Instead, they were being integrated. And Klaus, like many of them, especially those who had been saved by Spartanum medics and doctors and the high priestess herself wasn't against the idea.
His old commanders had abandoned them. His former nation had collapsed in less than three days. The Grand Duke had sold them out, surrendered without a fight, while these men, these legionnaires, had bled for their Imperator.
It was hard to feel loyalty toward a country that had never given a damn about them. The truck lurched to a stop.
"OUT! MOVE IT!"
The tailgate dropped, and the former Teutonica troops jumped out, boots hitting the packed dirt road. The moment they stepped down, they froze.
What the hell…?
Before them stretched a living nightmare. Hundreds of men ran in formation under the cold morning sun, their bodies glistening with sweat, muscles taut, faces set in unbreakable focus.
Another group was dragging logs across the field, their arms and shoulders trembling from exertion.
To their right, dozens of soldiers were doing burpees in the mud, their uniforms soaked through, faces twisted in exhaustion.
And further ahead, groups of legionnaires were locked in brutal hand to hand combat, some bloodied, some bruised, but none stopping.
The air reeked of sweat, blood, and exertion. Klaus heard someone gulp.
"This… what the hell Is this?"
One of his fellow Teutonica soldiers muttered under his breath. Klaus couldn't disagree. This was something else. Something brutal, something relentless.
"FORM UP, YOU MISERABLE SONS OF W*ORES!"
A voice like rolling thunder crashed into them. The former Teutonica troops snapped their heads toward the source.
A mountain of a man was storming toward them, his black beret with crimson Iron Insignia reflecting the morning light. His field uniform was stained with sweat and dirt, his combat boots caked in mud.
His shoulder bore the white numerals III, marking him as a legioneer of the First Infantry Legion, First Cohort, First Century. And on his other shoulder… four Vs.
A Staff Centurion. His recently scarred face twisted in disgust as he scanned them, his eyes like daggers, sharpened by war.
"Did I stutter? I SAID FORM UP!"
Klaus snapped to attention immediately, his still recovering body moving on instinct. The others scrambled, bumping into each other, hurrying to line up.
But they weren't fast enough.
"DOWN!"
The Staff Centurion threw himself to the ground, chest to the dirt. Klaus hesitated for half a second.
"DOWN, YOU F*CKING DOGS! NOW!"
Klaus dropped. So did everyone else.
"PUSH UPS! COUNT THEM OUT!"
The Staff Centurion pounded them into the dirt.
One. Two. Three. The burn came instantly. Klaus gritted his teeth. He could hear the others groaning, some already struggling, their arms shaking.
But no one dared stop. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. His arms felt like they were on fire.
"THOSE SOUNDS YOU'RE MAKING! ARE YOU DOGS OR MEN?!"
The Centurion bellowed, voice dripping with contempt.
"GET UP!"
They scrambled to their feet. Klaus' arms felt like lead, his breath ragged. But they were in formation this time.
The Centurion stared at them, expression unreadable. Then, he nodded.
"Better. Forward march!"
They obeyed, their boots striking the ground in unison, following the Staff Centurion toward the barracks.
The barracks were simple, spartan, but far better than the conditions Klaus had expected. Bunk beds. Steel lockers. Fresh sets of uniforms, that Included a service, field and combat ones.
They were grouped into teams of ten, each room housing a full contubernium. As Klaus dropped his duffel onto the bed, he noticed something strange.
There was no resentment from the Spartanum legioneers who had fought against them just days ago.
No hostility. No threats. They were being treated like recruits. Like legionnaires. For a moment, Klaus just stood there, staring at the uniform folded neatly at the foot of his bed.
A black field uniform. He traced his fingers along the fabric. He had never wanted to fight for the Grand Duke. The old regime had failed them.
But now? Now, he was a warrior of the Imperium. And for the first time in his life… He didn't feel like a pawn.
...
March 13 Nova Roma.
The mirror was fogged from the heat of the shower, but Lucilia could still make out her reflection. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders as she slowly ran a towel through it, trying to dry it.
Then… she froze.
At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. But no. As she leaned closer, her breath hitching, she saw it clearly. Strands of green. Thin at first, barely noticeable, but undeniably there. Her golden hair was changing.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the strands, rubbing them between her fingers as if they would disappear. That wasn't the only thing. Her eyes.
She leaned even closer, staring into her own gaze. Her once clear emerald green irises now had darker spots, shadows bleeding into the color like ink in water. It wasn't just her appearance.
Her appetite had nearly doubled in the last few days, her body craving more food than ever before. The aches in her bones, the heat in her veins, the occasional flashes of… something.
Memories? Dreams? She didn't know. She let out a long sigh, tossing the towel onto the sink. But none of that was what truly bothered her.
No. What truly annoyed her, what irritated her down to her very core, was… Him. The Imperator. That insufferable, infuriating, frustrating bastard.
He had f*cked her like an animal In heat, gave her the serum that was supposed to help her remember, and then acted like she didn't exist.
Not even a glance. Not even an acknowledgment. It stung. It shouldn't, but it did.
She wasn't an idiot. She knew what kind of man he was. He wasn't the type to fall in love or show affection like a normal man, his statin simply didnt allow It.
But still… Why did it feel so familiar?
Her fingers dug into the counter as she stared at herself in the mirror, frustration twisting her features.
This situation… this exact feeling… She had felt this before. But when? Where? Why couldn't she remember?! A sharp knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.
"Mother! Are you still in there?"
Lucilia blinked. She hadn't even realized how long she had been staring at her reflection.
Quickly, she wrapped a towel around her proud chest, grabbed another to wrap around her wet hair, and stepped out of the bathroom.
Flavia was standing by the mirror, adjusting the collar of her pristine Imperial Academy uniform. She looked radiant.
Her once tattered, cheap clothes were gone, replaced by finely tailored Imperial garments. Her shoes polished, her golden curls neatly tied into twin braids.
She looked like she belonged here. Lucilia swallowed, her irritation fading slightly. The girl was smiling. She was happy.
The same girl who once went to bed hungry, who shivered in the cold, who had no future, no hope. Now? She was thriving.
Lucilia sighed again. Maybe… maybe she had made the right choice after all. A shadow loomed near the door.
The two fully geared for war Cerberus Military Police soldiers assigned to guard them stood at attention, their black, red and white camo combat uniforms ironed out and washed to perfection.
Once, they had been Spartanums Praetorians. Now? Now they were overglorified cerberus bodyguards for the Important people.
"Everything ready?"
Lucilia asked, her voice softer now. One of the soldiers nodded.
"Her transport is waiting, ma'am. We will escort her to the academy as per orders."
Flavia beamed, grabbing her backpack.
"Okay! Mother, I'll see you later!"
Lucilia watched as her daughter ran out, full of energy, full of life.
Lucilia let out a another sigh, letting the tension leave her shoulders as she reached for the towel wrapped around her body.
The soft fabric slid down, pooling at her feet. The steam from the shower still lingered in the air, wrapping her in a warm embrace as she reached for her undergarments.
First, a simple pair of black lace underwear, a luxury she still wasn't used to despite weeks of wearing them.
She tugged them up, adjusting the waistband as she grabbed her matching bra, hooking it into place. Then, she reached for her service uniform.
The familiar dominant black military style jacket and a trench coat. A crimson long sleeved T-shirt, white undershirt, tight fitting but breathable. Pants, neatly pressed, tucked into polished officer boots.
It was muscle memory at this point. A routine. A new life she had adapted to. Until she paused. Her fingers had just brushed over her thigh when she felt it.
A scar. Lucilia froze. A thin, barely noticeable mark, just beginning to form on her inner thigh. It hadn't been there before.
She ran her fingertips over it slowly. Why does this feel… important? A flash. A memory? A whisper of something long forgotten.
Her heart picked up its pace. Then, just as quickly as the feeling came, she shook her head, brushing it off. No time for that.