The Vanishing Of The 9th Legion

The 9th Legion of the Romulan Empire, one of the most elite military forces in Romulan history, vanished without a trace deep in the wilds of Helvetia. The official records say they were lost to barbarian ambushes—but on Substack with Invicto Imperium, we uncover a much darker truth.

Inside the Labyrinth of Phyros, something ancient waited. And when the bronze doors opened, the 9th stepped into a place that was never meant to be found.

In this exclusive post on Substack, we explore what really happened beneath the earth… and why no one in Rema dares speak the legion’s name aloud.

Read the full mystery for free now! — Only on Substack with Invicto.

The Vanishing Of The 9th Legion

The 9th Legion—5,000 seasoned Romulan soldiers—marched north under orders from the Senate, their mission clear: crush the whispers of rebellion from Helvetia. But when they arrived, there were no barbarian war bands, no scorched villages, no signs of an uprising.

Instead, they found something else.

Something that should have remained buried.

At the edge of a ravine, half-swallowed by the mountains, the legion's scouts discovered a ruin lost to time—its entrance gaping like a wound in the rock. The villagers refused to go near it, calling it The Labyrinth of Phyros, a cursed place where the gods had sealed away something ancient and terrible.

But Legate Lucius Marcellus was not a man of superstition. A rising star in the empire, he saw glory, not danger.

"The gods do not haunt these halls," he declared, standing before the ruin’s monolithic bronze doors, carved with the image of a three-eyed lion wreathed in flame.

"The only ghosts here are the cowards who fled before us."

With that, the 9th Legion marched into the dark.

The air inside the labyrinth was thick, humid, and unnaturally warm. Their torches flickered, their footsteps echoed strangely, as if the very walls breathed.

Strange carvings lined the passageways—battles not fought by men, beasts not seen by mortal eyes. The further they went, the more unnatural it became. Some legionnaires swore the walls shifted when they weren’t looking.

And then, as the sun disappeared from the sky above, the great bronze doors groaned open on their own.

Sealing them inside.

The chamber at the heart of the labyrinth was vast—an ancient altar of blackened stone, surrounded by charred bones and shattered weapons.

A deep vibration rumbled through the stone, like a heartbeat in the earth.

Then came the roar.

A sound so thunderous it rattled the bones in their bodies.

The torches died all at once, plunging the chamber into absolute darkness.

When the light returned, they were not alone.

The Thyronax stepped from the abyss—a titan of metal and flame, its bronze-plated scales glowing like molten gold, its three amber eyes burning with unnatural malice. A mane of living fire crackled around its head, casting flickering shadows like wraiths dancing on the walls.

It moved without sound, its talons leaving glowing trails in the stone.

For the first time in their lives, the 9th Legion knew unwavering fear.

"Form ranks!" Marcellus roared. "Hold the line!"

But the Thyronax was no barbarian.

It moved like a shadow, faster than the eye could follow.

Its roar tore through reality itself, summoning spectral sentinels—warriors bound to its will, their hollow eyes glowing with the agony of the fallen.

The slaughter began.

Men screamed as the Thyronax exhaled fire, its flames clinging to flesh, devouring them in screeching agony.

Those who fled the battle found themselves hopelessly lost, corridors shifting around them, their torches extinguished by an unseen force.

The spectral sentinels fell upon the trapped and desperate, dragging them into the suffocating dark.

The legion's standard-bearer, Cassius Leonias, clutching the eagle standard of the 9th, ran blindly through the twisting corridors, the sound of scraping claws just behind him.

He reached the bronze doors—his salvation.

They were sealed shut.

The last thing the outside world heard was his screams.

Then silence.

-

Days passed.

The 9th Legion never returned.

The Senate sent smaller search parties—none returned.

In time, the Labyrinth of Phyros was declared forbidden, its entrance sealed, its existence whispered about in hushed tones. Yet, still, there were stories—of roars heard at night, of travelers vanishing after straying too close.

The fate of the 9th became a legend, a cautionary tale. Some claimed they angered the gods. Others whispered that they had been betrayed by their own.

But the truth remained buried—deep within the labyrinth, where the Thyronax still prowled, guarding its domain.

And the souls it had claimed.

-

The Labyrinth of Phyros still stands.

A ruin untouched by time, a monument to hubris and doom.

No army dares approach. No emperor, no conqueror, no would-be hero has been foolish enough to challenge what waits below.

For the Thyronax remains.

It does not sleep.

It does not forget.

It waits.

For the next fool to enter.