Sovereign Ascendant

The dark pressed in.

The cave walls pulsed with sickly green light, veins of Qi humming beneath the stone, casting twisted shadows. The air stank of damp rot and something older, something hungry.

Gaius moved through the tunnels in silence, his breath controlled despite the burn in his lungs. The things lurking in the dark—Crawlers, but different now, stronger, larger—adapted to the Qi-tainted depths—followed him with patient, skittering clicks. They had learned. They had waited.

They would die.

A shape darted toward him from the ceiling. He sidestepped, twisting as claws raked across his shoulder, armor splintering under the force. Pain flared, sharp and bright, but he did not hesitate. His hand shot out, fingers curling around the thing's throat.

Snap.

It collapsed, twitching. The scent of its blood, thick and acidic, clung to the back of his throat.

Another came from his left. He ducked beneath the strike, twisting his torso, driving his elbow into the creature's gut. It staggered, and he followed through, grabbing a jagged shard of Qi rock from the ground, driving it into its skull.

The darkness pulsed—

Black.

A war room. The metallic hum of a battleship's engines thrumming beneath his boots. The air was tense, heavy with the scent of iron and oil, of sweat and command.

Legatus Varro stood at the head of the strategy table, flanked by Centurions—Gaius among them.

The holomap flickered, displaying Velos V, its Qi mines, the spread of the Dusk Crawler infestation.

Varro's voice was steel. "The 4th and 7th Legions are already engaged. You, Centurion Voss, will be part of the cavalry reinforcement. A flanking maneuver—standard assault doctrine. Hit their weak points, sever their numbers, then withdraw before engagement becomes unsustainable."

Aulus stood beside him, arms crossed. "That's the official strategy," he muttered. "What's the real one?"

Varro met his gaze. "Survive."

Black.

A fist slammed into his ribs. Not an enemy's.

A man's.

His father.

Gaius hit the dirt, gasping, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. His vision blurred, breath ragged. His body ached, every part of him screaming to stay down, to stop.

"Again," his father growled.

Gaius pushed himself up, coughing. "You're going to kill me before the enemy gets a chance."

Legatus Titus Voss loomed over him, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. He was a lion of a man, broad-shouldered, scarred, his dark hair streaked with silver despite his age. His armor, though dented and worn, was polished, the mark of a man who respected the blade more than the one who wielded it.

"Then you'd best stop dying so easily," Titus said.

Gaius steadied himself. "This would be easier if I actually had a sword."

Titus snorted. "You think a sword makes a man a warrior?" He stepped forward faster than Gaius could react, gripping his wrist, twisting it, forcing Gaius onto his back again with the ease of a man handling a child.

Titus crouched beside him, voice low, hard. "Remember this. The blade is nothing. The man is everything. When the battlefield takes your weapon, your strength, your allies, what do you have left?"

Gaius swallowed, his father's grip tight on his wrist. "Your mind," he said.

Titus released him, standing. "Then use it. Again."

Black.

A hiss—real this time, not memory.

Gaius twisted just as the next Crawlers lunged from the shadows.

The first hit him low, slamming into his legs, teeth sinking into his calf. Pain flared, hot and white, but he did not hesitate. His heel drove down, snapping the thing's neck.

The second came from the side. He pivoted, slamming his forearm into its mandibles, forcing them open before he ripped its head free.

Another strike. His ribs. Something cracked.

Pain. But he did not stop. He could not stop.

He slammed a fist into the cavern wall, grabbing another jagged rock, twisting as the largest of the Crawlers lunged.

A single movement.

A downward strike.

The stone drove through its skull.

The cavern fell silent.

His vision swam. Blood trickled down his leg, staining the rock beneath him. His body screamed, his mind blurred.

He gritted his teeth. Pain was a teacher, not a master.

Gaius staggered forward.

The tunnels stretched before him, endless.

He walked.

Black.

His father sat by the fire, sharpening his gladius with slow, methodical strokes.

"Again," Gaius murmured.

Titus arched a brow. "You're getting predictable, boy."

Gaius settled across from him. "Then teach me something I don't already know."

Titus paused. His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. He placed the sword down.

"You want to know how to survive war?"

Gaius nodded.

Titus exhaled, eyes on the fire. "You don't."

Silence stretched. The flames crackled, the distant howls of desert beasts echoing in the night.

Gaius frowned. "That's it?"

Titus' eyes found his. "You survive the battle, but the war stays with you. It never leaves. The men you kill. The ones you fail to save. The choices you make." He leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows across his scarred face. "You can let it destroy you, or you can let it forge you. But either way, you don't leave the battlefield whole."

Gaius swallowed.

Titus smirked. "What, you thought it was just about swinging a sword?"

Gaius looked at the flames. He did not answer.

Black.

His breath was ragged.

The cavern opened into a vast chamber, a hive, pulsing with dark Qi.

A wrongness filled the air.

And at the center—a figure.

Not a Crawler.

Something else.

It watched him.

It smiled.

Gaius exhaled. He stepped forward.