Ave,true to caesar

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The battle had ended, but the fortress we defended was stained with blood. As the smoke from the enemy camps dissipated on the horizon, we spent the first days salvaging what little remained. The bodies of the fallen, both legionaries and enemies, lay in heaps, and the air was thick with a stench that seemed to cling to everything.

My men, exhausted yet resolute, began the grim work of recovery. Thousands of wounded were treated with the limited resources we had left. Every medic and skilled slave worked tirelessly to save those who could still be saved. Physical wounds were numerous, but the invisible scars of battle ran just as deep.

The battlefield was littered with resources we could not afford to waste. I ordered my men to collect every piece of armor, every weapon that could be repaired or reused. The bronze spears of the beastmen, damaged but functional shields, and even the helmets and swords abandoned by human traitors were recovered. The blacksmiths worked day and night, reforging and reinforcing our equipment from the spoils of war.

"Every piece counts," I told my officers. "What we can't use, we'll melt down to forge what we need."

The sight of legionaries working together, salvaging armor from the dead and repairing the walls, was a testament to the resilience of my force. Despite the losses, we were not defeated.

One of the most solemn acts during those days was burying our dead. Thousands of legionaries and allies had fallen defending this fortress. We built funeral pyres for those who could not be buried, and centurions delivered final words for their cohorts.

In a quiet corner of the fortress, a row of crosses marked where the heroes who would never return home lay. Each was honored, their names inscribed on tablets that we would carry back to the Empire.

"They did not die in vain," I said to my men. "Every one of them gave us the time and strength to secure this victory. Now, it is up to us to honor them by holding what they died to protect."

Though our losses were heavy, the beastmen had paid a far steeper price. Their army, once an imposing force of tens of thousands, had been reduced to a shadow of its former strength. Scouts confirmed that the remaining clans were retreating, abandoning their fortresses and camps. Their morale was shattered.

Small groups attempted to harass us in the days that followed, but they were mere echoes of a force that had been crushed. The coalition Arla had so painstakingly built was falling apart.

With our position secured, I knew we could not remain idle. I sent scouting parties to assess the nearby fortresses that the beastmen had seized during their invasion. What we found was astonishing: many had been abandoned in haste, their defenders fleeing upon learning of our victory. Without leaders to hold them together, the clans were beginning to scatter.

"We will advance," I ordered my officers. "We will take back every empty fortress, every camp they've left behind. We will reestablish the defensive line of the East, step by step."

The remaining legionaries, supported by the allies we had saved during the siege, began moving in small groups. Every fortress we reclaimed was repaired and fortified, becoming once again a bastion of the Empire. Though our numbers had dwindled, our resolve had not.

Sitting in my tent under the dim light of a candle, I reviewed the reports and numbers from the battle. The remaining legionaries, the wounded, the reclaimed fortifications—all were laid out in cold statistics that failed to capture the true cost. Thousands of lives sacrificed. Men who had trusted me, who had given everything for this cause, now lay buried or reduced to ashes. We had defended this fortress, we had restored the beginnings of the Eastern lines, but something inside me found no solace.

I couldn't stop thinking about what we had achieved—and what we had lost. The fortress was defended, yes, but why? For whom?

My mind returned, again and again, to Arla's words. That half-human, half-beast leader of the coalition, with her idealistic vision of a world of equality. She had tried to sway me, speaking of justice and a higher purpose. On the battlefield, her coalition had shattered, her ideals crushed beneath the weight of our swords. Yet even in her defeat, her words lingered.

Because, though she was wrong, I could not ignore a truth that had grown within me since the start of this campaign: the Empire had done nothing.

"If not for me," I thought, staring at the map spread before me, "if not for my army, for my leadership, those beastmen would have reached the capital. And only then would the Empire have acted."

The impotence of its institutions, the cowardice of its nobles, the inaction of those who claimed to defend order—it had all become painfully clear. While I fought to hold this frontier, while my men bled and died to maintain a line that should never have been breached, the Empire remained silent. No reinforcements, no planning, no order. Only chaos.

There was no Empire. Only the illusion of one.

The weight of that realization hit me like a wall. For years, I had served this system, believing it to be the bastion of order, the shield against chaos. But now, after everything I had seen and done, I understood the truth. The Empire was dead. What remained were disconnected fragments, nobles concerned only with their wealth, and an emperor incapable of governing anything beyond his palace walls.

"Chaos," I murmured, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "There is no order. Only chaos."

That night, alone in my tent, I realized my purpose had changed. I had defended this Empire, shed blood, and sacrificed men for it, but it did not deserve our loyalty. If the Empire could not maintain order, then someone had to take its place. Someone had to be the pillar that held this crumbling world together.

And that someone would be me.

I stood slowly, pushing aside the reports and allowing my thoughts to crystallize. The name I had carried all my life, Konrad von Falkenstein, was no longer enough. That name was tied to a broken system, an Empire that had failed. I needed something new, something that represented the purpose now driving me.

"Caesar," I murmured, testing the name on my tongue. A title that evoked power, leadership, and, above all, order. "I am not merely a commander. I am the beginning of something new."

From that moment, Konrad von Falkenstein ceased to exist. In his place was born Caesar—a leader who would no longer wait for others to act, who would not bow to broken systems. My vision would rebuild this world from its ashes, uniting its fragments under one banner, and bringing true order, even if it had to be imposed with iron and blood. Hypocritical as it may sound now.

That night, as the fortress slept, I made my decision. I would no longer be a pawn of a dying Empire. I would become the architect of a new world.

The plan was clear, though I knew it would take time. I lacked the means, the allies, and the resources to subdue the Empire at this moment. But that did not mean the path was blocked. With patience, cunning, and discipline, I would lay the foundation for something that could one day surpass the decaying Empire.

My legion would grow. With the tax gold I now controlled in this region, the wealth gained from selling beastmen slaves, and the fortifications we had reclaimed, my resources would multiply. Every coin would be invested in strengthening my forces: weapons, armor, training, and most importantly, recruits. My numbers would swell not only with volunteers but with slaves trained and turned into soldiers, forming a force that answered solely to my command.

I knew I had to abandon the name Konrad von Falkenstein. That name was tied to the old system, to a minor noble from the north who served a broken Empire. I was no longer that man. The new path I had chosen required something greater, something that reflected the purpose now driving me.

Caesar.

That would be my name. It was not merely a name but a title, a declaration of authority, leadership, and absolute power. Ironically, no one in the Empire understood the meaning of Latin anymore. That knowledge had been lost generations ago. To them, it would be just another name, a curiosity that would not raise suspicion. No one would know that with this name, I was declaring something far greater.

For now, I could not confront the Empire head-on, but it was unnecessary. Every fortress I reclaimed, every contract I took, every enemy defeated would be one more step toward my ultimate goal.

In time, the results would speak for themselves. My legion, fed by gold and blood, would expand—not only in numbers but in discipline and loyalty. Unlike the Empire, which could not keep its soldiers united without constant pay, my men would follow me because I would give them purpose, victories, and proof that their sacrifices were not in vain.

The Empire would not see me coming. They would think I was just another commander, managing a lost region in the east. But while they sank deeper into their decadent politics and internal disputes, I would be building a state that brought order. And when the time came, when my ranks were strong enough and my influence widespread, I would crush them from within.

That night, alone in my tent, I wrote my old name for the last time on a parchment before burning it. As the flames consumed those letters, I felt the weight of my decision. Konrad von Falkenstein was dead. In his place, Caesar was born.

Rebuilding the east, expanding my legion, and accumulating power would be only the beginning. The chaos I had seen within the Empire could not be allowed to continue. In time, there would be no more weak nobles, no incompetent emperors. There would only be order, and that order would bear my name.

The night I decided to reveal my new name carried a solemn air. Summoning my veterans—those who had fought alongside me since the earliest battles—I gathered them in the central courtyard of the fortress. The cold wind howled, and torchlight illuminated their war-hardened faces. They knew this was no ordinary meeting.

I stepped into the circle, carrying the sword that symbolized my command. I looked into the eyes of each man, men who had watched their comrades die, who had endured the unendurable to hold this fortress. These were not just soldiers; they were the foundation upon which I would build my legion, keeping the noble lords at bay.

"Today, we leave behind what we were," I began, my voice firm, resonating in the expectant silence. "We have defended this fortress, defeated an enemy that outnumbered us, and survived when all believed we were doomed. But this is not enough. The Empire for which we have fought… did nothing. It is rotten, weak, and has left us to stand alone. If we want a future, we must forge it with our own hands."

I paused, letting my words sink in. Some nodded slowly, others kept their gazes locked on me, waiting for what would come next.

"I am no longer Konrad von Falkenstein," I declared. "That name belongs to a man who served a broken system, to a family that sought to bind me in chains. Today, I am reborn, just as you are. From this moment, I am Caesar."

The silence was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the wind. My veterans exchanged glances, processing what they had just heard. They had heard the word before, one I had deliberately taught them during private conversations. They knew its meaning, though its weight still felt strange to them.

One of them, a centurion named Johann, stepped forward. His face, worn by years of battle, showed something more—respect. He inclined his head slightly, as he had done many times before, but this time, it was not mere formality.

"Ave," he said, using the word I had taught them. A salute of recognition, striking his chest with his fist.

The other veterans followed. "Ave, Caesar," they said, their voices joining together. "Ave Caesar. Ave Caesar."

The sound grew, echoing across the courtyard, an anthem that enveloped us. The legionary slaves, the largest group within the legion and strangers to the traditions of the Empire or the north from where most of my veterans hailed, watched from the shadows. These were men I had pulled from darkness, slaves trained and forged into soldiers, who knew they did not fight for an Empire but for me.

As the chant of the veterans subsided, one of the legionary slaves, a young man who stood out among his peers, stepped forward. His voice, rough but filled with conviction, broke the silence.

"True to Caesar," he said, his thick accent making the words heavier. His declaration, though simple, carried a weight no title or rank could equal.

The other slaves followed. "True to Caesar," they echoed, their voices swelling to a unified roar. "True to Caesar!"

The contrast between the veterans' chant and the slaves' cry was a perfect manifestation of what I had built. The veterans represented discipline, the past, and tradition. The legionary slaves embodied the future, loyalty forged not by blood or birth but by a shared cause they deeply understood. Both groups, united under my command, rose as the foundation of something far greater.

In that moment, as their voices filled the fortress, I knew there was no turning back. The old order was dead, and what came next would be forged by our hands alone.

Ave Caesar. True to Caesar.

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honest reviews would be greatly appreciated

Any opinion and comments are welcome