Roman names consist of a given name, a family name, and a clan title.
But above all that, there is a title, not self-given but granted by the collective recognition of others—a name of respect and honor!
Like a title, it holds a unique prestige.
Just as in the tales of benevolent and supreme demon lords—
"Benevolent and Supreme" would be the title.
It's usually added as an adornment after the name.
For example, the founding emperor of Shu Han, Liu Bei, known as Emperor Zhaolie of Han, would, in Roman terms, be called: Bei, Prince of the Han Clan, Liu, Emperor Zhaolie of Han.
At this point, Night was still a commoner, but after this life-and-death gamble across 25 kilometers, those who willingly followed him began calling him "Magnus."
This was the highest honor in their hearts..
In Night's memories, in history, during this era, only Pompey, the god of war among the Roman triumvirate, held this cognomen after suppressing the Sertorian movement and helping Crassus quell the Spartacus uprising.
But who was Pompey?
Pompey the Great!!
If it weren't for Caesar's unexpected rise, almost all of Rome's military and political power would have ended up in his hands.
He was the one who turned Rome's decline into prosperity, earning the name of Rome's God of War.
The previous Roman God of War was 'Scipio Africanus', the man who destroyed the former Mediterranean power—Carthage.
"Magnus——!!!!!!!"
As the warm and passionate cheers echoed around him, Night looked at those familiar faces in a daze.
'To be called by the name of greatness in my honor?'
Seeing the sincere smiles on their faces, he couldn't help but smile too.
But after surveying the area and counting the remaining survivors, the smile on Night's face gradually disappeared.
"Nine..."
"What?" The people, still filled with excitement, looked at Night, feeling a bit confused.
"There were 43 of us when we set out; now only nine remain..." As Night's words fell, a heavy silence enveloped everyone.
Their mood grew unbearably heavy and sorrowful.
Half of them had fallen forever on the land beyond the Ebro River.
Another quarter of them now rested eternally in the waters of the river.
They didn't even die on the battlefield, and retrieving their remains would likely be impossible.
"Cillian, Little Roberts, Big Roberts, Lucius, Harkan… (and more)"
Suddenly, Night began reciting name after name.
Some noticed that he was naming those who had already fallen in battle.
Some of the names were of warriors who died during the initial assault, names only shared during that first night when they gathered.
Many of them hadn't even fully remembered each other's names.
No one expected Night to recall every single one, and everyone's hearts were deeply moved and saddened.
It felt as if molten iron had been poured into their veins, as if those names had come alive again.
For a moment, they felt as if the spirits of the fallen had transformed into a powerful belief still flowing within them.
Night spoke, "Compared to the living, those fallen souls are the true Magnus.
Finally—I want you to remember these names and one more thing…
Never lose your nobility."
His calm yet deeply resonant words became the most sacred commandment in their hearts.
Nobility?
Recalling the moments of defiance when they defended their dignity, as if feeling truly alive for the first time, everyone gained a deeper understanding, and their gazes turned determined.
"We understand."
"Your will!"
"No, it's our shared will!"
After a brief rest, the remaining nine survivors continued on, determined to walk back to Rome.
However, soon this group faced new challenges.
Not from human conflict, nor from natural disasters, but from the loss of strength due to hunger and the weakening of their bodies from infected wounds.
Initially, three of them didn't make it past the first day and lost their lives in the middle of the night.
As they trembled in fear, awaiting death to claim their souls, some wept uncontrollably.
The final words of one, before passing, were:
'I didn't fear dying on that battlefield; at least that way, I'd still be a hero.
We crossed the hardest 25 kilometers of the Ebro River, but I'm dying uselessly on the road back.'
When a person starts with nothing and leaves the world empty-handed, the pain might not be as intense.
But to gain glory and joy, only to face death before even savoring the cheers of countless Roman citizens or the title of a hero—this kind of suffering, exacerbated by disease and hunger, torments the soul even more.
Just moments ago, laughter and joy lit up every face, reflecting the happiness of surviving and the anticipation of a brighter future.
But now—
As Night pondered these thoughts, the soldiers wept and uttered words that he would never forget.
Their greatest concern was leaving their Magnus behind to continue alone.
On that dark night when 39 men swore an oath, they had decided to survive and return to Rome with Night, to become the sword in his hand that could change their ailing homeland.
But now—
Exhausted and nearing their limits, they felt powerless to contribute any further to Night's mission.
It was as if they all knew their time was short, so they desperately wanted to reach the nearest town or village to find food, fresh water, and medicine.
But—
Dragging bodies already pushed to the brink, their progress was agonizingly slow.
And without medical skills, Night could only watch as more lives slipped away.
One by one, the remaining few either starved, died of thirst, or succumbed to infections, collapsing on Roman soil.
They died with a deep-seated regret—
That they couldn't live to see Rome's liberation, when countless civilians and soldiers would cheer down flower-covered streets.
They had once believed they were numb to this broken world, resigned to its bleakness with no hope for the future.
But Night had given them a shared dream,
Perhaps his intention was merely to stir their fighting spirit, to reignite the will to survive and fight their way out.
But they truly believed that Night was the one who could change everything.
A hero's presence inspires longing, admiration, and pursuit because their strength is great enough to turn the impossible into reality.
A miracle that makes the flower of ideals bloom may be hidden within that limitless potential!
When they finally glimpsed the town in the distance…
Only Night, Gracchus, and Carl remained alive.
But at the sight of the town, not one of them felt joy.
Carl's cracked lips trembled…
"If only we'd arrived ten minutes earlier…" he murmured.
Just moments before, a brother had died on his back due to an infected, maggot-ridden wound that became too painful to bear.
In his final moments, the man called out the names of his comrades, cried for water, and begged for relief.
Yet a life much younger than his own was snuffed out first.
The difference in time was just ten minutes—if they had reached the town ten minutes earlier with the injured man, he might have survived.
This proud, defiant veteran suddenly knelt, tears of anguish streaming from his eyes.
Gracchus felt a burning pain in his chest as well, his mouth opening in a trembling attempt to speak.
If not for their determination to bring him back to Rome, these men would not have pushed through their severe injuries, swimming 25 kilometers across a vast river.
He owed every one of them his life.
And each one of them, even in their dying breaths, never uttered a word of complaint against him.
Instead, they left behind final requests.
They charged the survivors with protecting Gracchus.
He was the hope for countless Roman soldiers to be reborn and see justice.
They believed in him so deeply, trusted him so completely—
If there are gods in this world…
Tiberius silently prayed that before he burned out completely, he could trade his life to bring eternal peace and rest to those warriors.
May their suffering be soothed and may they find justice in the afterlife.
Night,
"Let's go…
To do what we must."
Surviving doesn't mean the struggle is over.
Some tasks are even more burdensome…
Because the dead can no longer carry them out.
"Cough… cough…" However, Carl suddenly coughed weakly.
He suddenly felt a wave of dizziness, and in the next moment, his body collapsed to the ground.
"Karl!!" Gracchus shouted in alarm.
Luckily, Night was quick enough to catch Carl before his head could hit the sharp stones on the ground.
"I... I'm fine. Let's keep going—!"
Tiberius Gracchus, filled with grief, pleaded, "Are you really okay? Please, don't die, Carl. Of all people…"
If there was anyone who fought the hardest to protect him on this journey besides Night, it was undoubtedly this old man.
Carl had risked his life countless times to ensure Gracchus could survive.
The fear Gracchus once felt towards Karl had long been replaced with deep guilt and gratitude.
During their swim across the Ebro River, Carl had been second only to Night in carrying Gracchus forward.
Given his age and the immense energy he expended, Karl was the most likely to die first.
But perhaps the thought of his son and the desire to restore his family's honor kept this man alive against all odds.
His body should have burned out long ago.
Night clenched his teeth, refusing to look down at Karl's face.
He couldn't bear it—
He knew that Karl's will to survive was as strong as his own, if not stronger.
But while Night had gained a near-superhuman endurance thanks to Apollo's blessing, Karl did not have such advantages.
If it were possible, Night would have shared that strength with everyone, even if it meant giving them the smallest chance to keep fighting.
However ...
....