The carriage wheels ground against the newly paved limestone of the Via Romana, a smooth, cambered highway that cut straight as an arrow through the rolling verdant hills of the imperial heartland. Two years prior, this land had been an untamed wilderness of dense canopy and feral beasts. Now, it thrummed with the disciplined pulse of civilization.
In the center of Nova Roma, the grand capital housing nearly a quarter of a million souls within its pristine white-marble walls, the air smelled of baked bread, forged iron, and the sharp, clean scent of citrus imported from the southern agricultural terraces. Aqueducts arched gracefully across the horizon, carrying fresh glacial water down from the northern peaks to feed public fountains and bathhouses where citizens debated philosophy, commerce, and military strategy.
Inside the imperial palace, high above the bustling Forum, Chancellor Gaius sat before a heavy mahogany desk buried beneath scrolls, ledgers, and leather-bound reports. The scratching of his quill was relentless. Across from him stood Claudius, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, his expression tight.
"The latest caravan from the mining settlements in the eastern ridges has arrived," Gaius said without looking up, his voice dry with exhaustion. "Four thousand cartloads of unrefined adamantine and mithril ore. The dwarven smiths we conscripted from the Gacha deployments have already tripled output. But the coin circulation is shifting, Gaius. We are injecting millions of Yggdrasil gold coins into our domestic treasury, and the merchants are struggling to price goods against currency that doesn't tarnish, weigh heavy, or lose purity."
"Let them adapt," Claudius replied curtly. "Rome does not bend its economy to fit provincial anxieties. If the currency is divine gold, the prices will reflect imperial value."
Gaius finally paused, laying his quill in its porcelain rest. He pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the younger commander with a mixture of respect and exasperation. "Easy for you to say, Claudius. You command men who bleed on command. I manage five million citizens across ninety-three cities who expect flour in their pantries, oil in their lamps, and security at their gates. And now, His Imperial Majesty has marched two legions into the teeth of the continent's most volatile political powder keg."
"His Imperial Majesty does not gamble," Claudius said, his tone dropping into absolute certainty. "You were not on the plains of Carne. You did not see the holy construct the Slane Theocracy summoned—a blasphemy of light that the Re-Estize Kingdom's greatest warriors cowered before. The Emperor dismissed it with a flick of his wrist. A seventh-tier spell, erased from reality. If Maximinus Messala commands the heavens, then every throne on this continent will eventually bend or break."
Gaius fell silent. He had read the preliminary reports from Marcus, the legate accompanying the expedition. The details were staggering: an army that moved like clockwork, magic that defied the localized tier-system of the surrounding kingdoms, and now, a high-ranking prisoner rotting in the imperial dungeons beneath Nova Roma.
"Nigun Grid Luin," Gaius murmured, tasting the foreign name. "Have the interrogators broken him?"
"Broken his mind, yes," Claudius said coldly. "He babbles constantly about the Six Great Gods, the Sunlight Scripture, and something called the Black Scripture—assassins of god-like power who wield world-altering artifacts. He believes we are heretics destined for divine purgation. But he has given us the names of their supply nodes, their communication frequencies, and the general location of their monastic strongholds."
"Keep digging," Gaius instructed, pulling a fresh scroll toward him. "His fanatical delusions are useless, but his intelligence regarding the Slane Theocracy's military assets is priceless. When the Emperor returns, he will want every detail mapped."
…
Deep beneath the forward encampment in the Albion Hills, carved into the cool, damp limestone of a subterranean holding cell, the air smelled of stale sweat, dried blood, and absolute despair.
Nigun Grid Luin, once the arrogant captain of the Slane Theocracy's Sunlight Scripture, huddled in the corner of the iron-barred cage. His pristine white plate armor was dented, stripped of its enchantments, and stained with dirt and his own waste. His eyes, once bright with religious fervor, were now sunken, bloodshot, and hollow.
The heavy oak door at the end of the stone corridor groaned open. The rhythmic, measured clank of iron-shod boots echoed off the damp walls.
Maximus walked into the cellblock alone, save for two faceless Adamantine Guards who flanked him like statues of judgment. He wore his crimson cloak over a tunic of dark, runic-woven wool, his face calm, detached, and utterly godlike in its serenity.
He stopped before Nigun's cage.
Nigun flinched violently, scrambling backward until his spine hit the cold stone wall. He let out a choked, half-mad laugh, clutching his head. "You... you aren't human. What kind of demon are you? The Dominion Authority... it was a seventh-tier summon. It was a fragment of the gods themselves... You erased it. With one hand."
Maximus crouched slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, looking down at the broken man with mild curiosity. "I am a man, Nigun. That is your fundamental mistake. You spend your lives groveling before ancient artifacts and dead systems, calling yourselves the instruments of divine will, while remaining utterly blind to true evolution."
"Evolution?" Nigun spat, a mixture of foam and blood dribbling down his chin. "You defy the natural order! The Slane Theocracy is humanity's shield against the monsters of this world! We are the chosen guardians of human survival!"
"By slaughtering innocent agrarian villages to provoke political friction?" Maximus's voice was dangerously quiet. "By deploying black-ops squads to terrorize neighboring kingdoms under the guise of holy cleansing? You are not a shield, Nigun. You are a tumor. And Rome removes tumors."
Nigun's chest heaved. He stared up at the Emperor, realizing the sheer gulf between them. There was no negotiation here. There was no ransom. There was only total annihilation. "The... the Black Scripture will come for you," Nigun whispered, a desperate, pathetic defiance flickering in his eyes. "The Captains... Zesshi Zetsumei... they wield weapons left behind by the Players. They possess World Items. Items that can rewrite reality itself. You cannot defeat them. Even if you are strong, you are just a bug waiting for a boot."
Maximus tilted his head. World Items. The confirmation he had been waiting for. Yggdrasil items in the hands of the native inhabitants meant that other supreme beings, or at least the lingering debris of past players, had touched this world centuries before him.
"Thank you, Nigun," Maximus said smoothly, standing upright. "Your service to the Roman Empire, brief and pathetic though it was, has been deeply illuminating."
"Wait! Wait, what are you going to do with me?!" Nigun shrieked, lunging forward to grasp the iron bars. "I told you everything! I gave you the names! The locations!"
"You gave me validation for what I already deduced," Maximus replied without looking back, walking down the dim corridor. "Marcus."
"Your Imperial Majesty," the legate stepped out of the shadows.
"Feed him, keep him alive, and extract every remaining scrap of tactical data regarding the Black Scripture's deployment patterns. When he is entirely empty of utility, let him join his angels."
"As you command."
One hundred and fifty miles southwest, inside the Royal Castle, the atmosphere in the high council chamber of the castle was thick enough to choke a horse.
King Rampossa III sat upon his cushioned wooden throne, looking older, frailer, and infinitely more tired than he had a week prior. Standing before him, leaning heavily on his blood-scored bastard sword, was Gazef Stronoff. The Warrior Captain's armor had been repaired, but the scars on his body remained fresh—silent testimony to the slaughter at Carne Village.
Surrounding the long oak table were the high lords and nobles of the Re-Estize Kingdom: Marquis Raeven, whose sharp eyes darted across the room with calculation; Count Caspond; and several senior military commanders.
"Let me ensure I understand your report, Captain Stronoff," Marquis Raeven said, his voice laced with profound disbelief. "You claim that a completely unknown human military force—numbering a mere five hundred men, clad in silver and crimson—marched out of the forbidden expanse of the Albion Hills?"
"That is correct, My Lord," Gazef said, his voice steady, though a tremor of lingering awe lingered in his tone. "They did not wear the insignia of the Empire. They did not bear the crest of the Theocracy. They called themselves the Roman Empire."
"Roman," King Rampossa muttered, stroking his white beard. " And you say they annihilated the Sunlight Scripture?"
"Annihilated is too gentle a word, Your Majesty," Gazef corrected, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. "The Slane Theocracy deployed an elite strike team and thirty Archangel Flames. The Roman legionnaires walked through them as if caught in a gentle rain. They did not break formation. They threw runic javelins that shattered the angels into golden dust before the beasts could even raise their swords."
A heavy hush fell over the council chamber. Several nobles laughed nervously, trying to dismiss the claim as battle-induced delirium.
"Absurd!" shouted Baron Philip, a younger noble known for his blustery arrogance. "Thirty high-tier angelic summons could level a fortress! You expect us to believe a handful of nameless infantrymen swatted them down like flies? You failed your mission, Captain, and now you invent grand fairy tales to excuse your defeat!"
Gazef's head snapped toward Philip, his blue eyes flashing with such intense, murderous fury that the young baron instinctively recoiled, tripping over his own chair.
"If those 'fairy tales' had not intervened, my head would currently be rotting on a pike outside Carne Village, and the Theocracy would be burning our northern frontier to ash," Gazef growled, stepping forward. "I watched their Emperor—a man named Maximinus—catch a seventh-tier spell, the absolute trump card of the Slane Theocracy's supreme summon, in the palm of one hand and snuff it out like a candle. Then he threw a spear of pure, bleeding red light that vaporized the Dominion Authority into nothingness. If you think you can dismiss that power with courtly skepticism, My Lord, I invite you to ride north and try your sword against them."
Marquis Raeven raised a gloved hand, cutting off the rising argument. His face was pale, his mind racing through the geopolitical nightmare unfolding before them. "Captain Stronoff speaks the truth. Look at him. He is not a man given to exaggeration. If a new superpower has established itself in the Albion Hills, and if they possess arcane capabilities that surpass even the Empire's mages, our entire defensive strategy is obsolete."
"What of the Baharuth Empire?" King Rampossa asked quietly, his eyes clouded with sorrow. "Has Emperor Jircniv sent word?"
"Jircniv's scouts are likely as blind as ours," Raeven replied grimly. "The Albion Hills have always been a deathtrap of demi-human tribes. For a new human empire to conquer that region in mere days, clear the forests, build roads, and project military force of this magnitude... they did not just appear, Your Majesty. They erupted."
"And their disposition toward us?" the King asked.
Gazef hesitated, recalling the calm, piercing gaze of the Roman Emperor. "They do not seek immediate war. The Emperor spared my life, provided me with a high-grade healing potion—an elixir far superior to anything our royal alchemists can brew—and sent me back with a message."
"A message?" Raeven leaned forward. "What was it?"
"He said the Roman Empire seeks trade, diplomacy, and peace with those who respect their borders," Gazef recited carefully. "But he also told me to let the Crown and the nobles know what happens to those who cross them. They have already annexed the Broken-Fang demi-human tribes. They are building a permanent castrum at our doorstep."
King Rampossa closed his eyes, leaning back against his throne as a profound, sorrowful weight settled over his shoulders. "We survived the Empire's annual wars of attrition. We managed the beastmen of the hills. But now... a true empire has descended upon us. May the gods have mercy on the Re-Estize Kingdom."
…
Deep beneath the barren earth of the Yggdrasil-transplanted realm, within the obsidian-walled opulence of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, the Sixth Floor resembled a pristine, artificial tropical paradise. Crystal-clear streams wound through lush greenery under a fabricated sky, populated by data-driven flora and fauna.
Yet, the atmosphere in the amphitheater was frozen in absolute tension.
Ainz Ooal Gown—formerly the salaryman Suzuki Satoru, now an immortal skeletal overlord clad in magnificent black-and-gold academic robes—sat upon a stone throne, his glowing red ocular lights flaring with suppressed agitation.
Kneeling before him were the floor guardians: Albedo, the Overseer of the Guardians, her raven-black wings folded tightly against her back; Demiurge, the arch-devil, pushing his spectacles up his bridge with a clawed hand; Shalltear Bloodfallen, her crimson parasol resting against her knee; and Cocytus, the towering mass of blue ice and chitin.
"My Lord Ainz," Demiurge began, his voice smooth, analytical, but tinged with genuine caution. "We have cross-referenced the magical signatures recorded by the mirror of remote viewing during the skirmish at Carne Village. The entity calling himself 'Maximinus, Emperor of Rome' utilized an incantation style and metaphysical framework completely absent from Yggdrasil's data archives."
Ainz shifted slightly on his throne, raising a skeletal hand to stroke his non-existent chin—a nervous habit carried over from his human days. Keep up the supreme master persona, Satoru, he chanted internally, while his brain scrambled frantically. If I sound stupid, Albedo will look at me with even more terrifying, heart-shaped devotion, which somehow makes the pressure worse!
"Indeed, Demiurge," Ainz rumbled, his voice artificially modulated to echo with bone-chilling resonance. "I have analyzed the discharge of that red spear. It did not belong to the divine class, nor the arcane class. It possessed conceptual properties... akin to a World Item, yet structurally unstable in a way I have never encountered."
"Do you believe he is a Player, Ainz-sama?" Albedo asked, her teeth bared slightly in a predatory snarl. "If he is a surviving player from a previous era, or someone who arrived during a different transition period, should we send the guardians to eradicate him before he gathers strength?"
"No," Ainz said firmly, slamming his staff against the stone floor just hard enough to punctuate his command. "Rash action is the trademark of the ignorant, Albedo. Consider the variables. He commands five hundred infantrymen who moved with a level of synchronization and physical conditioning that defies standard human limits. He possesses runic engineering that rivals dwarven masterworks, combined with magic that casually swatted away a seventh-tier summon."
Ainz paused, leaning forward, projecting an aura of calculated, multi-dimensional chess mastery. In reality, I have no fucking clue if he's a player or a GM or a hacker or an NPC who hit level 999! What if he has cash-shop items stored away? What if he can one-shot me?! I need to stall for time and read up on Roman history so I can sound smart if we ever meet!
"If he is a Player," Ainz continued smoothly, "then engaging him prematurely without knowing his build, his gear, or his guild affiliation is an unacceptable risk to the Supreme Beings and the safety of Nazarick. Furthermore, he has made an enemy of the Slane Theocracy, capturing their black-ops commander and humiliating their religious pride."
Demiurge's eyes gleamed with wicked delight behind his glasses. "Ah... I understand completely, Ainz-sama. You intend to let this 'Roman Empire' act as a destabilizing wedge against the human nations and the Theocracy, allowing us to observe their capabilities, measure their growth, and strike only when their defenses are fully mapped."
Yes! Exactly that! Please stop making me sound so smart, you're scaring me! Ainz thought, giving a slow, majestic nod. "Precisely, Demiurge. Let them clash. Let the Slane Theocracy test the limits of Roman steel. We shall remain in the shadows, consolidating our control over E-Rantel and the surrounding territories. Patience is the ultimate weapon of the Supreme One."
"Sasuga, Ainz-sama!" Albedo gasped, prostrating herself fully against the stone floor, her face flushed with ecstatic adoration. "To manipulate the rise of a new empire simply to bleed our enemies—your wisdom is truly infinite!"
…
Back in the Albion Hills, the alchemical mortar of the newly constructed Roman castrum had cured under three days of brilliant sunlight. High stone walls, twelve cubits thick, bristled with ballistae and runic archer towers. Banners bearing the golden wreath and eagle of Rome snapped proudly in the crisp mountain wind.
Maximus stood atop the central gatehouse, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. Below him stood the Second Cohort and the First Sky Legion—three thousand heavily armored infantrymen, four hundred cavalry, and a squadron of pegasus-mounted scouts.
Before the gates knelt a single, trembling captive: the young beastman who had guided them from the previous night's skirmish.
"You have brought us to the edge of the Broken-Fang ravine?" Maximus asked, his voice carrying clearly over the crisp morning air.
"Y-yes, Great Emperor," the beastman stammered, pressing his forehead into the dirt. "The camp is down in the gorge. Two thousand warriors... the Great Chief... they have iron weapons stolen from human caravans. Please... I showed you the way..."
"You did," Maximus acknowledged. He turned to Marcus, who stood at his right hand, hand resting on the pommel of his gladius. "Marcus. Are the auxiliary mages positioned?"
"In place, sire. Sound suppression wards are active. The valley is sealed. Not a single beastman will escape to sound the alarm northward."
"Good." Maximus drew his runic blade, the violet energy pulsing along its fuller like liquid lightning. He raised the sword high, catching the morning sun.
"Legions of Rome!" Maximus's voice rang out, magically amplified so that every soldier across the gorge heard it with crystalline clarity. "Before us lies a nest of savages who believe this land belongs to the lawless! They prey on the weak, they slaughter the innocent, and they presume to challenge the borders of civilization!"
He brought the sword down, pointing directly toward the mist-shrouded ravine below.
"Show them the wrath of the Empire! Advance!"
With a collective roar that shook the very roots of the ancient pines, three thousand men moved as one. The ground trembled beneath the rhythm of marching iron boots. The Roman Empire had stepped onto the stage of the New World, and the world would never be the same again.