Fallout:Blood and the Bull

"Hold the line! Don't retreat!" Alaric roared, placing himself at the front, his voice firm and commanding despite the monster before us.

The cyclops let out a guttural growl and, with brutal strength, raised its club high above its head. Before we could react, it brought the weapon crashing down onto the ground in front of us. The stone shattered with a deafening sound, sending shards flying in all directions.

"Watch out!" I screamed, diving to the side just in time to avoid a fragment of rock that grazed past my head.

Alaric, moving with surprising speed, dodged to the right, raising his bronze shield.

"Surround it! Attack the legs! It's too big—it won't move if we cripple it!" he shouted.

The men began to move, though their faces were filled with terror. The militia split up, attempting to flank the cyclops from both sides, while the peasants, armed with broken spears and makeshift shields, hesitated and trembled at the back.

I ran to the side, my iron sword in hand, looking for an opportunity to strike. The cyclops turned its massive head, its single eye tracking us like a lighthouse in a storm.

"Here, beast!" Alaric shouted, throwing a stone to catch its attention.

The cyclops growled and charged toward him, the ground shaking with each step. Alaric raised his bronze shield, blocking a blow from the club that sent him stumbling backward, though he managed to remain on his feet.

"Now! Attack its legs!" Alaric shouted.

A group of militiamen seized the moment, rushing at the monster's legs. Their bronze spears pierced its left calf, sinking into the thick hide. The cyclops roared in pain and spun around in fury, its massive club swatting one of the men and sending him flying like a ragdoll.

I saw my chance. With the cyclops distracted, I ran toward its exposed side, my iron sword ready. Its right leg was unguarded, and without thinking, I screamed and struck with all my strength. The iron blade bit deep into its flesh, cutting through the tough skin. The cyclops let out a thunderous roar, so loud I almost dropped the sword.

"Konrad, get back!" Alaric yelled. I barely had time to retreat before the club slammed into the ground where I had been standing.

The creature staggered, its left leg giving way under the wounds. Now, with both legs crippled, the monster was slower but no less dangerous. Its growls turned into a mix of rage and agony as it swung wildly, striking the ground and walls, sending dust and debris flying everywhere.

"More spears! Drive them into its legs!" Günther shouted, his face streaked with blood but filled with determination.

The men regrouped, attacking with everything they had. The bronze spears, though fragile, began to hit their marks. I joined in, looking for openings and striking with my sword whenever the cyclops stumbled.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of fighting, the cyclops fell to its knees, its roar echoing like a storm. Alaric seized the moment, running forward and raising his bronze sword with both hands.

"For Falkenstein!" he shouted, driving the blade into the cyclops's eye with a precise, brutal strike.

The creature shuddered, letting out one last roar of agony before collapsing onto its side with a thunderous crash. The black stone cracked beneath its weight, and the dust began to settle slowly.

The silence that followed was absolute.

I stood there, my bloodied sword still in hand, panting as I stared at the massive body of the cyclops. We had won.

"By the gods… we did it," one of the militiamen murmured, his voice trembling.

Alaric, covered in dust and blood, turned to us and raised his sword high.

"This isn't over! We still need to find out what lies ahead and seal this damned rift!"

I had no time to feel relief. As the group began to regroup, the ground beneath our feet trembled once more. The purple crystals pulsed with a brighter, sickening light, and a new roar—distant but unmistakable—echoed from the depths.

The heart of the dungeon still awaited us.

The disappointment in his voice was palpable, and I couldn't blame him. That supposed treasure chamber, the heart of the dungeon, was not what we had imagined.

There were some weapons scattered on the floor, most of them rusted and broken. Among them, a pair of iron swords still gleamed faintly under the light. Swords that, despite their age, were more valuable than anything we possessed. I picked them up carefully, feeling the solid weight of the iron in my hands. One of them had a worn inscription on the blade, something I couldn't read at that moment.

Further on, propped against a wall, were three iron chainmail shirts, dirty and covered in dust, but intact. Iron was a luxury in our world—a relic of the old empire. Seeing it here, abandoned, filled me with a strange mix of awe and sadness. It was as if someone had left them here centuries ago, waiting for those fortunate—or unfortunate—enough to make it this far.

"It's not much," Alaric said, his voice calmer now, though the disappointment lingered. "But it's better than nothing."

I walked past the weapons and armor, to a corner where I found something I didn't expect: books. Old, bound in deteriorating leather, stacked carelessly on a stone shelf that looked ready to crumble. I knelt and picked one up carefully, brushing away the dust that covered it.

"Books?" one of the militiamen asked, laughing bitterly. "All this trouble just to find a bunch of old fairy tales?"

But I didn't laugh. My heart began to beat faster as I ran my fingers over the worn letters on the cover. They were ancient texts, written in a language I vaguely recognized thanks to fragments of knowledge granted by my blessing of the scholar.

"These books… they're important," I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else.

Alaric shot me a hard look from across the room, his expression unreadable.

"Why? What use are a few rotting books, Konrad?"

"Because they may contain lost knowledge," I replied, looking up. "Things we forgot after the fall of the empire. These texts could tell us how they worked iron, how they built their cities, how they fought and defeated these very creatures."

My brother regarded me silently for a moment, his face difficult to read. Finally, he grunted and nodded.

"If you're right, then take what you can. We didn't come all this way to leave empty-handed."

I stood up, still holding the books, and began packing them carefully into my satchel one by one. Though I couldn't read them all immediately, something about them called to me, as though their pages whispered forgotten secrets.

Meanwhile, the men began collecting the iron swords and chainmail shirts. The weapons were distributed among the surviving militiamen, who gazed at them with reverence, fully aware of their value. The armor, though heavy, quickly found new owners as well.

"This will do," Günther murmured, examining one of the swords with gleaming eyes. "It's not much, but when we return to the North, it'll be something."

Alaric, on the other hand, remained in the center of the room, staring at the empty space where the core had once been. His expression was distant, as though searching for something more—something we hadn't found.

"This place must be sealed," he said finally, his voice firm. "If we leave it open, it will draw those damned creatures back again. We need to block the entrance forever."

I nodded, though I couldn't stop myself from glancing one last time at the purple crystals still pulsing weakly on the walls. I felt as though they were watching us still, as though the dungeon itself was judging us for what we had done.

At last, we began to retreat, carrying what little we had found. The swords, chainmail, and books were a meager prize compared to the cost of the lives we had lost. But it was something. Something that might help us hold out a little longer in the North, or perhaps—just perhaps—help us understand what had truly happened to the empire and the world it left behind.

When we emerged from the dungeon, the frigid northern air struck us like a blade—sharp and merciless. We had spent so much time in the earth's bowels that the gray sky, though clouded and ominous, seemed like the greatest gift I had ever seen.

The silence was overwhelming. There were no more roars or strange echoes, only the biting wind whistling through the trees of the nearby forest. All that remained for us now were the bodies of our fallen.

"We're not leaving them here," Alaric said, his tone severe, brooking no argument.

And we didn't. We carried the dead, one by one, placing their bodies carefully on makeshift stretchers made from branches. The surviving peasants and militiamen, exhausted and wounded, worked in silence, their reverence spreading through all of us like a shared burden. Their armor and weapons, though damaged and stained with blood, were collected as well. Iron, bronze, leather—everything that had served in the battle had to return with us.

As we bore the weight of the bodies and weapons, the improvised camp began to break apart. No one spoke much. The sound of boots crunching fresh snow was the only thing that accompanied our slow return.

Back at the fortress, the dawn found us all older, wearier. The dead were honored with a vigil, their bodies covered with simple cloths while the survivors sat silently around the fires. The weapons and armor we recovered were handed over to the blacksmith and the militia captains. Every piece of iron was a treasure, every chainmail a relic that would protect another man in future battles.

I, however, could not rest.

In my room, under the faint light of a single candle, the books recovered from the dungeon lay on my wooden table. They were old, bound in cracked leather and covered in dust, but they were important. I knew it. My mind, marked by the Blessing of the Scholar, told me that these texts held secrets the world had long forgotten.

I spent hours going through them, one by one.

The first was a treatise on craftsmanship, filled with diagrams and tools I could barely comprehend. The second seemed to be a military manual, though the language in which it was written was ancient and difficult. I grew frustrated quickly, flipping through the pages without understanding much of anything. The letters were strange, as though time itself had warped them.

"Come on, think..." I murmured to myself, trying to calm down.

Time dragged on. The candle burned down slowly, its light flickering as I continued turning the pages of each tome, desperate to find something I could read. But then, as I opened the last book, something changed.

The title was clear, written with a precision that contrasted with the other books: "De Bello Gallico."

The pain in my head was so intense that I was forced to shut my eyes and let out a muffled cry. It felt as though fire was burning through my mind, as if something was being etched forcefully into the deepest part of my being. I tried to pull my hands away from the book, but my fingers were rigid, glued to the ancient, symbol-covered pages.

And then, everything changed.

The room disappeared. The candle, the stone walls, the cold northern air... all of it faded. In its place was the sun. A blazing, golden sun shining over a landscape I didn't recognize: green hills, winding rivers, and a camp of orderly, precise tents. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and the faint tang of cured leather.

I was there. But I wasn't myself.

When I raised my hands, I saw they were larger, hardened by work and battle. The weight of leather and metal armor pressed on my shoulders, and a red tunic flowed over my legs. A short sword rested at my side, sheathed at my belt, and a shield leaned against my left arm. I felt its weight—solid, familiar—as if it had been part of me for years.

All around me, thousands of men moved with discipline and purpose. Soldiers, Roman legionaries, stood in perfect lines, sharpening their gladii, repairing shields, and speaking in clear Latin—a language I, to my astonishment, understood perfectly.

"Prepare the troops for the march!" someone shouted nearby. My head turned automatically, and there I saw him: Caesar.

I knew who he was. Not because someone told me, but because I felt it. I was Gaius Julius Caesar, general of Rome, conqueror of Gaul. His life, his memories, his purpose—all of it fused with me. I was him, and he was me.

Days turned into years, and I lived his life as if it were my own. These weren't mere fragments or fleeting visions: I experienced it all.

I saw the campaigns in Gaul from the very beginning, when I crossed the Rubicon, declaring war on fate and the Senate. I felt the weight of every decision, the burden of commanding entire legions—men whose survival depended on my words and cunning. I marched through dark forests and over mountains, watching as the Gallic tribes fell one by one under the might of Rome. Ariovistus, Vercingetorix—enemies who dared to challenge my advance... I knew their faces, their voices, their thoughts.

The battles marked me. Every formation, every calculated advance of the legions was a dance of precision and brutality. I fought on fields where the grass turned red with blood. I felt the weight of the gladius as it pierced through armor and flesh, heard the deafening clash of shields forming the murus, the wall we created with our bodies and steel. Every victory was mine. Every defeat haunted me.

I learned to move men like pieces on a chessboard, using terrain, weather, and morale to my advantage. Each decision was cold and calculated, but it was also painful—because every order meant inevitable deaths. The names of the fallen soldiers piled up in my mind, but there was no time to mourn.

I saw Caesar's ambition grow, becoming a fire that consumed him. Gaul was not enough. He needed more: Rome itself. I lived his moments of doubt, his fury, and his glory. I heard the Senate's words, calling me a traitor and a tyrant. I saw the men who trusted me raise their swords to defend me. Alea iacta est. The die is cast.

Power, politics, and intrigue became part of me. My closest friends became my greatest enemies, and the weight of betrayal cut deeper than any wound on the battlefield.

Finally, I reached the end.

I stood in the Senate, surrounded by men who claimed to be my allies. Their gazes pierced me as I walked across the cold marble, my sandals echoing in the silence. A chill ran down my spine. I knew what was coming before it happened.

Brutus.

I felt the first dagger stab into my back, a cold burn that spread through my body. Then came another. And another. The pain was unbearable, but worse was seeing their faces—the betrayal in their eyes as they struck. Finally, Brutus approached. My vision blurred, but I could see him clearly.

"Et tu, Brute?" I whispered, feeling my strength drain away.

I collapsed to the floor, my red tunic soaked in blood, as life slipped away from me. Everything turned to darkness.

When I opened my eyes, I was back in my room. The book "De Bello Gallico" lay open before me, its cover still illuminated by the faint light of the candle, which was now nearly burned out. The headache was gone, but my mind was still reeling.

I stood slowly, feeling the weight of an entire life pressing down on my shoulders. I hadn't just seen Caesar's life—I had lived it. Every battle, every decision, every final moment lingered in my mind like an indelible scar.

I looked at my hands. They were still mine, the hands of Konrad von Falkenstein, but something had changed. I was different. My gaze fell on the iron sword resting against the wall. Now, when I looked at it, I understood what it meant: a tool, a symbol, an extension of a leader's will.

"This... isn't normal," I murmured, my voice trembling.

I sank into the chair, covering my face with my hands. I didn't know if this was a gift or a curse. But one thing was certain: I was no longer just Konrad, the weak son of a minor northern house. Now, in my mind, I carried the shadow of Caesar.

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if you got here is at least I got your attention, that's why I wanted to consult, something that neither I nor my friend could agree on was whether it should be like most fantasy stories, with statistics, the typical strength, intelligence and others, since we both prefer a brutal realism and those statistics take away the seriousness, so the question for you is what would you like to see?