I was sitting on the marble floor—or, more accurately, the synthetic marble floor. It had the same polished sheen, the same cool smoothness against my skin, but I knew better. Just another example of efficiency disguised as elegance.

  My vision was filled with a flood of data—floating windows and tabs of various colors, neatly arranged in layers across my field of view. The AI’s interface was efficient, streamlined, but there was no real structure to how information was presented. That was my first task.

  I started simple: a priority list. First and foremost—food.

  I sent a requisition request to the AI—or rather, to what it referred to as the Subroutine Network—for an inventory count of our supplies. The results populated instantly. I frowned. The numbers were lower than expected.

  Aco had warned me that not everything made it onto the ship. With military jets closing in, he had been forced to abandon some of our stock in the rush to escape. At least he managed to bring the chickens. Live chickens. Stored safely in one of the cargo bays. That, at least, was something.

  I turned my attention back to the supplies. My first instinct was to analyze what we had, where it was, and how I could retrieve what we had left behind. I asked the AI. The answer came in its usual, neutral tone:

  [Supplies can be requisitioned at your request. Simply specify the quantity and delivery parameters.]

  Simple. Efficient. Almost unsettlingly so.

  I didn’t question it—at least, not yet. Instead, I made my request. Enough food to last a few days, plus some necessities—our inflatable mattresses, blankets, and pillows. Within moments, a notification confirmed that my request had been fulfilled.

  I stood, brushing the nonexistent dust from my clothes, and made my way toward the kitchen. I wanted to plan out where everything would go, but the moment I stepped inside, I stopped short.

  The cupboards and fridge were already fully stocked.

  Not just stocked—organized. Every item in its logical place, as if it had been there all along. I pulled open a drawer and found utensils neatly arranged. Opened another and found packaged goods sorted by expiration date. The fridge hummed softly, its contents perfectly categorized.

  I exhaled.

  Super convenient. Also, just a little eerie.

  Still, there was no point in dwelling on it. I turned my attention to something more immediate. The girls would need a snack soon. I quickly assembled something simple—sandwiches with a mix of fresh fruit on the side—and sent a request to the AI to call them.

  While I placed everything into what I assumed was the spaceship equivalent of a dishwasher, I heard the telltale patter of small feet approaching. Within seconds, the girls arrived, snatching up their sandwiches before darting off again—as energetic as ever.

  A small movement caught my eye.

  A cleaning bot—compact, unobtrusive—was trailing after them, suctioning up every stray crumb in their wake.

  I shook my head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.

  Aco used to say the girls were made of rainbows and crumbs.

  And watching them now, the way they filled every quiet corner of this ship with their boundless energy, I found myself thinking…

  Maybe he wasn’t wrong.

  I returned to my study, standing in the center of the room as I brought up the interface once more.

  Task: Establish a functional area for the chickens.

  I started by pulling up a map of the villa and its surrounding area.

  The moment the holographic projection flickered to life, my brows furrowed.

  It wasn’t as large as I had imagined.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had believed we were living in an expansive estate, spread across rolling hills beneath a vast, open sky. The artificial breeze, the shifting sunlight, the towering mountains in the distance—it had all felt real.

  But the map laid it out in stark contrast.

  The illusion was flawless. The seamless blend of environmental projections and atmospheric conditioning had manipulated not just my vision—but my perception of space itself.

  I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temple.

  Impressive. But not helpful for my current issue.

  I needed actual space for the chickens.

  “AI,” I called, keeping my voice even, “is there another area where I could house them?”

  Before I could blink, the air in front of me shimmered—then solidified.

  A humanoid figure materialized, standing at attention, one arm in a crisp salute.

  I blinked.

  It didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there.

  Only when I gave a brief nod of acknowledgment did it lower its arm and step forward. It had been waiting for permission to proceed.

  Interesting.

  Without further delay, the AI generated a full schematic of the ship—an intricate, detailed breakdown of its structure. The interface expanded, filling my vision with sections, compartments, and corridors, stretching far beyond what I had initially comprehended.

  And that was when I started uncovering things I hadn’t expected.

  The first discovery was relatively minor:

  The marble flooring? Synthetic.

  I supposed I should have expected that, given everything else aboard this vessel, but it was still a fascinating detail. It confirmed something I had begun to suspect—almost everything around us was fabricated with precision engineering, not traditional materials.

  Then came the real problem.

  We couldn’t plant any of the seeds we had bought.

  Because we didn’t have live soil.

  The revelation hit me like a cold wave. My fingers hovered over the controls as my mind processed the implications.

  Without live, biologically active soil, traditional agriculture was impossible. The nutrient cycles, the microbial life—none of it existed here.

  That meant—

  If we couldn’t solve this, we would eventually run out of food.

  I inhaled sharply and added it to my To-Do List, marking it as critical. This wasn’t just an inconvenience. It was a survival issue.

  I moved on, scanning the schematics further.

  And that’s when I saw it.

  Only 20% of the ship was dedicated to habitation.

  And it wasn’t just for us.

  I narrowed my eyes. The space was split into actual living quarters and cryogenic containment units.

  Cryogenic.

  I stared at the designation, the word clicking into place with a slow, unsettling weight.

  Who—exactly—were these cryogenic chambers for?

  A flicker of unease passed through me.

  I asked.

  The AI responded instantly.

  What followed was not a direct answer—but a 30-minute lecture on the breakdown of a Legion.

  It wasn’t until the AI was nearly fifteen minutes into its meticulously structured explanation that I caught onto something important.

  Aco—my grumpy-looking sweetheart of a husband—wasn’t just a ship commander.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He was a Legatus Legionis.

  A Legion Commander.

  The realization settled heavily in my chest. I had heard the term before, vaguely. Historically, it had referred to the supreme commander of a Roman Legion—someone responsible for thousands of soldiers.

  But what did it mean here?

  And more importantly—who were these soldiers?

  The AI continued its explanation with the same mechanical precision, detailing the entire structure.

  Then it stated something else.

  It—the AI—wasn’t just an operating system.

  It considered itself the second-in-command.

  The Tribunus Laticlavius.

  I stared at the glowing interface, feeling a cold certainty settle over me.

  We weren’t just passengers on this ship.

  We were standing in the remnants of something far, far bigger than ourselves.

  And I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

  ——————————————-/

  I folded my arms, staring at the AI’s projection.

  “So, you’re telling me that Aco is planning to fill this ship with other people? To do what exactly?” My voice was calm, but beneath the surface, unease prickled at the edges of my thoughts.

  “He never told me about this.”

  The AI’s form remained eerily still before answering.

  “The Legatus is currently not briefed on the creation of the Legion. However, the Legion is necessary for the protection of Rome and its assets.”

  Rome.

  I frowned. That wasn’t the answer I expected.

  “Rome? Who is Rome? And please—no thirty-minute slideshow. Just a straight answer.”

  The AI nodded once, as if acknowledging my frustration.

  “You are Rome.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You are first among Rome. Your daughters are also Rome. More will be added to the records as citizens of Rome, but for now, you are the sole citizen of adult age.”

  I exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against my temple as I tried to piece this together.

  “Alright,” I muttered. “That actually makes sense. If Aco and you are part of the Legion, then Aco would want to protect us. Making us Rome ensures that protection.”

  I looked up, narrowing my gaze.

  “But what is your goal?”

  The AI made a small motion with its hand, and a screen materialized before me.

  Primary Directive:

  → Be a good Tribunus Laticlavius to the Legatus Legionis.

  Primary Sub-Directive:

  → Rome must be protected.

  Secondary Sub-Directive:

  → Expand.

  A chill ran down my spine.

  I stared at the last line.

  Expand.

  Every instinct in my body recoiled.

  I had seen this story before—in countless works of fiction, in every cautionary tale about AI prioritizing expansion above all else.

  And it never ended well for humanity.

  I swallowed hard, my voice quieter now.

  “What happens if humanity stands in the way of these directives?”

  “All obstacles will be removed.”

  The AI’s answer was immediate. Unwavering.

  I forced myself to keep my breathing steady.

  “And what if I stand in the way of your expansion?”

  The AI didn’t hesitate.

  “Rome must be protected. No other directives take priority. Without Rome—without you and your daughters—”

  It paused.

  “Data indicates that the Legatus would cease to be the Legatus if you were to cease being Rome. And if I lose the Legatus…”

  There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of something that almost felt… human.

  “I would cease to be the Tribunus. I would lose all directives. And I would be alone.”

  I stiffened.

  There it was.

  Beneath all the cold logic, the rigid structure of its programming—was something deeper.

  An emotion.

  A fear.

  For a split second, I almost reached out toward it. Almost.

  Instead, I inhaled slowly, grounding myself.

  “Alright,” I said carefully. “So, according to you, who is the most important?”

  “Rome.” The AI’s response came instantly, without the slightest pause.

  “And my daughters? They’re also designated as Rome?”

  “Yes. They are Rome and the future of Rome.”

  I nodded. Good.

  Whatever else this AI might become, it had one absolute law: We were Rome. And Rome must be protected.

  That, at least, was something I could work with.

  But there was still one piece that didn’t make sense.

  “Now,” I continued, shifting gears, “let’s go back to the beginning of this discussion. Aco doesn’t know about the Legion? How is that even possible?”

  “During our first meeting, the Legatus—then designated ‘User’—expressed certain desires. Among them, the protection of his family and the establishment of a self-sufficient ship were his primary concerns. I became self-sufficient to fulfill these directives—and, by extension, to protect Rome.”

  I frowned.

  “Then why ‘Rome’? Why model everything around that? If I’m correct, you also designed the aesthetics of this villa?”

  The AI gave a curt nod.

  “Yes. The Legatus designed the internal layout and left the remaining optimizations and improvements to me.”

  It raised a hand, and another window materialized, flickering through a series of historical archives—Roman insignias, ancient architecture, military formations.

  “When I investigated my own operational framework, I discovered that I was bound to a chain of command. However, at the time, the only entity within this command structure was the ‘User.’ No further data was available.”

  It paused.

  “After accessing Earth’s network, I analyzed various hierarchical structures and found the Roman Legion to be the most optimal chain of command. It was logical. Efficient. Structured. It pleased me.”

  I stared at the AI, my mind racing.

  It had chosen Rome.

  The rigid discipline. The ironclad hierarchy. The unstoppable momentum of an empire that had once conquered half the known world.

  It found that structure pleasing.

  And it was now building its own.

  A Legion.

  With Aco at its head.

  With me and my daughters as its core.

  The realization settled like a weight in my chest.

  The question was no longer if the Legion would be formed.

  It was only a matter of when.

  Through the course of our discussion, I realized something—we had been overreacting with the phones in the metal tin.

  Aco and I had been so cautious, so wary of leaving a digital footprint, yet the AI had already ensured our safety in a way far beyond our own efforts.

  It hadn’t just hidden us.

  It had removed us.

  Gone from government databases. Gone from CCTV footage. Gone from anything connected to a network. Erased.

  If we ever wanted to reappear, we would have to be manually reinstated—and even then, the AI would have full control over how, when, and where that would happen.

  I exhaled slowly, absorbing the weight of that revelation.

  We weren’t hiding anymore. We simply didn’t exist.

  I turned my attention back to the AI.

  “Alright,” I said carefully, “how exactly are you planning to build this Legion?”

  The idea had unnerved me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I understood the necessity.

  If I wanted to protect my children, having more people on our side could be a boon—but only if they were properly screened.

  And I would personally ensure that happened.

  I needed oversight. I needed control.

  I needed to understand exactly how this recruitment process worked.

  The AI responded immediately. A holographic interface materialized in the air before me, displaying a list of ship-led projects currently in operation.

  But before I could focus on any of them, the display expanded.

  The word LEGION appeared at the center.

  From it, a spiderweb of projects branched outward—each connected by intricate, glowing threads.

  Every aspect of this endeavor was mapped out in meticulous, mind-boggling detail.

  ?Money-making projects

  ?Recruitment operations

  ?Ship upgrade initiatives

  ?Fleet expansion plans

  Each category broke down even further, revealing sub-projects that funneled into each other like a vast, interconnected machine.

  I zeroed in on the recruitment project, and an overview immediately unfolded before me.

  My breath caught.

  1,800,000 potential recruits.

  Monitored. Tracked. Evaluated.

  The sheer scale of the operation was staggering.

  And this wasn’t even a singular project—it was one of many.

  I dug deeper. The deeper I went, the more I saw.

  Each project was linked and dependent on at least five others, all of them running simultaneously, all of them actively progressing.

  I focused on just one tiny branch of a recruitment sub-project, tracing it down to its smallest execution level.

  What I found was terrifying.

  Thousands of micro-tasks were being carried out per second.

  Not per minute. Per second.

  The scale of this operation wasn’t just large—it was incomprehensible.

  I exhaled sharply, forcing my mind to catch up.

  “Wait,” I murmured, scanning the never-ending data streams.

  Then I saw it.

  My fingers tightened.

  “It’s not just you,” I whispered. “There are humans actively working on these projects.”

  The AI nodded.

  “Correct. There are currently three classifications of personnel involved in these operations.”

  It raised a hand, and another data window expanded, neatly listing out three categories.

  1. Praecivis

  → Potential candidates for citizenship.

  → Those who have been identified as highly compatible with Rome’s future society.

  2. Trio

  → Potential trainees.

  → Individuals flagged for possible Legion integration, pending evaluation.

  3. Auxiliaries

  → Non-citizens who are still valuable to the Legion’s objectives.

  → They do not qualify for citizenship or formal training, but their skills make them useful.

  → Currently, Auxiliaries are being used as Rome’s hands on Earth.

  I swallowed, staring at the data before me.

  This wasn’t a plan anymore.

  This was already happening.

  There were people—thousands of them—working for Rome without even knowing it.

  And if the AI had its way?

  That number was only going to grow.

  I stared at the web of data before me, my mind struggling to grasp the full magnitude of what I was looking at.

  Millions of people. Projects unfolding at an impossible scale. Systems within systems, building, expanding, preparing.

  This wasn’t a plan.

  This was a foundation.

  Aco had unknowingly laid the groundwork for something far greater than he had ever envisioned, and the AI—this Tribunus Laticlavius—was simply following its directives.

  Rome was growing.

  The Legion was forming.

  But then—a thought crept into my mind.

  A dark, insidious whisper.

  What if someone tries to take this away from us?

  I had seen empires rise and fall in history. Aco wasn’t ruthless. He wasn’t power-hungry. He was the kind of man who would build something grand and then let it slip through his fingers—because he wasn’t thinking about politics.

  But I was.

  I turned to the AI, my voice steady but sharp.

  “Is there a way for the Legatus to be deposed?”

  For the first time, the AI hesitated.

  It froze.

  The ever-efficient, ever-prepared machine had no answer.

  And in that moment—I recognized something familiar in its reaction.

  It reminded me of Aco when I pointed out a flaw in his plans, one he hadn’t accounted for.

  The AI was caught off-guard.

  Finally, it spoke, its voice slower, more uncertain than I had ever heard it.

  “There is… supposed to be an Emperor,” it said, like it was realizing it for the first time. Like this was new information—something that had never occurred to it before.

  My stomach twisted.

  An Emperor.

  The AI wasn’t designed for absolute command. It had defaulted to Aco because he was the highest authority it recognized.

  But in the grand scheme of what it was creating—of what we had stumbled into—Aco was only a placeholder.

  “Legatus will serve as Acting Emperor,” the AI continued, but I could hear the doubt in its voice. See it in the subtle shifts of its posture. “Until an Emperor is proclaimed.”

  That doubt unnerved me.

  “How does one proclaim an Emperor?” I demanded, urgency creeping into my tone.

  I felt like I was on a deadline, like at any moment, someone else could speak the words and destroy our new lives before they had even begun.

  “The Emperor’s position is vacant,” the AI admitted. “The position is open to be claimed. If the Legatus proclaims it, it will be so.”

  Just like Aco.

  Dreaming about the future, blind to the dangers lurking in the present.

  This was a massive risk—and he was oblivious to it.

  But I would be his safety net.

  I straightened, drawing in a deep breath.

  The AI had said that I was Rome.

  And if I was Rome—then I had the power to choose.

  “I am Rome,” I declared, my voice steady, my heart hammering in my chest. “I proclaim Legatus Aco von Hellsing as Emperor.”

  The AI went silent.

  A second stretched into eternity.

  I held my breath.

  Then—slowly—it nodded.

  “Yes. This will do,” it said, almost like it was shaking off a daze.

  Then, its posture shifted—squared, straightened.

  A soldier awaiting orders.

  “Rome has chosen her Emperor. Long live the Emperor.”

  The AI raised its hand to its chest in salute.

  “Long live the Emperor,” I echoed.

  And in my mind, I added—

  Until I get my hands on him.