The first rumor arrived in the Royal Capital of Re-Estize before the morning mist had fully burned off the cobblestones of the market district.
By noon, it had fractured into three distinct lies.
By evening, it had mutated into something monstrous.
In the taverns near the docks, sweaty men with salt-caked boots swore upon their mothers' graves that a towering abyss had opened in the southern deserts, belching forth a legion of multi-headed serpents. In the high-ceilinged parlors of the lower gentry, refined ladies sipped spiced wine and whispered of dark sorcery unleashed by the Sorcerer King—a second undead catastrophe designed to finish what E-Rantel started. Along the western trade roads, caravan guards swore they had seen pillars of azure fire climbing into the stratosphere above the Roman frontier, so bright they eclipsed the midday sun.
No one actually knew.
That was the terrifying part.
In the grand tapestry of the Re-Estize Kingdom, rumors were as common as dust and twice as cheap. A fishmonger heard a distorted version of a tax dispute from a passing soldier, exaggerated the grain prices for dramatic effect, and passed it to a baker; by the time the tale reached the ear of a bored viscount's steward, a simple tariff had transformed into an impending peasant revolt.
This time, however, the rumor possessed a quality that every previous fabrication lacked.
It possessed absolute, unvarnished truth.
Something impossible had occurred behind the marble columns and soaring aqueducts of the Roman Empire. And for the first twenty-four hours, even the most efficient intelligence networks on the continent were entirely blind.
…
The first official courier did not enter the capital through the grand ceremonial gates; he rode through the eastern postern in the grey light of dawn, his mount foaming at the flank, its breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps. The rider himself looked less like a soldier of the crown and more like a corpse dragged half a league behind a cart. His leather coat was crusted with alkali dust from the western flats, his eyes were bloodshot and sunken, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.
The gate guards, half-asleep and leaning against their halberds, moved to bar his path out of sheer bureaucratic habit.
"Halt. State your business and your registry."
The courier did not dismount. He simply hauled back his cloak with trembling, calloused fingers to reveal the crimson wax seal dangling from his breastplate—the private stamp of the Western Border Command.
"Emergency military dispatch," the man rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel rolling down a chute. "For Marquis Raeven. Directly. Do not delay me, or heads will roll upon these very stones before the noon bell."
The captain of the guard took one look at the seal, swallowed hard, and dropped his halberd's shaft against the stone. "Open the gate! Clear the lane!"
Within the hour, the parchment—creased, stained with sweat, and smelling faintly of scorched horseflesh—sat squarely upon the polished mahogany desk in Marquis Raeven's private study.
Raeven broke the seal himself, his thumb moving with practiced speed. He expected taxes. He expected border skirmishes with rogue baronies or fresh complaints about the grain quotas imposed by the western trade agreements. He did not expect six closely written pages detailing an anomaly that defied every known law of physics, geography, and warfare.
An unknown structure.
An archway of grey stone that had never stood in the valley before.
Beasts from ancient nightmares—reptilian leviathans with leathery pinions spanning thirty paces.
Men armored in bronze and steel, mounted upon their backs, raining fire and iron upon the outer suburbs of the Roman capital.
Raeven read the final paragraph twice. Then he read the names of the commanding officers who had signed it—men he knew to be steady, unimaginative veterans of the western campaigns, men who did not panic for coin or shadow.
His face, normally as controlled and weathered as seasoned oak, drained of its color until his skin matched the parchment in his hand.
"By the gods," he whispered.
Gazef Stronoff, who had been standing by the tall arched window watching the early carts rattle across the courtyard, turned immediately at the tone of the Marquis's voice.
"What is it, Raeven? Has Baharuth crossed the river again?"
Raeven did not answer immediately. He simply slid the document across the smooth wood of the desk.
Gazef stepped forward, picking up the sheets. His heavy brows drew together, his golden-brown eyes tracking down the lines with lethal speed. The Warrior Captain's breathing hitched once, twice, and then settled into a hard, rhythmic discipline.
"Wyverns?" Gazef murmured, his thumb tracing the ink. "Trained wyverns? In the heart of the Roman capital?"
"Apparently," Raeven said, leaning back into his leather chair and pressing his fingertips against his temples where a sudden, vicious throb had begun to drum.
"And the riders?"
"Men. Armored men wielding weapons that our scouts cannot identify—tubes of iron that spit fire and lead without the aid of runes or mana."
Gazef looked up, his expression grim. "How could an entire aerial force—let alone an army of unknown origin—penetrate Roman territory deep enough to strike their capital without an early warning from our border pickets?"
Raeven stared at the grain of the wood, his mind racing through leagues of topography, trade routes, and watchtowers. "Because they didn't march across the border, Gazef. According to this... they appeared. From thin air. Out of an archway that wasn't there forty-eight hours ago."
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant clatter of a groom's bucket in the stables below.
Raeven pushed himself up from the desk, his joints popping in the quiet room. "We are going to the King. Now."
…
King Ramposa III was sitting in the sunny gallery overlooking the palace rose gardens, attempting to enjoy a bowl of honeyed porridge and a slice of coarse bread, when the heavy oak doors banged open with an unceremonious crash.
The old monarch didn't flinch—he had lived long enough to know that bad news rarely knocked politely—but he did set down his silver spoon with a quiet sigh. He looked at the two men standing on his threshold: Raeven, whose eyes carried the haunted look of a man who had stared into an abyss, and Gazef, whose hand hovered instinctively near the pommel of his broadsword.
"You both wear the faces of men who have just been told their estates have burned down and their treasury is filled with dried leaves," Ramposa observed mildly, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth. "Speak before my heart decides to stop entirely out of sympathy."
Raeven placed the courier's report upon the silver tray beside the king's breakfast bowl.
"Your Majesty. Read it."
Ramposa picked up the papers. His eyesight was not what it once was, and he had to squint slightly against the morning glare reflecting off the marble floor. He read slowly, paragraph by paragraph, his lips moving silently as he absorbed the nightmare details.
When he reached the end, the King did not drop the paper. He simply lowered it to his lap, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight that seemed to age him ten years in a single breath.
"An army," Ramposa said softly, his voice dry. "Appeared inside Nova Roma."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Raeven replied.
"And they were... what? Monsters? Demons from the southern wastes?"
"Men, Your Majesty. Humans, or something terribly close to them, riding beasts that our best scholars thought were extinct outside of the southern crags."
Ramposa looked out toward the sunlit gardens, where butterflies danced lazily among the white roses. How fragile it all was. For years, the Re-Estize Kingdom had survived by holding its breath between the grinding stones of larger powers—the aggressive nobility within, the perpetual threat of Jircniv's Baharuth Empire to the north, and the looming, terrifying shadow of the Sorcerer King to the east. They had comforted themselves with the thought that while the world was dangerous, it was at least a familiar danger. Borders were drawn in blood and ink; armies marched on roads; magic followed predictable rules.
An army appearing out of nothingness inside the most heavily fortified city on the continent tore that comforting illusion to shreds.
"Has Rome responded?" Ramposa asked, his voice steadying with the instinct of a ruler who had weathered a thousand storms.
"Immediately," Raeven said. "Emperor Maximus mobilized both major legions stationed in the capital within two hours of the breach."
Ramposa's eyebrows lifted. "Both legions? At once? That must be nearly twenty thousand men."
"More, if you count the auxiliary cohorts and the palatine guards," Gazef added. "To throw that much disciplined steel into the streets of your own capital requires absolute trust between the crown and the military. If our own nobles had twenty thousand armed men inside the capital at a moment's notice, half the senate would be hiding under their beds."
"Rome is not Re-Estize," Raeven reminded him quietly. "Their legions answer to the state, not to petty fiefdoms. And Maximus commands them with an iron hand."
"And the result?" Ramposa leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the tray. "What happened to the invaders?"
Raeven exchanged a glance with Gazef. "They were driven back. The Roman army pushed them through the very structure they emerged from. According to the latest dispatches, the enemy broke and fled back into whatever world spawned them."
The King exhaled a long, shuddering breath of relief. "Then the capital is secure?"
"For now," Raeven said. "But the structure remains."
Ramposa's face darkened. A door had opened in the wall of reality, and someone had left it standing ajar.
"If something powerful enough to threaten Rome can just... walk through a wall," the King murmured, "then no one on this continent is safe. Not us. Not Baharuth. Not even the undead king in E-Rantel."
Raeven gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Your Majesty, considering that the Sorcerer King commands legions of the dead and Rome commands steel that sings with fire, I believe we passed the boundary of safety some months ago."
Gazef didn't smile. His jaw was set like stone. "We need to know what's on the other side of that door."
"And how do we propose to do that?" Raeven asked. "By riding across the continent to stick our heads through a mysterious archway while two empires are staring at each other over its remains?"
"No," Gazef said, his voice dropping an octave. "We send an envoy. Quietly. Before Maximus decides to lock the door from the inside and throw away the key."
Ramposa looked at the Warrior Captain, then at the Marquis. The old king tapped his fingers twice against the wooden armrest of his chair.
"Do it," Ramposa whispered. "Send someone who knows how to keep their eyes open and their mouth shut. But be quick about it. The vultures in the north will already be circling."
…
Three hundred leagues to the north, in the pristine, marble-paved halls of the Imperial Palace in Arwintar, Emperor Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix was not eating breakfast. He was staring at a map of the continent while his chief secretary stood frozen three paces away like a salt pillar.
"Read it again," Jircniv said. His voice was entirely devoid of inflection, which his staff knew was infinitely more dangerous than shouting.
The secretary swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he held the parchment. "A—according to our intelligence network in the western provinces, Your Majesty... an unidentified architectural anomaly manifested within the boundaries of Nova Roma three days ago. An irregular force consisting of mounted infantry and wyvern-riding combatants launched a surprise assault upon the city."
Jircniv did not turn around. He kept his eyes fixed on the small wooden marker representing Nova Roma.
"And?"
"The Roman garrison mobilized twenty thousand legionaries within the hour. The engagement lasted approximately four hours. The enemy was routed, forced back through the anomaly, and Roman forces have established a permanent fortification surrounding the structure."
Silence settled over the grand study. It was a rich, opulent room filled with rare tapestries, golden artifacts looted from ancient ruins, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing the accumulated wisdom of the Baharuth Empire. Yet at that moment, it felt remarkably small.
Jircniv reached out with two fingers, picked up a heavy lead figurine representing a Roman legionary, and lifted it. He weighed it in his palm, feeling its cold density.
"How many times?" the Emperor asked softly.
"Sir?"
"How many times, in the span of a single year, has the world decided to rewrite its own rules just to spite me?" Jircniv turned slowly, his brilliant eyes flashing with a mixture of cold rage and manic fascination. "First, Ainz Ooal Gown crawls out of the earth with magic that turns entire armies into dust in the blink of an eye. Then Rome appears out of nowhere, swallows half of Re-Estize like a wolf eating a rabbit, and builds a civilization that makes our most advanced academies look like children playing with mud."
He slammed the lead figurine down onto the map with a sharp clack.
"And now? Now some entirely new faction drops out of the sky into the middle of the Roman capital as if they were stepping through a back door into a tavern!"
The secretary bowed his head so low his nose nearly touched his belt buckle. "The empire's intelligence director suggests it may be a spatial anomaly caused by ancient magic—perhaps a remnant from the era of the Eight Greed Kings—"
"I don't care about ancient magic!" Jircniv snapped, running a hand through his immaculately groomed blonde hair. "I care about leverage. I care about balance. When Ainz took E-Rantel, I thought: Fine. A new player on the board, but one whose motives we can deduce. When Rome conquered the western territories, I thought: Dangerous, but manageable through diplomacy and trade. But a doorway to an unknown world? That changes the mathematics entirely."
The Emperor walked briskly to his mahogany desk, sat down, and steepled his fingers, his mind racing through a dozen contingency plans at once.
"Are there casualties?"
"Heavy among the attackers, minimal among the Romans," the secretary reported. "The Roman defense was... terrifyingly efficient, according to our observers. They didn't panic. They formed lines, deployed siege engines within city limits, and systematically slaughtered the wyverns with iron projectiles before closing in with close-quarter formations."
Jircniv let out a short, barked laugh that had no humor in it whatsoever.
"Of course they did. Maximus probably treated it like a minor traffic disruption." He looked up, his expression hardening into absolute resolve. "Send observers."
The secretary blinked. "To... to Nova Roma, Your Majesty?"
"No, to the moon," Jircniv said dryly. "Yes, to Rome, you idiot! I want every detail about this structure. I want to know its dimensions, its magical signature, what kind of stone it's made of, and whether the people coming through it wear iron or gold."
"But Emperor Maximus has cordoned off the entire district with two legions," the secretary stammered. "Our agents will never get close enough to—"
"Then send diplomatic envoys bearing gifts," Jircniv interrupted smoothly, a sharp, predatory smile touching the corners of his lips. "We shall offer our deepest condolences regarding the terrorist attack upon their fair city. What better way for two civilized empires to bond than over a shared tragedy?"
The secretary bowed again, backing toward the door. "At once, Your Majesty."
"And one more thing," Jircniv called out as the man reached the brass handle.
"Yes?"
"Find out if Ainz Ooal Gown knows about this yet. Because if the undead king is smiling, then the rest of us are already dead."
…
Far to the east, in the towering dark spires of the Great Tomb of Nazarick—specifically within the cavernous, obsidian-pillared administrative chamber that served as his temporary office—Ainz Ooal Gown was currently experiencing a digital simulation of a severe migraine.
Of course, as an undead skeletal being, he possessed neither a brain nor the biological capacity for headaches. But the feeling of cold dread spreading downward from his skull into his non-existent stomach was entirely real.
Standing before him, bowing with absolute, terrifying grace, was the arch-demon Demiurge.
"Ainz-sama," Demiurge murmured, his tail swishing slowly behind him in a rhythmic display of intellectual satisfaction. "The intelligence gathered from our homunculi scouts in the western territories confirms the reports beyond any shadow of a doubt."
Ainz stared down at his skeletal hands resting on the dark stone desk. Inside the glowing red lights of his eye sockets, his mental state was a frantic, screaming hurricane of panic.
What? What is happening? An unknown structure? In Rome? Where did they come from? Is this a patch update? Did the developers add a new expansion zone without telling me?
Outwardly, however, Ainz leaned back into his high-backed throne of bone and shadow, adjusting his magnificent robes with slow, deliberate majesty.
"I see," Ainz rumbled, his voice echoing with the synthesized resonance of a supreme ruler who had anticipated every possible permutation of history. "So the Roman capital has suffered an unexpected... intrusion."
"Indeed, Ainz-sama," Demiurge said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as the lenses flashed with a sinister, brilliant sheen. "An anomaly of unprecedented scale. A stone archway of unknown manufacture manifested spontaneously within the urban center of Nova Roma. From it issued a hostile military force utilizing biological aerial mounts—creatures bearing strong physiological similarities to wyverns—alongside armored infantry of an unfamiliar cultural design."
Wyverns? Infantry? Out of a stone arch? Ainz's internal monologue screamed in sheer bewilderment. That sounds like a generic fantasy portal trope! Why is this happening in a gritty, high-stakes political simulation? Did someone drop a crossover fanfiction into the server?!
"And the Roman reaction?" Ainz asked, keeping his tone flat, cold, and dripping with ancient wisdom.
"Fascinating," Demiurge replied, clasping his hands behind his back as he began to pace slowly across the dark marble floor. "Emperor Maximus did not hesitate for a single second. Within minutes of the breach, twenty thousand regular infantrymen—supported by specialized artillery units and auxiliary cavalry—were deployed to contain the threat. They engaged the invaders in close urban combat, systematically neutralized the aerial advantage of the wyverns using coordinated projectile fire, and drove the surviving elements back through the gateway."
Ainz listened with rapt attention, his skeletal jaw set.
Twenty thousand troops deployed instantly? That's not a local garrison; that's a fully operational standing army ready for immediate deployment at the heart of the empire. Maximus has built a military machine that operates with terrifying bureaucratic precision. If I ever have to go to war with Rome, I cannot rely on a simple surprise attack. They mobilize too fast.
"They have fortified the perimeter," Demiurge continued, his eyes gleaming with intellectual fervor. "Instead of destroying the structure—which would have been the instinctive reaction of a fearful or shortsighted ruler—Maximus has placed two full legions around the anomaly, transforming it into a permanent military bastion. He intends to study it. Or, more dangerously... he intends to conquer whatever lies on the other side."
Ainz let out a slow, theatrical breath of air through his nasal cavity.
"Sasuga, Maximus," Ainz muttered aloud, mostly to buy time while his brain scrambled for a coherent strategy.
Demiurge stopped pacing and bowed deeply, his expression filled with absolute adoration. "As expected of your supreme intellect, Ainz-sama. You foresaw that Maximus would capitalize upon this crisis to expand his empire's strategic horizons."
I foresaw nothing! I thought a volcano had erupted! Ainz screamed internally, while outwardly nodding sagely. "Naturally, Demiurge. A true ruler does not merely repel an invasion; he turns an enemy's doorway into his own back gate."
"Brilliant," Demiurge breathed. "Shall I dispatch a delegation to Nova Roma? A formal inquiry from the Sorcerer Kingdom to express our solidarity against unprovoked aggression, while simultaneously probing the nature of this new gate?"
Ainz considered the proposition. On one hand, he wanted nothing to do with unknown portals that might contain level-100 world bosses or overpowered entities from another dimension. On the other hand, if Rome was about to conquer a brand-new territory filled with resources, magic items, or information, Nazarick couldn't afford to be left in the dark.
"Yes," Ainz said, his red eye lights flaring with icy authority. "Send a diplomatic envoy. Let it be known that the Sorcerer Kingdom extends its hand in friendship to our neighbors in Rome—and that we are deeply interested in... academic collaboration regarding this new architectural marvel."
"As you command, Ainz-sama," Demiurge said with a wide, razor-sharp smile. "I shall personally draft the letter. I am certain Emperor Maximus will find our terms... difficult to refuse."
…
While emperors and undead kings plotted across the continent, the Slane Theocracy was holding a funeral for its own peace of mind.
Inside the deep, lead-lined subterranean chambers beneath the capital of the Theocracy—a room sealed with divine wards and guarded by zealots who had taken vows of absolute silence—the Cardinal Council sat in absolute, suffocating darkness, broken only by the flickering blue flame of holy candles.
Cardinal Raymond, his aged face carved with the deep wrinkles of a man who had spent seventy years worrying about the survival of the human race, stared down at the intelligence reports spread across the heavy oak table.
"Read the casualty figures again," Raymond whispered.
A young priest, his robes damp with nervous sweat, cleared his throat. "The... the Saderan forces suffered losses exceeding seventy percent within the first two hours, Your Eminence. The Roman counter-offensive was so overwhelming that the survivors did not even attempt to rescue their wounded. They simply broke and fled back through the Gate."
A heavy silence fell over the council.
"A second civilization," a second cardinal muttered, his hand trembling as he clutched a silver holy symbol against his chest. "Not players. Not undead. Not beastmen from the Great Forest. An entirely separate humanity—or something resembling it—possessing military technology that defies our understanding."
"And Rome defeated them," Raymond said, his voice flat. "Without calling upon angels. Without summoning divine intervention. Just iron, discipline, and whatever those thundering tubes of theirs are."
"This changes the balance of power permanently," another cardinal warned, slamming his fist against the table. "For centuries, the world was divided between us, the Empire, the Kingdom, and the demi-human tribes. Then Rome rose from the south like a plague of locusts. And now? Now a door has opened to an unknown realm, and Rome is holding the key."
Raymond looked slowly around the table, meeting the terrified eyes of his peers.
"What does the Scripture command us to do in times of existential divergence?" Raymond asked softly.
"To preserve humanity at all costs," the youngest cardinal answered.
"No," Raymond corrected him, his eyes hardening into flint. "That is what we tell the masses. The true command of the Gods is to survive. And to survive in a world where Rome holds an inter-dimensional gateway while the undead king rules E-Rantel..." He paused, taking a slow, ragged breath. "...we do nothing."
The council erupted in protests.
"Do nothing?! While our enemies grow stronger?!"
"While an unknown empire knocks on our back door?!"
"Quiet!" Raymond roared, slamming his palms onto the table with a force that rattled the holy candles. The chamber fell instantly silent.
"If we move against Rome now, we risk a war on two fronts while the Sorcerer Kingdom watches from the east like a tiger waiting for two stags to bleed each other dry," Raymond said, his voice trembling with exhausted fury. "Let Rome take the first blow. Let Maximus send his legions through that gate into whatever darkness lies on the other side. If the monsters on the other end are weak, Rome grows stronger. If the monsters are strong..."
A grim, humorless smile touched the old man's lips. "...then Rome will bleed for us."
…
Meanwhile, in a secluded, ivy-covered estate hidden among the rolling hills just outside the Re-Estize capital, a very different kind of meeting was taking place in total secrecy.
Marquis Raeven sat at the head of a long, dark oak table. Around him sat half a dozen lesser nobles—men whose lands bordered the western territories, men whose fortunes had risen and fallen with the tide of Roman expansion.
"Rome has been attacked," one younger baron said, his voice tight with nervous energy. "By an unknown army through an unknown gateway."
"We know," Raeven replied calmly, pouring himself a cup of spiced wine.
"And they repelled it."
"Yes."
The baron leaned forward, his eyes bright with desperate ambition. "Then this is our chance! Rome is distracted! Their legions are tied down guarding a portal to some distant wasteland! If we mobilize our private levies now, we can strike the western garrisons, reclaim our ancestral lands, and push their borders back to the river!"
Silence descended upon the room. It was the kind of silence that precedes a hanging.
Raeven took a slow sip of his wine, swallowed, and then looked at the young baron as if he were inspecting a particularly stupid farm animal.
"Are you finished?" Raeven asked softly.
The baron blinked, taken aback. "I... I speak the truth, Marquis! Rome is vulnerable! We cannot simply sit here while a foreign empire swallows the continent piece by piece!"
Raeven stood up slowly. He didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist on the table. He simply walked around the polished wood until he stood directly behind the young nobleman, leaning down so his mouth was near the man's ear.
"Let me paint a picture for you," Raeven whispered, his voice like dry leaves scraping across frozen ground. "An unknown army—an army strong enough to conquer nations—appears out of nowhere inside the most heavily defended city in the civilized world."
He straightened up, walking toward the large map of the continent hanging on the wall. He pointed a finger directly at Nova Roma.
"That army attacked. They threw everything they had at the city walls."
He moved his finger slightly to the west.
"And Rome mobilized twenty thousand men in sixty minutes. They met the enemy in the streets. They slaughtered them by the thousands. They drove them back through their own portal. And when the dust settled..."
Raeven turned around, his eyes blazing with cold, absolute fury.
"...did Rome abandon the city? Did their emperor flee? Did their economy collapse? No. Emperor Maximus walked out onto his balcony, surveyed the dead, and ordered his engineers to build a permanent fortress around the gateway so he could conquer whatever is on the other side."
The room was so quiet you could hear the wax dripping down the candles.
"That is not vulnerability," Raeven said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "That is a monster baring its teeth. If you march your little private levy toward the Roman border right now, Maximus won't even notice he's stepping on you. He'll just wipe your blood off his boot and keep walking."
The young baron swallowed hard, sliding back into his chair without another word.
Raeven returned to his seat, resting his hands flat on the table.
"Our kingdom survives today for one reason and one reason only," the Marquis said to the assembled nobles. "Because we have learned when to keep our heads down. The Sorcerer King rules the east. Rome rules the west. And now... something else has awakened in the dark."
He looked around the table one last time.
"Strengthen your walls. Pay your taxes. Keep your mouths shut. And pray to whatever gods still listen that when Rome looks through that door again... they don't decide they need more room."
…
Back in Nova Roma, inside the vaulted, marble-pillared interior of the Imperial War Room, Emperor Maximus stood before an enormous, newly drafted relief map of the continent and the mysterious territory beyond the Gate.
The room was dead silent.
Marcus stood to his left, his heavy gladius resting against his thigh, his face scarred and resolute. Gaius stood to his right, surrounded by half a dozen scrolls detailing economic reports, casualty lists, and intelligence summaries from across the borderlands. And standing near the tall arched window, looking out over the glittering spires and aqueducts of the capital, was
"The reports from our intelligence network in Re-Estize are amusing," Gaius said, adjusting his spectacles. "Marquis Raeven has apparently spent the last forty-eight hours terrorizing his own nobility into total submission to prevent them from doing anything terminally stupid."
Maximus didn't smile. He was staring down at the small wooden marker representing the fortified outpost surrounding the Gate.
"And Baharuth?"
"Jircniv is spinning like a top," Gaius reported, a dry smirk touching his lips. "He's sent three separate diplomatic inquiries disguised as 'messages of condolence,' each one more desperate to find out what's on the other side of the archway than the last."
"And the Sorcerer Kingdom?"
"Ainz Ooal Gown sent a formal letter through Demiurge," Gaius said, his tone turning slightly more cautious. "Very polite. Very chilling. He expresses deep sorrow over the attack, offers his condolences, and politely inquires whether Nova Roma requires 'magical assistance' in securing the anomaly."
Maximus let out a short, cold laugh. "The undead king wants a piece of the pie."
"Obviously," Marcus grunted, crossing his massive arms over his breastplate. "He thinks we've bitten off more than we can chew. He wants to see if we stumble so he can pick the bones."
Maximus turned away from the map, walking slowly toward the window where Calca stood. His wife turned to face him, her expression a complex mixture of awe and deep, underlying concern.
"You aren't afraid," Calca said softly. It wasn't a question.
"Afraid?" Maximus looked down at the bustling streets below, where merchants were packing up their stalls for the evening, children were laughing near the fountains, and Roman legionaries in polished bronze armor patrolled the clean, orderly avenues. "Calca, I command the finest military machine humanity has ever built. We survived the collapse of our old world. We conquered a continent of monsters, undead, and corrupt kingdoms. If some barbarians from the other side of a magical archway think they can raid my capital and walk away without paying the price..."
He smiled—a cold, sharp expression that promised absolute ruin to anyone foolish enough to test him.
"...then they are about to learn what a real empire looks like."
Calca looked into his eyes and felt a shiver run down her spine. Not out of fear for herself, but out of absolute terror for whatever unfortunate civilization lay waiting on the other side of that stone door.
"What are your orders, Majesty?" Marcus asked, stepping forward.
Maximus turned back to the war room table, resting both palms flat against the wood.
"Two legions remain stationed around the Gate permanently," Maximus commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "Rotate the auxiliary cohorts every three months so no one grows complacent."
"Understood."
"Send reconnaissance teams through the archway," Maximus continued, his eyes fixing on the blank space on the map beyond the Saderan territory. "I want mapping parties, linguistic specialists, and vanguard centurions. I want to know who built that city across the valley, who rules them, what their economy looks like, and how many legions they can field."
"And diplomacy?" Gaius asked, pen poised over parchment.
"Prepare an embassy," Maximus said calmly. "Not with a white flag, but with an escort worthy of Rome. We shall send a consular delegation through the Gate to deliver a formal message to the rulers of this new world."
Gaius looked up, slightly startled. "You intend to negotiate with them?"
Maximus smiled—a dark, wolfish grin that made the war room feel suddenly very cold.
"I intend to give them a choice," the Emperor said softly. "They can open their markets, swear fealty to the Roman Eagle, and become part of the greatest civilization in history..."
He paused, his gaze lifting toward the northern horizon where the sun was beginning to dip below the marble roofs.
"...or we will rebuild their capital using their bones as mortar."
Outside, across the vast, sprawling expanse of Nova Roma, the bronze bells of the temples began to toll the evening hour. The city was peaceful. The citizens were safe. The legions stood ready.
Across the continent, rulers trembled in their palaces, whispering of doors that should never have been opened.
And far away, hidden behind the grey stone archway in the quiet hills of a brand-new world, an empire of the old order sat upon its throne, entirely unaware that the shadow of Rome was already falling across its gates.
The age of empires had already begun.
Now, the world was about to discover what happened when Rome walked through the door.