hello,when I was helping one of my friends who had a story in this reading application to prepare the basis of his fallout story,I really liked the concept of caesar's legion,it was interesting and rich to explore,but my friend preferred to keep it in his world since at first I told him that he should transport it to another world,he preferred to keep it simple so here is the pure idea.
I hope for your sincerity first of all
----------------------------------------------------
"God has spoken, and your son has been blessed by the Aspect of... the Scholar."
The silence that followed was so deep I could almost hear my own heartbeat. I closed my eyes, unable to bear the weight of their stares. They were all there, though I didn't dare look up: my father, my mother, the priest who had spoken the words with a mixture of solemnity and pity. Even the peasants, servants, and guards gathered in the church to witness the ceremony.
The priest slowly closed the book, as though wishing he were anywhere else. It was as if even he believed my Blessing was some kind of mistake. My father's disappointment was palpable. He didn't need to say a word; the tension in his jaw and the rigidity of his posture said everything. My mother, always more composed, looked away and brought an embroidered handkerchief to her lips.
It didn't take a genius to understand what my Blessing meant to all of them. It wasn't the Blessing of the Warrior, like my older brothers had received, nor the Smith or the Merchant, as other children had that same day. The Aspect of the Scholar, for a noble-born son, was nothing but a burden. I pressed my lips together until they hurt and nodded. A clumsy, small gesture that did nothing to lighten the weight pressing on my shoulders.
My father was the first to stand, crossing the church door without a word. My mother followed in silence, and I walked behind them with slumped shoulders and my eyes fixed on the ground. The cold winter air struck me as I stepped outside, but it did nothing to ease the knot in my throat.
I climbed into the carriage behind them, and the return journey began. As the carriage rolled over snowy roads, my mind began to wander, searching for refuge in the past. But not in this life.
I had been born before. Not here, but in a completely different world.
In my previous life, I was someone ordinary. Just a teenager, trapped in the daily routine of modern life, surrounded by technology, bright lights, and a future that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me. I wasn't anyone special. My grades were average, my ambition nonexistent, and I spent most of my time looking for ways to procrastinate.
My life ended in the most absurd way. I remember a school fight, a push, a sharp impact with the ground. And then... darkness. Everything disappeared so quickly that there was no time for regrets or to understand what was happening.
And then I woke up here.
My first memory was the cold, a deep, suffocating cold that wrapped around me like a shroud. And the sounds: screams, cries, the echoes of unknown voices. It took me years to understand that I had been reborn into a completely different world, a place where swords were daily tools, and castles were not relics of a distant past but necessary bastions for survival.
My childhood was marked by confusion. I tried to use the fragments of knowledge from my previous life, but I quickly realized they were of little use. My memories were vague, incomplete, and the things I knew had no relevance here.
The world I had been born into was brutal and merciless, a place where humanity constantly teetered on the brink of extinction. It was said that, in ancient times, the Human Empire had ruled the entire continent. The bards spoke of enormous cities, roads that connected every corner of the kingdom, and armies so vast they covered the fields like a steel mantle.
But that time had passed.
The Empire hadn't been destroyed by external forces. It had fallen from within, consumed by corruption, unchecked ambition, and greed. Emperors, once figures of power and wisdom, surrounded themselves with luxury and courtiers while abandoning their duties to bureaucrats and ambitious nobles. The nobles demanded greater autonomy, the Church claimed lands "for the glory of God," and the free cities, governed by merchants and burghers, bought their independence.
When the Empire was at its weakest, the Great Plague arrived. A disease that spread like a dark wind, killing millions. Two out of every five people died within months, and the largest cities became cemeteries. With each death, not only was a life lost but also the knowledge and infrastructure that sustained the Empire.
And then they came.
The orcs and goblins advanced from the north, ravaging everything in their path. Though they fought amongst themselves, their hatred for humanity kept them united enough to devastate our lands. The elves, from their dark forests, conducted constant raids, attacking human settlements under the pretense of protecting nature. In the east, beastmen tribes multiplied, led by kobolds, gnolls, and other creatures seeking our complete annihilation.
The west became a battlefield between harpies, who attacked from the skies, and minotaurs, who razed villages with brutal efficiency. Meanwhile, the centaurs of the south rode across the plains, conquering any fertile land that remained.
The Empire, or what was left of it, was trapped in the center of this circle of enemies. The territories that had once covered the entire continent had shrunk to a few fertile and defensible regions, surrounded on all sides.
And amidst all this, I had received a Blessing that was useless for war, commerce, or immediate survival.
When we arrived at the fortress, the dim light of the torches flickered faintly against the weathered walls. I climbed down behind my parents, feeling the weight of the servants' stares. During dinner, my father finally broke the silence.
"Konrad."
His voice echoed in the empty hall.
"You know what your Blessing means."
I nodded slowly, unable to meet his eyes.
"Then I hope you understand that there is no room for mediocrity in this house. Your brothers have their place. You... will have to find yours."
There was no anger in his tone, only a cold, unshakable truth. That night, as I looked out at the mountains from my bedroom window, I couldn't stop thinking about what it all meant.
The next morning, the servants served us our first meal of the day. The dining hall's atmosphere was as cold as the wind blowing from the mountains. The bread was hard, the broth barely warm, and the cheese so old it seemed more stone than food. It wasn't a table worthy of nobles, but here in the north, in the forgotten frontier of the world, this was the best we could afford.
My father sat at the head of the table, rigid and severe as always. His beard covered part of his face, and though the years had begun to mark him, his gaze remained as hard as granite. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, stirring the spoon without much interest in the food. Silence was the norm at our meals, but that morning something was different.
I felt his gaze on me before I looked up. He was watching me closely, with an expression I couldn't decipher. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then, as if he had finally made a decision he'd been avoiding, he sighed and brought something from beside him.
It was a sword. Its leather scabbard, though worn and old, left no doubt: what it contained was no ordinary blade.
"I would have liked to give this to you under happier circumstances…" he said, placing it on the table in front of me. The thud echoed through the dining hall, and the nearest servants froze in place. My hands trembled slightly as I stared at it. The sword was long and heavy, with a simple bronze pommel and a scabbard marked by generations of use.
"But you have reached the age."
My father's voice was grave and solemn, but there was something else there. Fatigue, perhaps. Or frustration. He leaned forward slightly, his gray eyes piercing me with the force of a hammer.
"This sword is iron. A relic of better times." His words seemed to thicken the very air in the room. "When I was your age, my father gave this to me, just as his father did before him. Not because I deserved it, but because it was my duty."
Iron.
The word echoed in my mind. Not bronze, the common metal used to forge the weapons of common folk and garrison soldiers. Nor steel, which was practically a myth in this world, its secret buried with the smiths when the Empire fell. Iron, however, was a luxury reserved only for nobles close to power or ancient families. Iron was strong, resilient, superior to any bronze blade one could find.
For a moment, I didn't know what to do. I stared at the sword, a knot tightening in my stomach. It was a relic, a symbol of my lineage, but also a burden.
"Just as your brothers and I have done, you must continue to protect the North." His voice hardened. "Not because there is honor in it. There is none. Here, we do not fight for glory or recognition. We fight because if we do not, no one else will. And while we give our lives in these cold and forgotten lands, the bastards in the south continue their feasts and their useless politics."
His disdain for the southern nobles was well known throughout the fortress. While we held back the hordes of orcs, goblins, and elves descending from the northern mountains, the beastmen threatening from the east, and the centaurs ravaging the south, the southern lords—far removed from immediate danger—busied themselves with alliances, betrayals, and endless banquets. Their lands were rich, their winters mild, their harvests abundant, but they never saw the blood that stained our fields year after year.
My hands trembled as I reached out, my fingers brushing the scabbard. The leather was cold and dry, but that wasn't what made me shake. It was what it represented. Slowly, I lifted the sword and felt its weight—not just its physical heft, but the expectations it carried. My father watched in silence, waiting.
"Thank you, Father," I murmured finally, though my voice barely rose above a whisper.
"This is not a gift, Konrad." He rose to his full height, his figure seeming taller and more imposing in that moment. "It is a reminder. There is no room for weakness here. You have your Blessing, yes, but that does not excuse you from taking your place. Use it well."
"You leave today." My father's voice thundered in the dining hall, reverberating against the stone walls like an undeniable sentence. The iron sword rested heavily across my lap, a weight both literal and symbolic. I looked up, startled, but his severe gaze left no room for doubt.
"The northern garrisons need reinforcements," he continued, his tone as firm and cold as ever. "A message arrived this morning from Alaric. A dungeon has appeared in the north—a wound in the world, opened as suddenly as so many others. But this one… this one has spilled forth monsters in numbers we have not seen in years. Abominations have already emerged, and if we do not stop them, the nearest villages will fall before we can act."
My father struck the table with his fist, causing the half-empty goblets and the silence in the room to tremble alike. The idea of dungeons wasn't new to me. They were tears in the very fabric of the world, ruptures caused by uncontrolled mana—nightmarish places where logic ceased to exist. Twisted creatures and abominations emerged from these wounds, as if the world itself vomited its rage. And humanity, fragile and short on steel, always paid the price.
"But… Father," I tried to say, though my voice was weak. "Will the adventurers not be sent?" It was the logical choice. By law, dungeons were quickly claimed by adventurer guilds—bands of men and women who, while not always trustworthy, had monopolized the task of delving into those places in search of riches or glory.
My father's glare froze the blood in my veins.
"If we wait for the adventurers, Konrad, we will lose what is ours. I will not allow those mercenaries and scavengers to arrive before us. Dungeons do not only spew monsters—they contain wealth: iron, steel, lost artifacts, and forgotten knowledge. All of that should belong to us, the nobles who defend these lands day and night. If we do not take what is rightfully ours, what will remain for us? What will separate us from the miserable peasants who dig in the mud? Nothing!"
Each word fell like a hammer blow.
My mother, seated beside me, tensed. I pressed my lips together and looked down at the iron sword my father had given me the day before. A relic of better times, now entrusted to me—a boy who had barely begun to understand his place in this world. It was ironic that he would send me away so soon after giving me a weapon I did not feel worthy to wield.
"Father, but I…" I hesitated. "I have never been to a dungeon. I am not prepared for this." The words came out clumsy, broken by the fear I couldn't hide.
My father's gaze hardened even more. "No one is prepared for a dungeon, Konrad. Not I when I took up my first sword, nor your brothers when they faced their first goblins crossing the mountains. But we learned. And you will learn, too."
He stood beside me, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room as the first light of dawn streamed through the windows.
"You will fight alongside the men I am sending. You will obey orders, observe, and learn. This is not merely a test for you, Konrad; it is a necessity for our family. The riches of that dungeon, if we claim them, could mean the difference between surviving this winter or not."
"His words, though spoken harshly, concealed an undeniable truth. The North was a merciless place, and every opportunity to obtain something of value had to be seized with both hands. The iron sword I now possessed was proof of that. In a world where bronze was the standard and iron a symbol of power, I carried something that very few had."
I tightened my grip on the sword's hilt. The thought of facing abominations in a dungeon made me feel like a child playing at being a soldier. But this was no game. The monsters would show no mercy. The fortress of Falkenstein depended on us bringing back something to justify the risk—something that would prove to the Grand Marquis and the rest of the North that we still had the strength to resist.
I rose slowly, my heart pounding in my chest.
"When do we leave?" I asked, though the words barely escaped my throat.
My father nodded, satisfied.
"At midday. Prepare your things. The patrol will be ready. And remember, Konrad, it is not just your life you carry with you. You bear our name, our blood, and the future of these lands."