The line held. Barely. Like a stone bridge battered by a raging river. Each new assault made the shields groan, knees bend, and wounds bleed deeper.
Sextus no longer felt pain. Only rhythm. Advance, stop, strike. The gladius was an extension of his arm. The blood, just another layer on his skin. There were no thoughts left—only reflexes.
And then, he saw him.
Among the charging mass of Germans, one figure stood out in the chaos. Taller than the rest, bare-chested and marked with scars, his thick hair tied into rough braids, and his eyes locked like blades in Sextus's direction.
He wore no tattoos—none of the markings that honored seasoned warriors—but his gaze said more than any symbol. He didn't strike at random. Not with the frenzied rage of the horde. His movements were steady, calculated. There was purpose in his advance. And it was aimed at him.
Sextus blocked a blow, turned, and lost sight of the figure among the wave of bodies. But something stirred within him. A warning. A gut-deep certainty.
"Did you see him?" Titus asked, panting beside him.
"Who?"
"There was one… different. Like he was only coming for you."
Sextus didn't answer. Because he already knew.
He wasn't a god. He wasn't a phantom.
He was an enemy with a face.
And he was coming.