Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The rain had long since soaked him to the bone, but Julius hardly noticed.

The world was reduced to movement, blood, and breath — and even that was fading into the dull hum of endurance.

His body was worn down, exhausted from constant fighting, his latest weapons bent, and still the Francians pressed forward, chanting their saint's name as if she would rise from the muck and mire to save them.

He spat mud from his mouth.

Enough.

Julius ripped another looted sword from its now dead owners hand and hurled it into the chest of a charging levy, dropping the man in a spray of crimson.

His hand went to the weapon slung across his back — the blade he had held in reserve for the moment he could make it count.

Heavenly Demon Rain.

The hilt was warm to the touch, as though it had been waiting for him.

The cool metal of the blade thirsting to quench itself in blood.

The moment the black steel cleared its scabbard, the air shifted.

The rain seemed to slow; the din of battle fell away, replaced by a low, thrumming pulse that sank into his bones.

The system window flared before his eyes:

[Power Level Boosted: 105]

[Heroic Ascension – Duration: 30:00]

He drew in a single breath.

Exhaled.

Then moved.

The first Francian in reach raised his shield, but Julius's cut split both wood and arm as if neither existed.

His follow-through struck the man behind him, shearing through helm and skull in one smooth arc.

The Heavenly Demon Rain sang in his hands, its edge biting without resistance.

A knight lunged for him — Julius caught the man's sword arm with his free hand and tore it from the socket.

Bone snapped, tendon ripped, and the knight's scream cut short as Julius hurled the severed limb, still gripping the sword, into the face of another opponent.

They faltered.

He didn't.

A backhand slash opened three men from collarbone to hip in a single sweep.

A thrust took a spearman through the chest, lifting him from the ground before Julius flung him into the men behind like a sack of grain.

The raw strength surging through him turned every motion into devastation.

A knight tried to close from his blind side.

Julius's left hand shot out, gripping the man's helm — and with a twist, tore the head free, helmet and all.

Blood fountained from the stump as he hurled the grisly missile into a knot of levies, bowling them over.

The Francian chants wavered for the first time, doubt fill all of their hearts, a belief that not even their battle saintess could contend with this demon facing off against them now.

Julius pressed into the breach, his blows so fast they blurred, the Heavenly Demon Rain leaving faint afterimages of silver in the rain.

Armor buckled.

Blades snapped.

Men screamed, stumbled, and died faster than they could comprehend what they faced.

A pair of men-at-arms tried to bar his way with overlapping shields.

Julius punched through one with his free hand, splintering it — and the arm behind it — before bisecting both men with a single horizontal sweep.

Sabellus shouted something behind him, but Julius barely heard it over the rush of blood in his ears, only paying attention to the battle before him and the ever-decreasing countdown of the system timer in the corner of his vision.

The edge of the blade glimmered even in the gray daylight, the rain hissing where it touched.

A mounted knight spurred forward, desperate to trample him.

Julius stepped aside at the last instant, hooked the man from the saddle with his free arm, and slammed him into the mud hard enough to leave a crater.

Before the man could gasp for air, Julius drove the blade through both breastplate and spine, pinning him to the earth.

More came.

They always came.

But now the tide had changed.

The fanatic chants were had become terror filled screams of men who knew they were about to die, behind them commanders still shouted orders trying to keep the army together and not splinter in a rout.

The steady waves of attackers were breaking apart into ragged knots, fighting less like zealots and more like men who realized they might die, no not might die, that were sure tehy were going to die.

Julius seized the opening.

He drove straight into the thickest cluster he could see, the Heavenly Demon Rain cleaving through shields like parchment.

His left hand struck as often as his sword — breaking ribs with punches, crushing windpipes, ripping helmets from heads.

One man shrieked as Julius tore him bodily from the melee and flung him into a burning tent.

Every kill drove him deeper, the mud sucking at his boots, the heat of his own exertion fighting the cold rain.

A surviving officer barked orders, trying to rally a counterattack.

Julius answered by sprinting straight for him, cutting down anyone in his way.

The officer's sword came up just in time to be sheared in half; Julius's follow-up drove the blade through his sternum and out the back, leaving him dangling for a moment before the body slid off the steel.

Sabellus and the praetorians pressed close behind, widening the breach, he'd created.

What had been a wall of Francian flesh was now a shattering dam, with Romanus steel flooding through.

But the Francians refused full retreat.

Not yet.

Even with half their number in the mud, they fought on, smaller clusters throwing themselves in front of the breach, buying seconds with their lives.

Julius could respect the courage — but it wouldn't save them.

He ripped a spear from a dead man's grip and hurled it like a bolt, skewering two more.

The Heavenly Demon Rain whirled, cutting the last of that knot down to bloodied fragments.

His breath steamed in the cold air.

Only now did he glance at the edges of the fight.

The cavalry had punched through the rear, and the rest of the legion was collapsing the Francian flanks.

What had been endless pressure in the morning was now a thin, desperate resistance.

Julius could feel the weapon's power singing in his veins, urging him to spend every second of the remaining thirty minutes in slaughter.

He obliged.

A levy swung wild — Julius caught his wrist, twisted until the bones shattered, then smashed the man's head into the rim of his own shield.

Another tried to run; Julius threw his sword through the man's back without looking, catching it again as the body fell.

Bodies carpeted the mud.

Helmets floated in bloody puddles.

Horses screamed.

The Francians were no longer a wall.

They were pieces — scattered, leaderless, and dying.

Still Julius pushed forward, his blade and bare hands reaping with equal cruelty.

Every step was another corpse.

Every swing was another gap.

And yet… enough remained that the killing wouldn't end today.

Not here.

Not now.

When the thirty minutes ran out, he'd still be standing in the heart of their camp — and he'd finish what he started tomorrow.

For now, there was only the Heavenly Demon Rain, the weight of steel in his hand, and the last stubborn pockets of Francian resistance that still thought they could hold him.

He'd make them choke on that hope.