I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 100: The Approach

The final ascent into the high peaks of the Armenian range was a journey into a different world. The air grew thin and sharp, tasting of ice and stone. The rugged landscape of Cappadocia gave way to a primeval wilderness of jagged, snow-dusted peaks and deep, shadowed valleys where the wind howled a constant, mournful dirge. Here, on the roof of the world, Alex and his small, desperate company followed the terrified goatherd, their last, best source of intelligence.

After two days of grueling climbing, the old man led them to a high, windswept ridge that overlooked a vast, bowl-shaped valley, a feature so perfectly circular it seemed less a work of nature and more a scar left by a fallen god. He pointed a trembling finger downwards. "There," he whispered, his voice full of superstitious awe. "The place where the old stones hum. The place where the new temple is being built."

They crept to the edge of the ridge, taking cover behind a line of weathered, wind-scoured rocks. What they saw below stole the breath from their lungs and replaced it with a cold, hard knot of dread.

The goatherd's description had not done it justice. This was no mere temple. The entire valley floor had been transformed into a colossal, alien machine. In the center of the valley, a deep, wide pit had been excavated, and from its depths pulsed a soft, hypnotic blue light that painted the undersides of the clouds in an eerie twilight. Even from this distance, Alex could feel it more than see it—a low, subsonic hum that vibrated in the bones, a thrum of immense, dormant power. It was the chrono-crystal, but a specimen so colossal it dwarfed the one from Elara's ship. It was the size of a legionary's siege tower, a mountain's heart laid bare.

Arranged in a perfect, massive circle around this central pit stood the pillars of black glass the goatherd had described. There were thirty-six of them, each one as tall as a Roman column, humming with a low, resonant energy of their own. Thick, cable-like conduits, fashioned from the same dark, shimmering material as the Unfallen's armor, snaked across the ground, connecting each pillar to the central pit. It was a circuit board the size of a city district.

And all around it was the army of The Silent King. Thousands of them. The outer perimeter was a sprawling, chaotic encampment of human cultists—local tribesmen, Parthian deserters, and wild-eyed zealots from a dozen forgotten kingdoms, their bodies painted with the symbol of the dark star. They knelt and chanted in a dozen different tongues, their prayers a discordant, rising wave of sound directed at the glowing pit.

But the inner circle, the area around the pillars themselves, was the domain of the Unfallen. Hundreds of them moved with their silent, terrifying efficiency. They were not standing guard; they were working. They moved between the pillars, making minute adjustments, running new conduits, their movements perfectly synchronized, a colony of ants tending to their queen. They were not just building a temple. They were assembling an engine.

Alex felt Lyra's voice in his ear, her tone stripped of all its usual calm. It was the sound of pure, high-alert data analysis. Energy readings are increasing exponentially. This exceeds all known models for chrono-crystal energy output. The pillars are acting as resonant focusing lenses, drawing ambient temporal energy from the environment and channeling it into the central crystal. They are building a resonant cascade amplifier.

"An amplifier for what, Lyra?" Alex breathed, his knuckles white where he gripped the cold rock.

The purpose is unknown, she replied, her voice tight with processing strain. The theoretical applications are staggering. At full power, a focused discharge could potentially warp space-time on a localized level, trigger seismic events, or... broadcast a psycho-active signal across continental distances. Based on the current rate of energy amplification, they will reach maximum resonance in less than twelve hours. We are out of time.

The situation was starkly, horrifyingly clear. The valley below was a fortress. The open ground offered no cover. A direct assault against a foe of that number, on their chosen ground, was not just suicide; it was utter madness. The greatest army in the world would be swallowed whole by that valley.

Alex looked at his own meager forces: his dozen remaining super-soldiers, Maximus's handful of hardened scouts, and the few hundred Armenian warriors Tiridates could muster. They were a drop of water against a tidal wave.

But as he looked at the impossible scene below, despair gave way to a cold, razor-sharp focus. His mind, honed by weeks of crisis and powered by Lyra's analytical engine, began to see not an unbeatable army, but a flawed machine.

"We don't attack the army," he said, his voice a low, grim whisper to Maximus, who knelt beside him. "We attack the machine. The cultists are irrelevant. The Unfallen are guards. The true enemy is the circuit. The pillars. That is where we must strike."

He began to sketch in the dirt, his finger tracing a desperate, audacious plan. It would be a two-pronged attack, a classic Roman strategy of diversion and a decisive strike, but executed with a speed and ferocity they had never before attempted.

"Prong One: The Diversion," he explained, his voice gaining strength and conviction. "Maximus, you will take our Armenian allies and every scout you have. Under the cover of the coming darkness, you will circle around the entire valley to the north, to their rear. The bulk of their human forces are encamped there, their backs to the mountain. An hour before dawn, you will launch a surprise attack. A full-throated, berserker charge."

Prince Tiridates, who had crept forward to listen, looked aghast. "My lord Decius, my men are brave, but to charge an army of that size is to condemn them all to death!"

"Yes," Alex said, his gaze hard as he looked at the young prince. "It is. Their goal is not to win. Their goal is to create chaos. To scream, to fight, to die with such Roman and Armenian fury that they draw the full attention of every warrior in that camp. They are not an army of conquest. They are an army of sacrifice. They are the price we must pay to buy ourselves a single hour."

Maximus listened, his face a mask of stone. He understood the brutal logic. It was a suicide mission, a glorious, hopeless charge meant to save the world. He simply nodded his acceptance.

"Prong Two: The Assault," Alex continued, his finger now tracing a direct, suicidal path from their current position to the circle of pillars. "While the main army is engaged with Maximus's diversion, their attention will be to the north. That is when we will strike. I will take Cassius and the Fire Cohort. We will launch a direct, lightning-fast assault on the circle itself. Our only objective is to destroy those pillars. We are the hammer that will shatter their machine."

The plan was set. It was a desperate, razor's-edge gambit that relied on perfect timing, unimaginable bravery, and a great deal of luck.

As dusk began to settle, casting the valley in shades of purple and orange that mingled with the eerie blue glow from the pit, Alex stood with Maximus and Tiridates as they prepared their men. He watched his friend, the stoic Roman general, and the young Armenian prince he had crowned, preparing to lead their soldiers on a near-certain suicide mission for his sake. The weight of the command was a physical thing, threatening to crush him.

"May the gods watch over you, my friends," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he could not suppress.

Maximus clasped his forearm, a rare gesture of personal affection. "Victory favors the bold, Caesar," he said simply. He then turned and, with Prince Tiridates by his side, led their small army away into the growing darkness to begin their long, final march.

Alex watched them go until they were swallowed by the shadows. He was sending good men, perhaps the best men he had ever known, to their deaths. He turned to the silent, waiting figures of Cassius and the Fire Cohort. Their eyes glowed with a faint, hungry light in the gloom, the first effects of the combat dose they had already taken.

"Prepare yourselves," Alex commanded, his voice now stripped of all emotion, leaving only cold, hard resolve. "Tonight, we burn down a god's temple."