With the self-given orders completed, the group returned to the metal fortress.

As they trod past the deserted village, Cyrus felt a pang of guilt. These villagers had done nothing but were forced to face the consequences of his carelessness. The roman had seen these scenes before, having partaken in many. He had been unphased yet...

This one felt different. Is this new world changing him? Or perhaps the magical side-effects of multiverse transportation? Cyrus didn't know, but he felt the guilt all the same.

The shield born from the need to concentrate on the task was no longer present. The silence accused him. The soulless eyes of the dead glared at him, brimming with hatred and a desire for revenge. The broken walls and half-demolished houses, still filled with the accessories required for daily life haunted his sight.

Cyrus tried to console himself, doing whatever he could to mask the blood upon his hands.

He knew he had done a great wrong, acknowledging that stopping and facing the consequences of his actions was the right path. But the roman didn't, couldn't.

He tried to imagine them as simple enemies, their faces taking on the image of Gauls, Greeks and so many more. Some from paintings of his childhood, others he witnessed personally on the battlefield.

They did nothing. With little progress in easing the pain of slaughtering civilians through re-branding, Cyrus turned to another tried-and-true method, distractions. He pulled out the bloodied jars and wiped them down. Thoughts of food, nostalgia for the past and all other desires and memories were released from mental captivity. Many for the first time since he experienced them.

Cyrus didn't want to but wants meant nothing to him at that moment. He needed something, anything to cure this gut-wrenching sorrow, even temporarily.

They worked, to an extent, occupying his mind until he arrived at the fortress.

The squad of fifteen were greeted by cheers and applause as their fellow legionaries lined up on the battlements to give a hero's welcome. The celebration felt dirty and tainted like bathing in a filth-infested, scummy river. Cyrus could do nothing but smile and wave. It was a very much triumph but not one for his soul but for the invisible, incorporeal blood coating the palms of his hand.

With a heavy heart, the roman solemnly parted from the festivities, a crude feast of sorts with mead, wine and food aplenty.

With nothing but the howling winds for company and the occasional prod from a blade of grass, Cyrus trudged to the dungeon's entrance. There was nothing to do but stew upon his troubles. Sleeping wasn't an option. The dungeon system ensured it.

Unless...

The malicious, self-destroying plan was immediately shut down. The load was heavy and filled with guilt, sorrow and other unsavoury emotions but it was simply that, a load. Much like a heavy bag of rocks carried to his shoulder but merely mental. He could handle it. And with that final reassuring thought, the roman strolled and meandered in the dungeon's gloomy depths like the devil scheming about its next victim.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As he wandered about, without direction or reason, Cyrus's sixth sense triggered. The years of battle on earth in addition to the recent skirmishes had sharpened it, bringing his battle sense back to its prime. Alas, there was no skill for it.

The roman allowed his thoughts to wander and drift, dancing from topic to topic like a butterfly fleeting from flower to flower, sampling their sweet nectars.

His heart slowly settled or rather froze over. Civilians, soldiers, what difference is there. Life is a battle, whether it is fought in the shop or on a battlefield, it makes little difference to the adversary.

With the blood wiped from his hands with the towel of cold-icy logic, Cyrus began his next step in surviving till next year.

Power. Levels, skill improvements and dungeon upgrades to be exact.

The dungeon core's focus realigned with his original plan before it was derailed by guilt. The man began his work. Cyrus strolled towards the training ground, back straight, chin up and each stomp of his step filled with motive and will.

Progress was calling.

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In the capital city of the country in which Cyrus resided, Evesia, a battle of words raged on, hidden from the public's view behind massive, rune-lined fortifications.

"What do you mean? This is my right!" Nicholas's words were quiet, barely above a whisper yet the seething tone carried the vibrations through the air like a knife through butter.

The man sitting in front of him, separated by a wooden desk, sighed and massaged his temples. Two letters sat upon the wood, one with the Adventurer's Guild insignia. The other held the stamp of the crown.

A crown of gold and gems sat upon a velvet, red cushion on a pedestal in the corner, nestled between two vast bookshelves.

The man looked up at Nicholas, "Under normal circumstances, I would've been fine with this request. Your service to this kingdom has been astronomical, I would've even been happy to give you a piece of good, fertile land and an exemption from taxes but..."

He gestured to the wall behind him, the bare stone obscured by a massive map. Dots and shapes of various people and items spanned across the entire continent. Within the group of dots stood several bigger, more outlined and defined points. A skull, an octopus and a question mark.

"These aren't normal circumstances. And the bare truth is, I simply can't risk losing you. While there are a dozen or so able-bodied combatants, high-levelled individuals, we need all the manpower we can get."

Nicholas sighed and mimicked the king's previous actions, pressing his index and middle finger against his temples in a circular motion.

"Fine Malcolm! But I want my daughter to be completely protected and to remain in the castle. I want, no need, several of your high-level guards to keep an eye on her. Be warned, she has a high stealth skill."

The king smiled in relief. His posture relaxed. He flashed a warm smile at the guild master, "Thank you for your continued service. It won't be forgotten."

With the conversation ending and neither side willing to say much more, Nicholas's chair scrapped backwards. The muscular man rose from his seat, delivered a swift bow and walked to the exit, closing the door behind him.

Upon the door closing, Malcolm grabbed the two letters and swiftly threw them into the fire. He watched as the embers engulfed the white paper, dissolving them into cinders.

"We will need all the manpower we can get," he murmured, "For the greater good."

The king glanced at a gold-adorned sword hanging from the wall, "For the greater good."