In the year 51 CE, half a month after the full-scale rebellion erupted in the province of Judea, this land had been ravaged by unrelenting violence.
The pastoral scenery that once adorned these fields had long since vanished. Homes lay in ruins, everything devoured by fire, and the blood of those who had desperately tried to flee stained the fields crimson. None remained alive—none even able to crawl. Even the livestock had been slaughtered.
This was not the bloodshed of the battlefield. This was the aftermath of one-sided butchery.
Villages burned. Farmlands trampled. Those who refused to participate in the violence—Romans and Greeks living locally—were the first to be impaled by spears, their bodies torn apart, their heads severed. The brutality continued without pause, followed by the crucifixion of any survivors—a punishment regarded as the ultimate humiliation—slowly torturing them to death.
Even those capable of wielding magecraft were not spared if they refused to join the "uprising." Their deaths were commonplace.
After all, in the Holy City of Jerusalem, there had never been a shortage of fanatical magi. And lone magi, no matter how gifted, were but powerless mortals. When ordinary men, driven by religious zeal, charged fearlessly under the leadership of extremist magi, they could topple beasts. And gathered into an army? They could even slay magi.
In the province of Judea, stability was but a distant memory. Massacres unfolded with grim regularity, painting this land in endless bloodshed.
Some Jews proclaimed that under the leadership of the great King of Israel, the true Messiah, a radiant future had already been secured.
At that moment, off the coast of Judea, a fleet of Roman "Corvus" warships cut through the waves, sailing against the current. The season's warm wind billowed the flags atop their masts.
A five-decked warship surged briefly into the air like a whale breaching the surface, then crashed back into the sea, sending up a towering crown of water.
Behind it, hundreds of ships followed in formation—this was the Roman Legion led by Novia, dispatched to pacify the Judean province.
Since the Third Punic War and the Third Macedonian War, after Rome seized full control of the Mediterranean, these Corvus warships—once critical to Rome's naval supremacy—had been rarely deployed, used occasionally to deal with pirates at best.
Onboard, tens of thousands of Roman soldiers watched the distant coastline with wary eyes. At the bow of the lead ship, arms folded, stood Novia upon the deck of the oared vessel. His white clothing seemed unchanged from before, but his expression was solemn, devoid of the approachable warmth he usually exuded.
"Preparations are complete. I'm en route to the battlefield. What do you think?"
Novia mused silently to himself, fingers idly tracing the form of the peculiar spear in his hand.
"You want the dragon to reveal its might, do you? Hmph, fine idea. If necessary, unleashing that power is acceptable. As you wish—but I'll warn you, it can only be used once."
"My deepest gratitude, O eternal, peerless Dragon of Albion. You are worthy of the radiance I've always admired—"
"Shut up! Did I say you could talk?!"
For reasons beyond understanding, every time this fragile human sincerely praised it, the Dragon of Albion experienced an inexplicable discomfort deep within.
Had it still possessed its draconic form, it would have devoured this weak human long ago. To be affected by such a lesser being—it was intolerable.
"...As you command."
Novia gazed sincerely at the "spear" as he replied, an almost imperceptible sorrow flickering across his features.
"Hmph, as long as you understand…" Though displeased, the dragon spoke as usual. "Tch, and now another human comes pestering you again. You're such a busy little thing, aren't you? That human with the nauseating presence keeps showing up. Disgusting… repulsive… But then, a weakling like you… only someone that revolting would be interested in you."
With those parting words, the dragon fell silent once more. According to its logic: "A puny human like you speaking to the greatest of dragons? Consider yourself fortunate that I even permit such communication." In truth, it only spoke to Novia when they were alone.
Of course, Novia knew precisely who the dragon referred to—likely his so-called "apprentice," Nero. During preparations, the girl had eagerly volunteered to participate, and Novia saw no reason to refuse.
After all, for someone like "Nero," suppressing religious uprisings was entirely natural. She, after all, was one who had the potential to degenerate into a Beast-class Draco…
Novia believed it better to allow her true nature some measure of expression. If suppressed too long, it would only complicate control.
"Teacher."
"What is it? Is something wrong, Nero?"
Facing the golden-haired girl before him, Novia smiled with gentle affection, a persona he wielded with ease.
"Teacher, we're about to reach the coast of Judea. As you predicted, the shoreline is swarming with Jews—far more than our numbers."
Suppressing her usual impulse to leap into her teacher's embrace, Nero maintained a serious, businesslike tone.
"And the number of magical weapons they've deployed… impossible to estimate."
In Novia's eyes, if this so-called King of Israel had any sense, he'd never allow disciplined Roman legions to land directly in Judea. Against Rome's organized military might, even fanatical, fearless Jews were no match.
Thus, if Judea's defenders chose to gamble everything on blocking a Roman landing, constructing coastal defenses would put them in an unassailable position.
Naturally, Novia expected this. But he also knew: if they didn't crush the rebels decisively and swiftly, conquering the province city by city would be a nightmare. The Jews would launch suicidal raids on supply lines. With full-scale rebellion underway, they'd retreat into fortresses, dragging Roman forces into brutal sieges.
They'd scatter into villages and interconnected cave networks, conducting ambushes and guerrilla warfare, their defenses well-supplied and fortified.
A logistical nightmare—and all of it compounded by the ancient, nigh-mythical Holy City of Jerusalem itself.
Novia could already imagine the layers of magical defenses still hidden there, relics from the age when magi kings walked those streets.
Nor did he expect them to surrender. In recorded history, when Rome besieged Jerusalem, all 600,000 inhabitants entered a state of total war. After months of siege, they killed the Roman envoys sent to negotiate, stubbornly fought street by street. Some families, determined to resist, even consumed their own children to survive.
"Nero, pass the order. I want every mage to ensure my voice reaches every soldier."
"Yes, Teacher."
Novia ascended to the highest deck. Like the ebbing tide, soldiers parted before him in unison.
Nero's gaze lingered on the peculiar spear in Novia's hand—her eyes fixed, her expression darkening.
"So close… I want to destroy that thing so badly… Ugh, what am I thinking? I should focus on carrying out Teacher's orders."
In an instant, the blonde girl's voice brightened, turning cheerful and innocent as though not a single shadow darkened her heart.
Atop the warship's highest deck, once he confirmed that his voice and image could be seen and heard across the entire fleet, Novia began to speak.
"To all soldiers of the Empire: I am Novia, your commanding officer for this campaign. Today, on the eve of our landing in the rebellious province of Judea, I speak to you not out of ceremony, but out of necessity. There are things you all must hear."
Novia paused briefly, then spoke with solemnity:
"For the past fifteen days since the Judean rebellion began, every moment has been marked by inhumane slaughter against ordinary citizens of the Empire. Even now, innocent people are being torn apart by those savage beasts. The dead will not return. The lost cannot be reclaimed."
The young man's expression grew grave, like a warrior ready to march into the jaws of death.
"The only difference between that land and hell itself… is that the beasts committing these atrocities… bear human faces. But beyond that? It is hell in all but name."
"A century ago, we fought them. We defeated them. Over long years, the Empire granted them peace and a future filled with hope. We left them be—even when their so-called Savior, Jesus Christ, bore the sins of the world and departed from among them. Because they never showed ill intent toward the Empire, they lived in peace. We forgave the grudges of the past. We extended a hand of friendship, hoping to coexist as allies in the future."
Novia's face darkened with regret. His fist clenched, then fell like a hammer.
"And yet, they betrayed the Roman Empire with cowardly treachery! They butchered our compatriots—innocent souls whose cries still echo in unknown corners. What does this mean? I need not explain further! The Jews seek to destroy the future of the Roman Empire! To drag all of us into an abyss beyond imagining! Otherwise, they would never have gone this far!"
The silver-haired youth's voice thundered across the fleet:
"As you all know… with mercy in our hearts, let us crush them entirely. Let every crime, every infamy… fall upon me alone."
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
All the Roman soldiers aboard the warships let out a thunderous war cry, as though unleashing their might to the world.
Immediately after, Novia continued:
"My name is Novia, sent by God's will to purge the heretics who defile His name—the mad beasts that walk this land. Thus, let us bring this cursed hell a single, fleeting moment of salvation. Let all sins fall upon me alone—"
"Bar Kokhba, accursed rebel, your true name is Antichrist, the root of enmity against the Lord, Baal himself. By the name of the Lord, I declare once again: Jerusalem's sins are beyond redemption. The Jews beyond Jerusalem must be expelled. But before that, you shall cleanse your souls. Stand before me, acknowledge the Savior Christ Jesus as the true Messiah—only then, when the Lord's mercy shines upon you again, will you be permitted to leave this land."
As Novia spoke, the spear in his raised right hand gathered blue-black light, its tip aimed directly at the distant coastline.
The Dragon of Albion—unleashing its full magical power.
"Lord, have mercy upon these lost souls."
The Ether in the air condensed, and with it came the dragon's roar, surging in a straight line. But this was no miracle of divine salvation parting the sea.
No.
This was the storm of annihilation—the declaration of war itself.
Suddenly, a pillar of light as though meant to scorch both heaven and earth descended from the sky. The Jews stationed along the Judean coastline screamed in terror as a vortex of fear swept across the shore, like a tsunami creeping silently at first, only to erupt into a towering wave that engulfed all in its path.
The rebel forces stood powerless, unable to make use of their magical defenses to repel the Roman landing. Let alone resist the Roman warships, each equipped at the bow with giant iron-nailed boarding bridges, with ballistae mounted on all four corners of the decks, and tall shielded fighting towers from which archers rained suppression upon them.
And then—within their field of vision, the man dressed in stark white, different from all others, descended like a warrior from the age of myth.
In mere seconds, hundreds fell before him. The man dashed through their formations like a blade cutting through cloth. To him, the very act of battle was domination incarnate.
The Jewish rebel army snapped from their panic and quickly reorganized. After all, their numbers reached three hundred thousand—four times that of the Roman forces. Their commander, Novia, personally engaging in the fight only made him their prime target.
"Kill him! That despicable follower of Christ!"
"Filthy wretch!"
"The Messiah has already descended upon this world! Our future is glorious!"
"They're few in number! Full assault—kill them all!"
Faced with the enemy ranks stretching endlessly to the horizon, Novia merely chuckled softly.
"The time has come to settle your sins."
The plain, quiet declaration carried the weight of inevitability.
Then began the slaughter—a massacre so terrible words struggled to capture its horror. Gripping the blue-black spear, Novia cut through the enemy with terrifying speed. To call him unstoppable was an understatement; his movements were the very embodiment of overwhelming force.
"Mark my words… I'll lend you a little more pressure," came the voice of the Dragon of Albion in his mind.
And in the next instant, as if the very sky itself pressed down upon them, the enemy within several kilometers collapsed to their knees, foreheads pressed to the blood-soaked earth.
As though worshipping the silver-haired youth, the Jewish rebel army toppled in waves.
Novia wrenched his blood-soaked spear free, ignoring the stunned expressions of those still conscious. With a powerful, sweeping motion, he swung the spear horizontally.
The nearest enemy's head separated cleanly from his shoulders, flying into the sea of terrified Jews.
"All units—leave no one alive."
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