The war games had ended in triumph, but triumph in Sparta was as dangerous as defeat. Leonidas knew it when he saw the overseer's jaw tighten, his eyes fixed not on the soldiers cheering his name, but on the citizens whispering it. The wall was growing taller—and the council hated long shadows.
That night, while the Cohorts feasted, the council gathered in the bronze hall. Torches burned low, smoke curling above their heads like a warning. The overseer struck his staff against the tiles. "Enough. We send him broken men and he returns with gods. We set trials to humble him and he makes them his altar. If we let this continue, Sparta will have no council—only Leonidas."
One elder leaned forward, voice sharp with bitterness. "So we kill him."
Damaris's staff tapped the floor once, quiet but firm. "No. Slay him now, and the city rises in anger. The people trust him more than us. His men would march on this hall before the blood cooled."
The overseer sneered. "Then we do not kill him with our hands. There are others who would relish the chance."
Eyes shifted around the hall, and at last one of the elders spoke the name none dared: "Persia."
The Immortals—an army older than memory, reforged under a transmigrated zealot whose banner now burned over the East. Their leader, Darius, ruled not with loyalty but with fear, his Cohorts bound by chains of terror, their eyes hollow but their spears unwavering. He was Leonidas's opposite—a tyrant made strong by cruelty.
"If we whisper in his ear that a Spartan grows too bold," the overseer said, "he will cut our problem down for us."
"Do you think him fool enough to fight our battles?" Damaris asked.
"No," the overseer answered, his smile thin as a blade. "But he will fight his. And Leonidas will be caught in the storm."
---
Far away in the East, under banners stitched in black and gold, Darius sat upon a dais of stone, listening to the words of a cloaked messenger. His face, beautiful in its cruelty, did not shift. His fingers toyed idly with the chain around his neck—a chain linked to another, and another, trailing into the shadows where bound soldiers knelt.
"A Spartan rises," the messenger whispered. "He humiliated his council. He grows stronger with each conquest. He threatens the balance."
Darius smiled at last, his teeth gleaming. "Sparta? Small. Hard, but small. If he thinks his wall can hold against the tide, let us test it. Send word. The East marches west."
The messenger bowed.
The chains rattled.
---
Back in Taygeton, Leonidas walked among the forges. His men trained under the stars, the ring of steel blending with the thrum of bellows. The overlay pulsed faintly, as though sensing what brewed beyond his sight: [Warning: Council Influence Detected – Foreign Faction Engagement Possible.]
He frowned, hand tightening on his spear. Another battle was coming—not against monsters, not against a test from the System, but against men, living and ruthless, guided by a rival who had started where Leonidas had not: already a ruler, already a tyrant.
For the first time since his arrival in this world, Leonidas felt the stir of something colder than fear, sharper than pride. He would not just be defending his wall. He would be defending it against the weight of an empire.
And though he did not yet know the name, the shadow of Darius had already begun to fall across his path.