Titus, The Necropolitan

The oath unfolded, syllables that felt older than the earth itself spilling forth. The moment Titus spoke the final words, his body convulsed violently. His screams echoed through the chamber, sharp and unnatural. His veins darkened, snaking across his pale skin like black rivers. His once-brown eyes shifted to a vibrant, unnatural green, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Victor stepped back, observing with fascination.

- So, it does work.

he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He had anticipated crimson eyes—a reflection of the rage that lingered in his own heart—but green? The unpredictability of these so-called blessings irked him to no end.

This was no ordinary transformation; it was an unholy alchemy that blurred the boundaries between life and death. Titus's form contorted and stabilized repeatedly, as if reality itself struggled to decide whether he belonged to the realm of the living or the dead. The temperature in the room dropped significantly, and the dim candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls.

The noise soon attracted attention. Victor's guards burst into the room, weapons drawn.

- Sir, is everything all right?

the leading guard asked, his voice trembling as he caught sight of the grotesque scene.

Victor turned to them, his expression cold and commanding.

- It's the medicine taking effect. Leave us.

Though their eyes lingered uneasily on Titus's writhing form, the guards knew better than to question their master. They retreated, closing the door behind them. Still, Victor noted the unease etched on their faces. Whispers would undoubtedly spread through the estate, but for now, he had more pressing matters to address.

As the transformation concluded, Titus sat upright on the bed. His chest no longer moved with breath, and his skin held an unsettling pallor. Dark, branch-like markings sprawled across his body like the roots of a cursed tree. His hair, once a dull brown, had turned pitch black, absorbing light like a void. Despite the eerie changes, his gaze remained lucid, though burdened with a newfound allegiance and an enduring love for his daughter.

Victor watched him closely, his mind buzzing with thoughts of potential. Suddenly, a notification echoed in his mind—a disembodied voice he had come to recognize as both a boon and a curse.

[Bing! Your Mortuum Cohort has gained its first member: Titus Longus. You have acquired 20 Soul Essence. Your skill has progressed by 20 XP.]

Victor grimaced at the cheerful tone of the message. "This blasted system," he muttered under his breath, the words tinged with disdain.

A second notification materialized in his vision.

[Name: Titus Longus – Race: Necropolitan]

[Description: The Necropolitan retains its intellect, personality, and semblance of mortal appearance. Sustained by a phylactery, this undead being balances life and death. Periodic rituals replenish its energy, often requiring life essence or ambient necromantic forces. Failure to maintain the phylactery results in decay and dissolution.]

As Victor absorbed the details, yet another message appeared.

[Bing! You have been assigned a mission by Athena.]

[Mission: Raise a Loyal Army]

[Objective: Using your necromantic abilities, raise an army. Rewards vary by size. Failure will result in severe punishment.]

The system outlined the grim terms, from the dire consequences of failure to the distant, tantalizing promise of rewards for success.

Victor's jaw tightened. "That damn goddess! Silent for decades, and now she treats me like some lackey."

His anger simmered, but Titus's unwavering gaze pulled him back to the present. The connection between them was palpable, a bond forged not of choice but necessity. Victor felt an urge, almost instinctual, to issue a command.

- Mors Khrazzz

he intoned, the words resonating with an unearthly weight. Their meaning was clear: Let the darkness rise.

Titus stood and saluted, responding in kind.

- Mors Khrazz.

Victor sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This will be more of a headache than I anticipated."

By the month's end, Victor had completed the construction of his forge—a testament to both his ambition and his meticulous planning. The forge was no ordinary facility; it was a sprawling complex designed to handle large-scale production, its bellows powered by ingenious mechanisms never saw before in the Republic.

To staff the forge, Victor made a controversial but calculated move. He purchased a group of slaves, men with experience as blacksmiths or knowledge of metallurgy. However, instead of condemning them to servitude, he granted them freedom in exchange for contracts to work as blacksmiths. The gesture was as practical as it was magnanimous; free men were more loyal and productive than slaves.

Victor also acquired fifteen young slaves, offering them a similar deal. For those who had lost everything, the chance to learn a trade and regain their freedom was a rare blessing.

With his workforce secured, Victor turned his attention to the production of armor for his personal guard. Rejecting traditional designs, he opted for something unique and fearsome. Every detail was deliberate, crafted to inspire awe and terror in equal measure:

Helmets fashioned as closed barbutes, with scaled mail protecting the neck. Shoulder pauldrons and upper torso armor crafted from overlapping steel scales, resembling the hide of a mythical beast.Segmented plate armor for the chest, complemented by a ring mail skirt for flexibility.Plate bracers and boots reinforced for durability and mobility.Wolf fur adorned the armor's edges, a nod to his new created emblem, a circle with an eagle on the left and a wolf on the right.

Unlike the traditional long oval shields favored by most houses, Victor chose Greek-style steel shields with dull spikes. These were designed not only for defense but also to shatter wooden shields in close combat. Each guard was armed with two light pila for ranged attacks, a gladius designed for slashing and stabbing, and a curved axe as a secondary weapon, a versatile arsenal tailored for both formation warfare and brutal skirmishes.

When the first five sets were completed, Titus and four others donned the armor. They looked like avatars of Mars himself, their imposing presence commanding awe. The armor gleamed under the forge's firelight, a testament to both craftsmanship and innovation.

The weapons were tested rigorously. The gladius cut cleanly through flesh and wood alike, its edge sharp enough to carve through the thickest leather. The light pila pierced armor with deadly precision, their aerodynamic design enabling longer, more accurate throws. But the true marvel was the curved axe, which cleaved through shields and bones with terrifying efficiency.

Victor observed the display with satisfaction, his arms crossed over his chest. His personal guard had transformed into something more than soldiers; they were harbingers of his will, a living testament to his ingenuity and ambition.

He allowed himself a rare smile.

- It's a start.

he murmured.

But as the clang of steel and the roar of the forge faded into the night, Victor's mind was already racing ahead. The notifications from Athena and the system loomed large in his thoughts. This was not merely about survival or ambition; it was a race against time, a gamble where the stakes were his very soul.

"A Legion by Two Years." The words echoed in his mind, a grim reminder of the task before him. Failure was not an option—not with Athena's punishment hanging over him like a sword.

Victor exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting to Titus, who stood silently, awaiting his next command.

- This is only the beginning.

Victor said, his voice low but resolute.

- The gods may treat me as their pawn, but I will carve my own destiny. One step at a time.

And with that, the forge blazed on, the sparks of its fires carrying the promise of a future forged in both steel and shadow.