The Prophet Rises in Magna Graecia

Days passed. Then weeks. The journey to Magna Graecia was not a march—it was a trial.

Alexander, exhausted, bleeding from wounds left by Roman shackles, moved like a ghost through the land. He ate what he could steal, drank from rivers, and avoided the Roman patrols that still hunted him.

When he finally reached the cities of Magna Graecia, his name was spoken in whispers.

"Could it be?"

"The son of Pyrrhus lives?"

"No, he died in Rome…"

"But what if he didn't?"

Alexander moved from city to city, gathering crowds in market squares, temples, and secret gatherings at night.

He stood before them, his voice rising over the sea breeze:

"I have returned from death, and I bring you truth. Rome is not what it seems. It is no mere republic—it is a monster growing in the shadows, preparing to rule the world."

Some believed him immediately, their hearts burning with hope. Others laughed, calling him a madman, comparing him to his father.

"He speaks like Pyrrhus!"

"Another fool chasing a dead dream."

"No—he saw the truth. The gods spared him for a reason!"

But slowly, the tide turned. His words ignited something—an old wound in the hearts of the Greeks, a memory of freedom lost to Rome's legions.

And so, the first sparks of rebellion began to light.