fast," the Sergeant muttered, watching Roman disappear into the distance. "Maybe he wasn't bluffing after all."
He turned back to his men, his voice rising into a guttural roar. "Men! MAKE THEM PLEAD TO THEIR GODS FOR FORGIVENESS, MAKE THEM REGRET THE DAY THEY WERE BORN! MAKE. THEM. FEAR. YOU!"