Eyes of the Lord

279 BCE — The Forge of a Warrior

For two years, Lucius Aelius Varro had reshaped the minds of Rome's finest scholars with his innovations. Yet, for all his intellectual pursuits, his father, Tiberius Aelius Varro, had not let him forget one simple truth:

"Knowledge is nothing without strength to defend it."

Thus, at twelve years old, Lucius stood inside a dusty training field, surrounded by battle-hardened legionnaires, his breath unsteady, his small hands gripping a wooden practice sword.

And he was about to die.

"Move, boy!"

The centurion's blade flashed toward him, a dull but unforgiving training gladius aimed at his ribs. Lucius barely managed to jerk backward—too slow, too weak, too untrained. The wooden blade slammed into his side, sending him crashing to the dirt.

Pain exploded through his body.

He coughed, gripping his ribs. One more hit like that and I'll—

The sword came again.

His father watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, saying nothing. This was a test. A cruel one.

"Get up, boy!" the centurion barked, eyes filled with cold amusement. "This is battle! If you hesitate, you die!"

Lucius forced himself to his feet, chest burning, legs trembling. He had sparred before, trained before—but this wasn't some controlled drill. These men were soldiers, not tutors.

And right now, he was prey.

"This isn't enough. I need… I need to react faster!"

The next strike came—but this time, as the centurion moved, something changed.

For a brief moment, the world slowed.

The centurion's shoulders shifted, his muscles tensed, his foot pressed into the dirt—a clear sign he was about to lunge forward.

Lucius could see it.

No.

He could understand it.

The blade came down—but before it could strike, Lucius' body moved on its own, perfectly mimicking the exact step and shift of the centurion's movements.

His wooden sword came up—perfectly timed, perfectly executed—clashing against the centurion's blade with shocking precision.

The soldiers watching let out startled murmurs.

Lucius' breath came ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum. His eyes burned, a strange heat crawling into them.

"What… was that?"

But there was no time to think.

The centurion attacked again—but this time, Lucius was already moving, mimicking every step, every motion, as though he had trained for years.

Left parry. Right pivot. Counter-slash.

Blow for blow, strike for strike, he matched the veteran's movements exactly.

Gasps rang through the training yard.

Even Tiberius' expression shifted, his sharp gaze narrowing.

The centurion, now visibly annoyed, snarled. "Luck." He lunged forward, his movements sharper, faster.

But Lucius copied him perfectly.

"Impossible," the soldier hissed, stepping back. "How—?"

Lucius panted, his grip on the wooden sword tightening. His vision swam, his eyes feeling like they were on fire, but he pushed through it.

He had seen the answer.

And now he understood it.

The Eye of Adam had awakened.

The match ended abruptly.

Tiberius stepped forward, his voice curious, yet filled with authority. "Enough."

The centurion lowered his blade, still scowling. "That wasn't normal," he muttered. "The boy… he moved like a mirror."

Tiberius knelt before Lucius, gripping his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. His father's eyes, sharp as daggers, bore into him.

"What did you just do, my son?"

Lucius' mind raced. He couldn't say, Oh, I have the power of the first man, Adam, from a battle between gods—that would get him burned alive as a heretic.

Instead, he lied.

"I… I just observed him," he said, voice hoarse. "I watched and copied."

Tiberius was silent for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Interesting."

He stood, turning to the soldiers. "Bring in a real blade."

Lucius' blood ran cold.

Days later, after barely surviving more rigorous training, Lucius sat in his private study, rubbing his still-aching muscles.

Despite the pain, his mind was already moving to his next goal—electricity.

He tried everything he could think of:

Rolling fur against amber (static electricity).Rubbing metal against silk.Experimenting with different metals in saltwater.

Nothing worked.

It was infuriating. He lacked the right materials, the right knowledge. Rome had no proper wires, no glass, no means to store or direct energy.

"Damn it… I need something simpler."

That's when he thought of something more practical.

Not electricity.

Printing.

Tiberius had always complained about writing.

"Bah! I'd rather go to war than copy another damn document!"

That was all Lucius needed. If he couldn't bring light to Rome, he could at least bring the written word to it faster.

Using wood and metal, he sketched out a basic system:

A press mechanism to imprint letters onto parchment.Movable letters, carved from wood, to allow different texts to be made.Ink application, using natural dyes.

The result was slow, primitive, and messy. But it worked.

When he showed it to his father, Tiberius' eyes widened in shock.

"You mean to tell me… I won't have to spend hours writing reports anymore?"

Lucius grinned. "Not if we refine it, Father."

For the first time in his life, Tiberius Aelius Varro looked upon his son with something close to awe.

"Gods above," his father muttered. "This will change Rome forever."

Lucius had taken another bold step forward:

The awakening of the Eye of Adam, marking him as an unnatural prodigy in combat.The creation of the first primitive printing press, laying the groundwork for Rome's literary revolution.The realization that electricity was still far beyond reach—but mechanics were within his grasp.

But greater challenges loomed ahead.

The Pyrrhic War was at Rome's doorstep, and Lucius would soon face his first true test in battle.

To be continued…