The wind bit.
It carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Here, in the heart of Northern Britannia, 120 A.D., there were no neon lights or phase-shifted bars. Only the brutal, unwavering reality of the Roman Empire's furthest frontier.
Centurion Elara Valeria of the famed Ninth Legion stood at the rain-lashed palisade, her posture as unyielding as the stone walls behind her. The sky above was a bruised grey, constantly weeping onto the desolate landscape. Her gladius, a short, heavy sword, was perfectly balanced in her hand, the edge honed to a razor sharpness. The rhythmic scrape of a whetstone against steel was the only sound she permitted, a grounding counterpoint to the distant war cries.
"Valeria!" a young auxiliary soldier, Marcus, called out, stumbling towards her.
"The Picts are massing! They push through the northern gate!"
Elara didn't flinch. She simply ran a thumb over the blade, testing its keenness.
"Naturally. It is Tuesday. What is your excuse for that loose strap on your lorica, Marcus?"
Marcus stared, aghast. "But my lord Centurion, the barbarians are at the walls!"
"A loose strap in the Ninth," Elara stated, her voice calm and level, "is a signed death warrant. For yourself, and for the man next to you. Fix it, or I'll fix you. We do not go to die; we go to kill."
Her eyes, the color of storm clouds, met his. There was no anger, only an absolute, chilling certainty.
Marcus swallowed, his terror of the Picts momentarily eclipsed by his Centurion's disapproval. He fumbled with the leather.
"Good," Elara nodded, finally sheathing her gladius. She hefted her scutum, the heavy rectangular shield adorned with the stylized eagle of the Ninth.
"Now, to the gates. Let them taste Roman steel."
The battle was a whirlwind of mud, blood, and guttural shouts. Elara was a force of nature, a terrifying embodiment of Roman discipline. Her shield was an unyielding bulwark, deflecting axes and spears with bone-jarring impacts. Her gladius was a blur, thrusting, parrying, and finding gaps in the Pictish defenses with surgical precision. She fought with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, her movements economical, every strike designed to kill.
She had just brought down a hulking Pictish chieftain, his crude axe skittering across the mud, when it happened.
The rain stopped.
Not because the clouds parted, but because the droplets, suspended in the air, simply… froze. They hung like tiny, glistening pearls, caught in an invisible amber. The battle cries around her faded, elongated into distorted, echoing wails. The vibrant green of the grass and the splashes of red blood began to drain, turning into a dull, ashen static.
Elara's world was breaking.
Her fellow soldiers, frozen mid-swing or mid-scream, began to stutter, their movements looping like a broken marionette. A Pictish warrior would raise his axe, drop it, raise it again, an endless, horrifying pantomime of violence.
Then, from the grey-shifted horizon, creatures emerged.
Echoes.
They were like knights, but made of fractured obsidian and shimmering, starless void-matter. Their forms were indistinct, constantly shifting at the edges, and they moved with a silent, gliding grace that defied the laws of physics. They didn't breathe or speak. They simply hummed a low-frequency vibration that resonated deep in Elara's bones.
Her gladius, usually so effective, clanged uselessly against the first Echo's chest. The blade sparked, but left no mark. She roared, swinging her heavy scutum with all her might, embedding the reinforced edge into the Echo's side. A chilling CRACK echoed across the silent battlefield, and the creature fragmented, its glass-like pieces dissolving into dust.
But for every one she shattered, three more appeared, phasing through the frozen, looping warriors. Their blades, made of solidified shadow, emitted cold, hungry light. Elara found herself backed against the crumbling stone wall of the fort's inner keep, her shield arm numb, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The Echoes raised their void-blades, their silent hum growing louder, pressing in, promising deletion.
She was the last. The last Centurion of the Ninth. And this was the end.
A sharp, metallic snick echoed through the distorting silence. It wasn't the sound of steel or stone. It was the sound of a very specific, perfectly machined lock.
A door materialized in the middle of the crumbling stone wall. Not a magical portal, but a very ordinary-looking, heavy oak shop door, complete with a brass knocker. It swung open, revealing not a magical void, but a dimly lit interior filled with what looked like dusty antiques.
A man stepped through.
Dry and impeccably dressed in his brown trench coat, crisp white shirt, and scarlet tie, he carried a silver-headed cane. He looked completely out of place, completely unbothered, amidst the frozen rain and the stuttering horrors. He smelled not of mud or blood, but of expensive cologne.
He didn't look at Elara first. He looked at his left hand, where a silver pocket watch sat, its hands spinning backward before settling with a soft click. He clicked the top of the watch, and the Echoes, which had been seconds from striking Elara, froze. Literally. Their shattered glass forms hung suspended, their silent hum ceasing.
Quinn Paradox took a single, fluid step forward. He tapped the nearest Echo with his cane, a light, almost dismissive gesture.
The creature, a manifestation of pure temporal void, fractured into harmless motes of grey light, dissolving like dust motes in the air. He didn't even glance at the other two. They followed suit, winking out of existence. Elara stared, her grip on her gladius finally loosening. Her arm dropped.
"Are you… are you a God?" she croaked, her voice raw. "Or a demon?"
Quinn turned, his eyes, sharp and analytical, scanning Elara from her muddied sandals to her rain-soaked hair. He offered his hand, a small, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. He looked at her not with pity, but with the appraising gaze of a man who had just found a winning lottery ticket.
"Neither, Centurion," he said, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Your story ended five minutes ago. Consider this an Extension. My Archive has an opening… and you're exactly the variable I need."
He snapped his fingers. The door to the Archive, a warm, golden light now spilling from its interior, swung wide behind him. The sound of distant, modern traffic and the faint smell of brewing coffee wafted out, a contrast against the dying Roman fort.
"Welcome," Quinn added, stepping aside and gesturing to the impossible shop within, "to the end of history. Or, perhaps, the beginning of yours."
As Elara, still in shock, took her first stumbling step into the warm embrace of the building, a holographic notification flickered in Quinn's vision, visible only to him:
[PARADOX ARCHIVE: NEW ASSET ACQUIRED]
Name: Elara Valeria
Designation: The Last Centurion (Ninth Legion)
Era: 120 AD – The Frozen Frontier
Combat Class: Vanguard (Tank) / Chrono-Static Defender
Passive Ability: Unyielding March –
Increases the party's resistance to mental "Entropy" and fear effects by 25%.
Signature Skill: Aegis Lock (Rank: E - Growth Potential: S)
Sync Rate: 0.5%
Note: High Sync unlocks "Era-Breaker" abilities and personal side-quests. Low Sync increases the risk of the asset returning to the Void.
Quinn's Note: *High maintenance, smells like iron and rain. Excellent shield work. Will likely try to kill me before dinner. Good. Keeps things interesting.*