The boy weighed almost nothing.

That disturbed Arthur more than he expected. A living person should have weight. A body should resist being carried, should pull on the arms and complain against the shoulders. The boy did none of that. He hung between Arthur and Marcus like a bundle of damp cloth, head bowed, bare feet dragging when their steps became uneven.

By the time they reached the drainage opening beneath the old bath complex, Arthur’s tunic clung to his back with sweat. Marcus went out first, checked the alley, then reached down to help pull the boy through. Arthur followed, scraping his elbow against the stone hard enough to draw blood.

He barely noticed.

Rome had fully awakened above them.

The street beyond the ruined baths was filling with carts, slaves, vendors, animals, shouting children, and men who had appointments important enough to justify pushing everyone else aside. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Someone laughed nearby. A woman argued with a baker over the price of bread. The ordinary noise of the city felt obscene after the silence below.

Arthur looked at the boy’s wrists.

The rope marks were purple and raw.

Marcus wrapped the cloak tighter around him and moved quickly. His face was calm, but his eyes swept every doorway, every corner, every person who looked too long. Arthur tried to help as much as he could, though the boy leaned more toward Marcus. That was probably wise. Marcus looked like a man who could carry a wounded person through a riot. Arthur looked like a clerk who had made a series of unfortunate decisions and was now regretting all of them.

They reached Lucius’s house through the rear entrance.

The physician opened the door himself.

One look at the boy ended whatever complaint he had been preparing.

Lucius stepped aside and began giving orders before the boy was fully inside. Arthur understood less than half of them, but Marcus understood enough. They laid the boy on the same table where Livia had been treated, though someone had cleaned away the worst of the blood from before. That did not make the room feel any less grim.

The boy whimpered when Lucius cut the cloak away.

Lucius’s mouth tightened.

Arthur saw bruises across the ribs, rope burns at the wrists and ankles, a split lip, and old dirt ground so deep into the skin that it seemed part of him. The boy could not have been older than seventeen. In another life, in another century, he might have been a student complaining about exams, or an apprentice stealing an extra cup of wine, or just a teenager sleeping too late and being shouted awake by his mother.

Here, he was evidence.

Arthur hated that thought.

He hated that it was true.

Lucius washed his hands in vinegar and water, then pointed at Arthur.

Arthur blinked.

Lucius pointed again, sharper this time, then at a bowl.

Apparently, he had been promoted to assistant.

Or punished.

Possibly both.

For the next hour, the room became a battlefield with no swords. Lucius cleaned wounds, checked the boy’s breathing, felt along his ribs, and forced him to drink in small careful sips. Marcus stood near the door like a guard carved from stone. Arthur held bowls, cloths, water, and anything else Lucius shoved into his hands. More than once, he moved too slowly and received a glare that could have killed a weaker man.

When the boy finally slept, Lucius covered him with a clean blanket and straightened with a groan.

He looked older than he had the day before.

Livia appeared in the doorway.

She should not have been standing. Everyone in the room knew this, including Livia, which did not stop her. Her face was pale, her hair tied back badly, and one hand rested on the wall for support. She looked at the boy, then at Arthur, and the anger drained from her expression.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Marcus said her name in warning.

Livia ignored him and stepped closer. Her eyes moved over the rope marks, the bruises, the dirt, and the raw wrists. She asked something quietly. Marcus answered in a few words.

Ostia was one of them.

Livia closed her eyes.

Arthur did not need a translation for that.

Lucius noticed her swaying before Arthur did. The physician crossed the room with surprising speed and caught her by the arm. What followed was a brief and vicious exchange in which Livia tried to remain dignified while being physically guided back to bed by a furious old man. Marcus watched with the faintest hint of satisfaction.

Arthur almost smiled.

Almost.

Then he remembered the cages.

The smile died before it formed.

He washed his hands in the basin until the water turned pink from his scraped elbow and the dirt under his nails. He kept seeing the chamber beneath the city. The sandals. The tally marks. The clay cup. The boy drinking like someone who had forgotten the world contained mercy.

Authority: 1.

The words had vanished, but they had not left him.

He stepped into the small courtyard behind Lucius’s house because the room had begun to feel too narrow. The courtyard was modest, enclosed by walls stained with age and smoke. A few herbs grew in clay pots near the door. Above, a strip of blue sky looked impossibly clean.

Arthur leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

"System," he whispered.

Nothing happened.

He felt ridiculous immediately.

"Civilization System."

Still nothing.

A pigeon landed on the roof and stared at him with open contempt.

Arthur exhaled through his nose.

"Wonderful. I am being judged by poultry."

Blue light flickered.

Arthur straightened so quickly his shoulder struck the wall.

A thin line of text formed in the air before him. It was faint, unstable, and broken around the edges like a damaged projection.

Authority Recognized.

Local Impact Assessment Available.

Arthur stopped breathing.

The letters shimmered.

He glanced toward the door. Nobody was watching. Marcus was still inside. Lucius was muttering. Livia was probably being forced back under blankets with all the gentleness of a military occupation.

Arthur looked back at the light.

"Show me," he said.

For a moment, nothing changed.

Then the air folded into more words.

Local Crisis: Human Displacement Network

Status: Active

Known Route: Rome — Subterranean Holding Site — Ostia

Confirmed Victims: Insufficient Data

Recovered Survivor: 1

Evidence Secured: Partial

Authority: 1

Empire Analysis: Locked

Arthur read it three times.

Human displacement network.

That was what the system called it. Not conspiracy. Not smuggling. Not missing men.

A network.

Active.

The word made his hands feel cold.

He tried to speak carefully. "Can you identify who controls it?"

The text flickered.

Insufficient Authority.

"Can you locate the next holding site?"

Insufficient Data.

"Can you tell me how to stop it?"

For a second, the message did not change. Then a new line appeared.

Civilization Systems respond to implemented action, not intention.

Arthur stared at it.

That was not an answer.

No. It was worse. It was a rule.

The system would not reward him for knowing what was wrong. It would not reward him for wanting to fix it. It had appeared because they had gone below, found proof, and pulled one boy out of the dark.

Action.

Not intention.

He thought about universities, essays, conferences, clever arguments over dead empires. In his old life, understanding a problem had often been enough to be praised. Here, understanding meant nothing unless someone lived because of it.

The blue light shifted again.

Recommended Objective:

Stabilize survivor.

Secure evidence.

Identify route authority.

Prevent transfer to Ostia.

Arthur laughed once, quietly, without humor.

"So you do give advice."

The text flickered.

Recommendation is not execution.

Then it vanished.

Arthur remained in the courtyard for several seconds, staring at empty air.

That sounded almost rude.

It also sounded correct.

When he returned inside, Marcus looked at him immediately. The soldier’s eyes narrowed. Arthur knew that look. Marcus had noticed something.

Of course he had.

Marcus pointed at Arthur’s face, then made a questioning sound.

Arthur shook his head.

Marcus did not believe him.

Also fair.

Livia was back in bed, though her expression suggested this was a tactical retreat rather than surrender. The map of Gaius lay open beside her. The bronze seal with the faded purple cloth rested on the small table, where Lucius had apparently moved it to stop her from trying to reach across the room.

Arthur’s gaze caught on the purple.

The system had said route authority.

Not owner.

Not leader.

Authority.

He walked to the table and picked up the seal.

It was heavier than it looked. The symbol cut into the bronze caught the light: a circle intersected by several lines, almost like roads meeting inside a boundary. The strip of purple cloth tied around the handle looked old and frayed, but even faded, the color still carried weight. Rome taught people to read colors the way modern men read uniforms.

Purple meant power.

Maybe not imperial power. Not necessarily. Arthur had to be careful not to jump from mystery to emperor in one terrified leap.

But power, yes.

Someone wanted the symbol recognized.

Someone wanted obedience.

Livia spoke from the bed.

Arthur turned.

She pointed to the seal, then to the map, then made a small motion with her fingers as if stamping wax. Her voice was quiet, but firm. Marcus translated slowly, choosing words Arthur might understand.

"Not... name," Marcus said, touching the seal. "Permission."

Arthur looked down at the bronze.

A seal was not only identity.

It was authorization.

His stomach tightened.

Warehouse doors. Night shipments. Workers transferred. Records altered. People moved beneath Rome. A route to Ostia.

Someone was not sneaking through the system.

Someone was using it.

That was worse.

A criminal gang could be hunted. A corrupt network inside the machinery of the city could hide behind paperwork, rank, and fear.

Arthur set the seal down carefully.

The boy stirred on the table.

Everyone turned.

His eyes opened only halfway. Panic flashed through them until he saw Lucius, then Marcus, then the room. He tried to push himself up and failed.

Lucius barked something and pressed him back down.

The boy whispered.

Marcus moved closer.

Arthur held his breath.

The boy’s voice cracked, but he forced out several words. Marcus listened, then looked at Arthur. His face had changed again, becoming the expression he wore before violence.

Arthur knew only one word from what the boy had said.

Navis.

Ship.

Livia said something from the bed, sharp and frightened.

Marcus answered, then looked at Arthur.

"He says," Marcus began, struggling to shape the words in a way Arthur could follow, "tonight. More taken. To river. Then Ostia."

Arthur felt the room shrink.

Tonight.

Not tomorrow. Not in a week. Tonight.

The system’s objective returned to him with cruel clarity.

Prevent transfer to Ostia.

Arthur looked at Marcus. Marcus looked back.

They did not need fluent Latin for this.

They had rescued one boy.

By nightfall, they might lose many more.