The sun was merciless. Even in the early hours of the morning, its heat pressed down on the camp like an unseen weight, making every breath thick and sluggish. Dust clung to sweat-slicked skin, turning men into walking statues of dirt and grime.

  Lucius tightened his grip on his shield, his knuckles white. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breath coming in sharp, controlled exhales. Across from him, Centurion Septimus stood motionless, a veteran of a hundred battles, his gaze unreadable.

  “Again.”

  Lucius lunged forward, his gladius flashing in the sunlight as he thrust toward the centurion’s midsection.

  A blur. A sharp crack.

  Septimus’ shield slammed into Lucius’ sword arm, deflecting the strike with practiced ease. In the same motion, he pivoted on his heel and drove his own gladius toward Lucius’ ribs.

  Too fast.

  Lucius barely managed to twist his body, the blade scraping across his side instead of piercing flesh. He staggered back, gasping, his shield raised just in time to catch the follow-up blow. The impact sent tremors up his arm.

  “Too slow,” Septimus said, stepping back. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “You hesitate after every failed strike. In real battle, hesitation gets you killed.”

  Lucius wiped the sweat from his brow. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. The soreness from yesterday’s drills hadn’t faded—it had only deepened. Every motion felt sluggish, as if he were wading through knee-deep mud.

  And yet…

  “Again,” Lucius growled, planting his feet.

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  Marcellus studied him for a moment before nodding.

  The next assault began.

  ?

  The world shrank to a brutal rhythm of clashing steel, shield bashes, and footwork.

  Marcellus was relentless. He attacked from every angle, his strikes precise and punishing. Lucius parried, blocked, dodged—but each exchange drained him further.

  His legs ached. His arms trembled. His breath was ragged.

  But he refused to stop.

  He couldn’t stop.

  Again. A shield strike to the shoulder sent him reeling.

  Again. A gladius thrust barely missed his side.

  Again. His own attacks slowed, his muscles sluggish, his vision swimming.

  His body begged for rest.

  But something inside him pushed forward.

  Lucius’ muscles should have failed. His movements should have faltered. And yet—he found himself still standing, still fighting. The exhaustion weighed on him like chains, but his legs did not buckle.

  His body moved.

  Even as his mind screamed for respite, his flesh endured.

  Centurion Septimus saw it. His expression shifted—not to approval, but to something more cautious.

  Lucius was fighting beyond his limit.

  And he didn’t know why.

  ?

  By the time Septimus finally lowered his blade, Lucius could barely stand. His breath came in short, labored gasps, his vision blurred from sweat. He staggered but did not fall.

  The other legionaries, gathered around to watch, exchanged quiet murmurs.

  No recruit should have lasted that long.

  Septimus studied him, eyes narrowed. “Something’s changed in you.”

  Lucius swallowed, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  A half-truth. He felt something was different—but he had no name for it. No understanding.

  The system remained silent.

  The centurion let the silence hang for a moment before nodding. “Rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

  Lucius let out a breath and sheathed his sword.

  As he stepped away from the training ground, a cold wind stirred the dust.

  Odd. The air had been still all morning.

  Lucius slowed his pace.

  Somewhere in the camp, a horse let out a nervous whinny.

  Men shifted uneasily.

  The moment passed.

  The wind died.

  And yet, Lucius couldn’t shake the feeling that, for the briefest moment, something unseen had been watching.

  ?

  That night, sleep eluded him.

  His body ached, his mind drifted.

  Somewhere in the depths of his thoughts, something lurked.

  No system messages. No warnings.

  Just the sensation of a shift—as if the world had tilted ever so slightly, nudging him toward an unknown path.

  Outside, in the darkness beyond the campfires, the night seemed too still.

  And far off in the hills, where the warlord’s forces lurked unseen, a shadow moved.