I’ll Be the Boss Myself - 1

I’ll Be the Boss Myself

Book 1

Chapter 1: Reality

【You have died】

【You will be revived at the last shrine you visited in 30 seconds… re… sys…tem…】

Pain! Nolan jolted awake from the chaos, his whole body aching, his left cheek damp. Where… was this? He instinctively reached up. His hand came away dark red, and he flinched.

Before his eyes, the health bar flashed red. Less than 15% HP—a near-death warning.

The UI projected onto his retina was the all-too-familiar interface of the fully immersive game Glory, yet the very real pain on his face told him something was wrong. Had something gone wrong with the neural sync in the game pod?

The surroundings were deathly silent. In the distance, a faint, flickering firelight was the only illumination in the dark. His mouth tasted of blood. Straining, he pushed away the weight pinning him down, the coarse burlap scraping painfully against his skin. Only after freeing himself did he realize it was a corpse, its eyes wide open, staring blankly at the night sky.

He was lying in a pile of bodies.

Forcing himself to calm down, he listened closely. Not far away came a creaking sound, like bones grinding, mixed with the noise of something heavy being dragged.

Nolan felt dazed. His last memory was of being betrayed by his allies, surrounded by the Undead Overlord’s legion in the Sighing God Gorge in the northern Vaughn Continent. He, commander of the independent anti-undead regiment “Radiant Sun,” a level 140 legendary heavy warrior, had been pierced through the chest and had his soul torn apart by the twelfth-circle forbidden spell “Soul Disintegration,” bathed in green light.

He should have revived in the warm white glow of the Temple of Mother Sethis. But here, there were no sacred chants—only biting winds and corpses.

With the situation unclear, Nolan suppressed the pain wracking his body and slowly lowered himself, hiding within the shadows. Survival came first.

He noticed the corpse from earlier seemed to be a militia soldier. Wearing a dead man’s gear felt unsettling, but this was no time to be picky. Gritting his teeth, he carefully crawled over, preparing to strip the leather armor from the body. His body was riddled with wounds, every movement sending sharp pain through him, yet he forced himself not to make a sound. The moment the leather armor finally came off, a line of pale blue text appeared before his eyes.

【Shire Town Militia Leather Armor】

【Defense: 1】

【Durability: 3/10】

Nolan froze. What shocked him was not how utterly worthless the equipment was, but the words “Shire Town.”

He knew this place.

Shire was a small southern border town on the Vaughn Continent within the Elfin Kingdom in Glory.

His heart clenched, the pain sharper than the wound on his face.

The Elfin Kingdom… hadn’t it already been wiped off the map by the undead Shiva Empire?

Just as he stood stunned, the sound of approaching footsteps grew clearer.

Damn it—had he been discovered?

Nolan immediately dropped flat and turned, pressing himself lower as he peered through the gaps between the corpses.

A pair of pale, slender legs came into view. Looking up, he saw pale thighs, pale, thin arms, and beneath a low-hanging collar… pale ribs.

Skeletons!

Two of the lowest-tier skeleton warriors. In their hollow eye sockets burned faint blue soul flames.

Without hesitation, the skeletons, having found a living target, raised their rusted swords and thrust straight at Nolan’s head.

His body reacted before his mind. He rolled sharply to the side, the blade grazing his abdomen before stabbing deep into the dirt beneath him.

Ignoring the pain, Nolan sprang up in one swift motion. From the corner of his eye, he spotted an iron sword stuck in a nearby corpse. Without thinking, he lunged. Before the other skeleton’s strike could land, he yanked the sword free with a sharp pull and, with a backhand motion, forcefully blocked the incoming blow.

Clang! A perfect parry.

The battle instincts of a top-tier warrior, tempered through countless trials, remained precise even in such a desperate and clumsy situation. Yet the gap in strength was painfully real. At his peak, both the rusted sword and its wielder would have been shattered in a single strike.

Seizing the skeleton’s brief stiffness, Nolan thrust forward, the blade piercing straight into its eye socket.

Pfft! The soul flame flickered violently, then went out.

The other skeleton showed no hesitation at its companion’s fall. Its rusted sword was already upon him.

Nolan raised his blade to block, the impact numbing his hand as he staggered back. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. His mind supplied at least five ways to instantly counterkill, but this frail body lacked the stamina. He could only roll aside in a clumsy dodge, weaving around the pile of corpses to keep distance while recovering what little strength he could.

After several loops, the skeleton still pursued relentlessly, but Nolan had no intention of dragging it out any longer. He stopped abruptly, lowered his center of gravity, and seized the moment. As the skeleton swung, he reversed his grip and drove his sword through the gap in its ribs. The blade thrust upward into the skull, then twisted hard.

Crack! The soul flame extinguished, and the bones collapsed into a heap.

Leaning on his sword, Nolan gasped for breath, his arms trembling and numb. Defeating two of the weakest skeleton fodder had nearly drained his already depleted stamina. This sense of weakness felt even more suffocating than being betrayed by “allies” and killed instantly by a twelfth-circle forbidden spell.

【Skeleton Warrior defeated. EXP +6】

【Skeleton Warrior defeated. EXP +6】

Several lines of pale blue text appeared.

Wait… that’s not right.

In Glory, skeleton warriors, as beginner mobs, always gave a fixed 3 EXP. That rule was part of the game’s core logic and had never changed in twenty years.

He immediately focused on the lower-left corner of his vision. A familiar status panel appeared.

【Name: Nolan】

【Total Level: 1 (Militia 1/15, EXP 0/10)】

【Unassigned EXP: 12】

【Power Tier: Bronze (Level 1–25)】

【HP: 4/23】

【MP: 0/0】

Level 1 militia… only 4 HP remaining…

Nolan’s mind raced, connecting all the clues: the wrong revival point, the long-destroyed Shire Town, and the missing logout option. There was a ridiculous, yet only possible conclusion.

I… transmigrated into Glory? And into its launch era?!

The Elfin border raid… this was the very first year of Glory, the conflict all players had dismissed, yet one that ultimately ignited the Second Mandala War and led to the destruction of the entire Elfin Kingdom.

That meant this was not year 320 of the Vaughn Continent, when he died—but year 270. Fifty years earlier.

With twenty years of real-world experience in the game, he had returned to this past that was both unreal and vividly real.

In reality, his life had been unremarkable, so he had retreated into the game. This magical continent and its highly intelligent NPCs had given him a chance to realize his ambitions, to earn recognition, and to find friendship. It was warmth and fulfillment he had never known before. He had devoted himself to the game almost entirely. Others might have dismissed everything he cared about as mere programmed illusions, but he did not care. Because his feelings were real. That was enough.

Especially the Elfin Kingdom, his starting land, which he regarded as a virtual homeland. He had poured everything into it—laughed for it, wept for it, and shed his last drop of blood for it.

The kingdom’s fall had once filled him with grief. But now, it lay beneath his feet, real and tangible. It had not yet fallen.

Before he could fully process the shock, faint sounds of fighting and shouting from the direction of the town gate snapped him back to reality. Leaning on his sword, Nolan staggered toward it.

Once, he and thousands of like-minded players had fought with everything they had, yet still failed to save this crumbling nation. They had watched helplessly as the capital fell, as Princess Flina’s blood stained the throne.

That pain would never leave him.

Now, fate had given him another chance. Whether this was virtual or real no longer mattered. What mattered was the present.

Save Elfin.

The thought seized his entire mind.

Nolan swallowed, his heart pounding at the discovery that could overturn everything. He had to find someone alive and learn what was happening.

At the town gate, two men in militia uniforms were working together to finish off the last skeleton.

One of them, a younger militiaman, shouted anxiously, “Captain! Let’s get into the town and check—there might still be survivors!”

The man called captain shook him off, his face full of fear. “Check for what? Those damned bones from the Shiva Empire could come back any moment! Shire is finished! Go look yourself if you want—I’m heading to Rosenberg to take shelter!”

With that, he turned and ran into the darkness beyond the town without a second glance.

“Captain! Come back!” the young militiaman called out several times, but the other had already vanished into the night.

Disappointed, he turned around and happened to spot Nolan limping toward him along the wall. He hurried over. “Brother! Are you alright? We just got back from patrol and saw this mess. Was it those bastards from the Shiva Empire raiding again—”

“I…”

Before Nolan could reply, a massive shadow suddenly dropped from above.

Slash! A huge, curved heavy blade came crashing down with a howl that tore through the air.

The kind young militiaman, still mid-step, was split cleanly in two. Scalding blood splashed across Nolan’s face.

The corpse was eclipsed by a tall figure slowly straightening.

It was a skeletal creature nearly twice the size of a normal skeleton, clad in tattered iron armor. In its hollow eye sockets burned a crimson soul flame that sent a chill down the spine. The massive curved blade it dragged still dripped with fresh blood.

【Elite · Skeleton Overseer LV.15】

Nolan’s breath caught. An elite among low-tier undead, a nightmare for all novice players in the early game. Even a five-man party of the same level could be wiped out if they were careless.

The Skeleton Overseer’s crimson gaze slowly shifted, locking precisely onto the only “living” thing still standing in the town.

Run?

Nolan dismissed the idea instantly. Undead had limitless stamina, while he had only 4 HP left and barely any endurance. He wouldn’t make it fifty meters.

The shadow of death closed in once more.

His will to survive surged. Nolan clenched his teeth until blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. “You damned pile of bones…” he growled, a nameless fury and unwillingness igniting in his chest. “You wiped out my kingdom once, and you think you can do it again?”

Do you know who I am? I was once one of the top warriors on the entire server, the commander of the Radiant Sun regiment. I’ve slain hundreds of thousands of undead!

Live.

I have to live. And then I’ll make this kingdom live too.

Abandon illusions. Prepare to fight.

Nolan flexed his numb wrist and slowly raised the standard-issue iron sword in his hand, its tip pointing straight at the towering monster before him.

The hilt wrapped in rough linen cord, the faint lion crest along the spine of the blade… it was too familiar. An old companion that had stayed with him through half a year of his beginner days—the standard sword of the Elfin Kingdom.

“At my peak, I could snuff out your soul flame with a single step,” Nolan said with a self-mocking smile. “And now I have to stake my life on this level-one body against you.” He stepped forward and settled into a standard combat stance. “I’m not trying to prove how great I am…”

His voice was not loud, yet every word rang like steel, as if declaring war on the monster before him, or roaring defiance at this cruel fate.

“It’s that everything I once lost, I will take it all back with my own hands, piece by piece. And I’ll start… by taking you down and avenging Shire Town.”

—

The Skeleton Overseer paid no attention to Nolan’s words. In truth, aside from rare caster units like corpse liches, most Bronze-tier undead below level 25 possessed little to no self-awareness. Only a single directive was etched into their soul flames: destroy all living beings. Its crimson eye sockets locked onto Nolan. Heavy footsteps crunched over gravel as the massive curved blade dragged across the ground, carving a long groove and throwing off sparks. It advanced step by step, the oppressive presence enough to throw any novice player into panic.

But Nolan was no novice. A Skeleton Overseer? He knew it all too well.

Players called it a “gatekeeper” that drove beginners away. Its attack power left no margin for error against a novice’s pitiful health—one strike, one kill.

However, it was a low-level elite, riddled with flaws. Its weakness? Being too slow. Most importantly, its right arm was its primary weapon arm. Its turns and attacks to the right were just a fraction slower than to the left. That tiny delay, in the eyes of a top-tier expert like Nolan, was a death sentence.

As the blood-stained heavy blade came crashing down toward his head, he moved. He did not attempt to block or parry. With this level-one, fragile body, taking the blow head-on would shatter his bones instantly. Pushing off the ground with his boot, he slid swiftly to the left, evading the powerful strike with the least effort possible.

Boom! The heavy blade smashed into the spot where he had been standing, sending shards of stone flying.

Nolan had yet to fully regain his footing, but muscle memory guided his wrist. The militia iron sword in his hand flipped and shot forward, precisely striking the Overseer’s elbow joint through the gap in its arm bones.

A crisp fracture rang out. Crack!

He did not overcommit. The moment the strike landed, he withdrew, widening the distance. Only novices rushed blindly and lost control of the battlefield. As expected, the Skeleton Overseer’s movements faltered for a brief moment. Its injured right arm became noticeably sluggish when it swung. The damage might not have been high, but such precise strikes were devastating.

From then on, Nolan began circling it, always staying to its left. The vast difference in attributes was an unbridgeable gulf, but Nolan was a master swordsman. When the Overseer swept horizontally, Nolan angled his blade upward, bracing it with his left arm and sliding along the opponent’s heavy weapon.

Clang!

Amid a burst of sparks, the heavy blade was deflected upward by a clever application of force, exposing a wide opening. Nolan’s sword followed through, carving a deep mark into its knee joint. When another skewed slash came, he reversed his grip and thrust into the gap at its hip. In just five minutes, the Skeleton Overseer was like a clumsy spinning top being toyed with—possessing brute strength, yet unable to touch Nolan at all. More than a dozen fine cracks now marred its frame, its movements growing increasingly sluggish.

Now!

Nolan seized a perfect opportunity. He deliberately exposed a flaw, slowing his shift to the left by half a beat—a feint.

Just as in the game, the Overseer followed its behavioral pattern. It immediately poured all its strength into its right arm, the curved blade howling through the air as it smashed down toward Nolan.

This was exactly what Nolan had been waiting for. Instead of retreating, he surged forward, crashing into its chest and stepping into its blind spot. The heavy blade slammed into the ground, missing completely. Before he even steadied himself, Nolan twisted and stomped hard onto the broad back of the blade.

The Overseer tried to lift its weapon again. The immense force, instead of harming him, became the boost that propelled him upward. Nolan leapt high, twisting midair. The militia iron sword traced a cold arc of light as he aimed at an unremarkable bone at the back of its neck, toward the junction between thoracic and cervical vertebrae. The pivot of its entire skeletal frame, and its critical weak point in the game’s design. A hit here would not only deal 1.5 times critical damage, but also trigger a three-second “kneeling stun.”

Perfectly precise.

The Overseer’s soul flame shuddered violently as its towering body lost control and crashed to its knees.

Nolan landed steadily in front of it.

Normally, its height made the soul flame—its fatal weakness—hard to reach. Now, that was no longer the case.

He did not hesitate for a second. Strike while it’s down. The plain, unadorned standard iron sword in his hand spun lightly under his wrist. The next instant, it drove straight into the eye socket.

Pfft! The crimson soul flame swelled violently, held for a brief moment, then extinguished in an instant. The massive skeletal body collapsed, scattering into a pile of bones.

【Skeleton Overseer (Elite) defeated. EXP +1200】

“Hah… hah…” His body was exhausted, yet it could not suppress the incomparable thrill of taking control of everything once more. Looking at the scattered bones, Nolan couldn’t help but smile. “Good thing you don’t have a brain. Otherwise you’d be cursing me for cheating.”

Not far away, atop the watchtower, the red lion banner of the Elfin Kingdom hung limply. For a moment, Nolan seemed to see again the final scene atop the royal capital—the bloodstained hem of Princess Flina’s dress fluttering alongside a tattered war banner.

In the half-elf princess’ backward glance, there had been no plea, only sorrow and trust.

“Live on. Remember that we once existed,” she had said.

And he could only watch helplessly as she was swallowed by the tide of undead. It was the greatest failure and deepest regret of his twenty years in the game.

At this moment, the banner had never looked so vivid. Because everything could still be changed.

His greatest weapon was not the sword, but the hidden quests that could overturn entire battles, the god-tier items once buried, the heroes who would one day rise to power, and every turn of the story… he knew them all.

Nolan’s gaze passed over the shattered bones and fixed firmly on the lion banner swaying in the wind. He tightened his grip on the cheap iron sword, the rough texture of the hilt starkly real in his hand. If this was another possibility granted by fate, then it was a path he would never walk wrong again. He slowly raised his fist holding the sword and pressed it against his left chest, performing the Elfin knight’s salute he had not used in years.

“Elfin… I’m back.”

No longer a detached player, no longer a powerless passerby. This time, it was a true return home.

After scanning his surroundings and confirming that no new undead had appeared for the moment, Nolan steadied himself and opened his status panel. There was something he urgently needed to confirm.

The Skeleton Overseer’s base experience was 300. The difficulty bonus for killing an enemy fourteen levels higher capped at twice that amount. And yet, what he had received was 1200 EXP.

Before he could even feel happy, Nolan noticed a small tag next to his name.

【BOSS Template】

Huh?

He knew this well. It was the power template used for NPCs: Normal, Elite, Hero, and then Boss, with World Boss at the top.

Among them, the Boss template granted a base attribute multiplier of up to 2.5 times. This meant that not only could he possess up to four main classes like a player, he would also benefit from the compensation mechanics granted to NPCs by the game system.

In an instant, he understood why his experience gains had doubled—that was only the surface. More importantly, it meant he would have base attributes and growth far beyond players of the same level, and could even unlock those NPC-exclusive classes that players had long coveted. This template would be the most solid cornerstone for rewriting history.

It felt incredible. The only regret was that there was no forum where he could show it off.

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. Since things had come to this, the priority was to grow stronger. Suppressing the surge of excitement, Nolan poured all his experience points into the “Militia” class without hesitation.

【Militia level increased to 2…】

…

【Militia level increased to 10!】

【Total Level: 10 (Militia Lv.10, EXP: 178/5000)】

The fatigue and soreness from the recent battle vanished instantly. Explosive strength surged through his muscles and bones. This was the thrill of gaining nine levels at once. His health fully recovered, the maximum soaring to 260. With his experience spent, level 10 marked a threshold. Beyond this point, the required experience would spike sharply, but even so, this rate of leveling was already astonishing.

Next, Nolan eagerly opened his passive abilities panel. This was crucial.

The moment he saw the familiar data, the fingers gripping his iron sword trembled slightly. He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to suppress the surge of emotion rising in his throat.

【Combat Skills】

Elfin Military Swordsmanship (Lv.14/15, Grandmaster)

This was where everything had begun—the foundation he had forged over twenty years and countless swings of the sword, etched into his soul. Though his current power tier was only Bronze, in terms of swordsmanship alone, he was an undisputed Sword Saint in this world.

Horsemanship (Lv.7/15, Proficient)

The blood-red sunset of the breakout at the Malta Plains, the final roars of his comrades, the mournful cries of warhorses… that failed escape remained an unhealed wound in his heart. This time, it would be different.

Tactical Command (Lv.10/15, Master)

This was the honor and distinction he had built while leading the Radiant Sun regiment across countless battles, forged through victory and bitter defeat alike.

【Continental Knowledge】

Basic Knowledge (Lv.10/10, Max), Geography (Lv.5/5, Max), Local Knowledge (Lv.4/5), Dungeon Knowledge (Lv.9/10)

【Life Skills】

Cooking (Lv.8/10, Expert), Camping (Lv.10/10, Master), Lockpicking (Lv.3/10, Beginner)

…

They were all still there.

This was his true trump card—the accumulation of twenty years, the foundation for defying fate. He no longer had the devastating, god-tier active skills from his previous life, such as his signature sword technique, “Falling Star Blade.” But these most fundamental and hardest-to-raise passive abilities, the path he had walked step by step, had all come with him intact.

These were not just numbers. They were proof that he had truly lived in that virtual world.

The path ahead was now crystal clear: he would save the legendary heroes fated to fall, save Princess Flina, and save this kingdom. And to save the kingdom, he had to grow stronger as quickly as possible—not only his personal combat power, but also by building his own forces.

In the game’s original design, “Militia” was only a starting class, capped at level 15. He needed to advance into “Kingdom Guard” as soon as possible, and then rise further to “Kingdom Knight.” He could also take on “Mercenary” as a secondary class. The nearest adventurers’ guild was in Rosenberg. That would let him quickly raise his total level and power tier, and serve as a stepping stone toward returning to his most familiar profession—“Warrior.” With some effort, he could likely reach entry-level Silver rank there.

And then there was the temple.

He needed to find a way to obtain a cleric class, even the lowest-tier one. At level 15, it could provide two practical aura abilities, offering tremendous early-game combat boosts for exceptional efficiency. As for magic…

Nolan glanced at his 0/0 mana and shook his head with a wry smile.

“A magic-null constitution… that hasn’t changed at all.”

In his previous life, he had been hopeless with spells, but it wasn’t a major issue. He still remembered several locations from version 1.0 that held top-tier accessories granting magic resistance and magical abilities. But those were matters for later. For now…

Nolan turned his gaze into the distance, toward Rosenberg—the key city of Veli Province, where Shire Town was located.

The Shiva Empire’s border invasion had only just begun.

In his memory, Rosenberg had fallen due to poor response and collapsing morale, breached by a detachment of undead. The soldiers and civilians within suffered devastating casualties, and the land was filled with grief.

Within the province, all territory south of Rosenberg had been seized by the Shiva Empire.

He had to get there immediately. Inside that city were two figures who would one day shake the continent, now waiting for their turning point under the famous questlines: “A Veteran’s Death Wish” and “Flames of Vengeance.”

Nolan tightened his grip on the iron sword. The first step in changing fate—he would not allow that city to repeat the tragedy etched in his memory.

Chapter 2: Saving Nation

Before leaving, Nolan nudged the scattered bones of the Skeleton Overseer with his foot. There was no pleasant “ding” of equipment drops, no faint glimmer of items—only a heap of broken iron armor and a heavy blade unfit for human use.

“Is it because I count as half an NPC, or did my rotten luck from twenty years carry over too?” Nolan let out a self-mocking sigh. He bent down, ignored the fragments, and picked up the Overseer’s skull. Its weight was solid in his hand, the only proof that he had soloed this elite undead. In this world, real to the point of cruelty, that skull spoke louder than any words. He hooked it neatly at his waist and walked out of the lifeless town of Shire.

The undead did not care for money. Their raids were aimed at harvesting quality corpses, and that always meant large-scale death. The skeletons and Overseers left behind in the town were there to collect the bodies after the battle.

The houses lining the street, built in the typical southern Elfin style, should have stirred a sense of homesickness in Nolan. Instead, the stench of blood in the air only made him uneasy. The townspeople who had failed to escape lay in the mud, their faces still frozen in the terror of their final moments.

His gaze caught on the body of a woman by the roadside. She was still in an embracing posture, but her arms held nothing. Not far away, a mud-stained cloth tiger toy lay discarded.

Nolan’s steps faltered.

In the game, these had only been NPCs meant to set the atmosphere, data and background scenery. But now that he stood here in reality, the weight of lives trampled so casually made it hard for him to breathe. The suffocating feeling was strikingly similar to the helplessness he had felt when the kingdom fell.

He was no priest who could pray for the dead. All he could do was grip his sword and turn that unwillingness into resolve. To keep the dead from being enslaved by the undead, Nolan burned the bodies and left the town.

The road to Rosenberg was worse than he remembered. It had just rained, and the dirt path was thick with mud. Each step sank unevenly, and his boots were soon caked in filth.

Veli Province, where Shire Town was located, formed the southernmost barrier of the kingdom. Yet years of undead incursions, along with its current duke, had turned it into the poorest and most backward of the three southern provinces. That duke, described charitably as an art-loving “good man,” was in blunt terms nothing more than weak and incompetent. In his previous life, it was precisely this weakness that allowed vast swaths of the southern kingdom to become a breeding ground of flesh for the undead army.

Nolan’s gaze swept across the ground. Among the chaotic footprints, several unusual traces made him stop. Some prints had a stride longer than a child’s but were shallower than an adult’s. The steps were uniform and aligned, nothing like the disorder of fleeing refugees.

Drawing on twenty years of adventuring experience, he quickly read the signs. They were the marching traces of skeleton warriors. Mixed among them was a dragging mark. A corpse mage. A low-level one that needed to stand still to cast, its robe trailing along the ground as it moved.

So it was a skeleton squad led by a low-level corpse mage.

Nolan immediately quickened his pace. Along the way, the scenes of tragedy grew denser; the fleeing townspeople had not outrun death after all.

In less than a quarter hour, he stopped before a corpse dressed in a militia uniform. The insignia on the shoulder marked him as the militia captain who had fled Shire Town. Though he had deserted, Nolan could not bring himself to blame him. Against the undead, fear was the norm for ordinary people, and they were often powerless.

He sighed, bent down, removed the captain’s badge, and tucked it into his chest. “I’ll find the courage you lost.”

He pressed on. At last, beneath a slope, he found the undead squad. At a glance, there were about twenty skeleton warriors clustered around a hunched figure in black robes, moving silently toward Rosenberg.

That was it.

Corpse mages were transformed from the living. The fire of their souls burned brighter than that of skeleton warriors, carrying a trace of human cunning.

“A corpse mage scout, just as I thought.” Nolan held his breath, keeping the scent of the living from giving him away.

The undead’s finest scouts were third-tier skeleton cavalry, as fast as elven stag knights and without stamina limits. Using a valuable spellcaster to lead a group of short-legged skeletons as scouts—this style… It could only be the lich lord known as “Gangrene.” A notorious border warlord and a specialist in mass-producing corpse mages, he commanded many human defectors. He had so many low-tier caster units that he could afford to use them as expendables. Corpse mage scouts were deceptive and had strong endurance, a tactic unique to him.

Nolan did not reveal himself at once. He circled to higher ground, concealed himself in the shade, and calmly locked onto his prey. In the past, enemies at this level would have collapsed from a single sneeze. But now, if he were entangled by those twenty skeletons, the low-level corpse mage could keep repairing and reviving them from behind. No matter how skilled he was, he would be worn down to death in this level ten body.

There was only one strategy.

Take down the leader first.

He drew a deep breath. When the squad moved directly below him, his body tensed, then he burst forward from the slope.

His sudden appearance drew the attention of all the undead. The skeleton warriors turned, raising their swords as they closed in. Nolan neither dodged nor retreated. He drove straight into their formation.

“Out of my way!” he roared. The iron sword in his hand did not slash. Instead, it blurred into precise afterimages, striking the flat of the foremost skeletons’ blades.

Clang! Clang!

The recoil numbed his wrists, but with refined technique, he redirected the force. The deflected swords crashed into nearby skeletons, opening a gap in their tight formation.

Now!

Nolan pushed off the ground and forced his way through the gap with sheer momentum. The low-level corpse mage at the center clearly had not expected such a swift charge. In panic, it raised its staff, its shriveled mouth uttering obscure syllables. A bone spear formed instantly, coalescing from pale bone, and shrieked toward Nolan’s face.

He did not even look at it. Corpse mages had fixed casting habits. They instinctively protected their staff, which housed their soul, causing their projectiles to skew slightly toward their dominant side. Relying on experience, Nolan shifted sharply to the right at the instant the spear reached him. The bone spear grazed past his cheek, the wind it carried doing nothing more than ruffle his black hair.

He was already in front of the corpse mage. That withered body looked as fragile as a newborn to him. Warrior versus mage was all about closing the distance. How to do that tested a warrior’s skill, experience, and understanding of the enemy.

The soul fire in the corpse mage’s eyes flickered violently, filled with incomprehensible shock. This human looked like nothing more than an ordinary militiaman, so how could he know its casting habits so well? How had the skeleton warriors failed to delay him even slightly?

It had no time to figure it out. Nolan’s sword had already arrived. There was no flashy technique, just the simplest and fastest straight thrust.

The corpse mage had already begun preparing its next spell. Creatures without pain did not care about sword wounds.

Thud!

But to its surprise, the blade did not pierce its body. Instead, the tip drove straight through the top of its staff.

That inconspicuous soul phylactery was the corpse mage’s true weak point. Its body was nothing more than a replaceable shell of flesh.

“How do you kn—!”

The phylactery shattered with a crack, and the soul fire in the corpse mage’s eyes burst apart and went out.

With its death, the spirit-binding spell it maintained collapsed instantly. The twenty skeleton warriors surrounding Nolan had already raised their swords to strike, but their blue flames winked out all at once. They clattered into a pile of bones. The nearest rusted blade struck Nolan from sheer momentum, dealing a negligible one point of damage.

【Low-Level Corpse Mage defeated. EXP +500】

【Skeleton Warrior defeated. EXP +6】

…

Nolan’s attention, however, was on something else.

“Still no drops…” He frowned.

Skeleton warriors normally had a decent chance of dropping items like “Lesser Holy Water,” a highly useful healing item in the early game. Yet after killing so many, he hadn’t seen a single one. That meant every fight had to be approached with greater caution. The cost of injury here was far higher than in the game.

Nolan crouched down and began searching the corpse mage’s remains. The habit of looting was almost instinctive. After rummaging through it, there was only the bone staff with its shattered phylactery—useless.

But just as he was about to discard it, he caught sight of a mark. His eyes widened, and he snatched it back into his hand. “What?!”

A skull wrapped in chains. An old enemy he would never forget.

“The Imperial Chosen Corps?” The future ace legion of the Shiva Empire, an elite force directly under the Undead Monarch himself. Why was this designation appearing so early?

A realization struck him. In his previous life, the Shiva Empire had only completed its military reforms in the mid-to-late stages of the Second Mandala War, forming fifty elite units known as the “Imperial Chosen Corps.” That was accepted by players as fact.

A chill crept over Nolan. The appearance of this insignia suggested the reforms had begun far earlier than expected. Though the rabble before him was far from elite, it proved one thing: the Undead Monarch had already begun consolidating internal power. The Shiva Empire was no longer the loose collection of feuding warlords people believed it to be. This staff contained crucial intelligence—perhaps something only he could understand. He stowed it away, glanced at the sky, and wasted no more time, sprinting at full speed toward Rosenberg.

More than an hour later, a twenty-meter-tall clock tower finally appeared on the horizon.

Rosenberg.

At that moment, chaos reigned at the city gates. Survivors from several villages and towns had gathered there with their families. Cries, wails, and shouts blended into a deafening uproar. Several soldiers in Rosenberg Guard uniforms were shouting themselves hoarse, trying to maintain order.

Nolan had no time to wait in line. He pushed through the crowd, strode straight to the front, raised the bloodstained militia captain’s badge high, and shouted, “Shire Town militia, acting captain Nolan! I bring urgent military intelligence! Take me to Captain Hank Corot of the Guard immediately!”

The name “Hank Corot” brought sudden silence. All the guards looked at him with puzzled expressions. This unknown rural militiaman was demanding to see the captain right away?

That was exactly the effect Nolan wanted.

Hank Corot.

The protagonist of the legendary questline “A Veteran’s Death Wish” and the first key figure Nolan needed—to save Rosenberg and to begin building his own power.

—

“Stop!”

A guardsman lowered his spear, blocking Nolan’s path as he looked him over, from his mud-caked boots to his worn militia uniform.

“Hey, another one from Shire Town? Trying to cut the line to see the captain? Get to the back!”

Another guard leaned against the wall, picking at his nails as he lazily chimed in, “Yeah. Crying that the sky’s falling, huh? Just trying to get into the city and find a place to hide. We’ve seen plenty of that.”

Nolan rolled his eyes. So this was Rosenberg’s guard? Their chainmail gleamed, yet they had no fighting spirit. Their weapons were fine, yet they lacked even the most basic vigilance. No wonder Rosenberg had fallen so quickly and so miserably in his previous life. The kingdom’s foundations had already begun to rot from places like this.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he spoke calmly, “If the information I bring concerns the lives of you and everyone in this city, may I pass?”

The guard’s expression darkened. He had just opened his mouth to retort when a steady voice came from within the gate, “What’s all this noise? Is the gate where you show off your authority?!”

The guards who had been slouching around turned pale at the sound. The one picking his nails flinched so hard his knife nearly cut his finger. He scrambled to hang his sword back at his waist, almost putting the scabbard on backward in his panic. In the span of a second, all of them snapped to attention, standing ramrod straight, eyes forward like mice spotting a hawk.

A warhorse slowly stepped out through the gate. The man on its back looked to be in his forties, with a resolute face and neatly trimmed stubble, a thick cigar clenched between his teeth.

At the sight of that familiar face, a long-lost warmth rose in Nolan’s chest.

Hank Corot.

Even seated on horseback, his back was as straight as a spear, the bearing of a soldier forged in the mountains of corpses and seas of blood during the First Mandala War fifteen years ago. The silver lion emblem on his chest gleamed in the sunlight. Nolan knew that beneath that uniform was another decoration—a Silver Star awarded for outstanding merit. He looked younger than Nolan remembered, without the jagged scar that would later mar his face. But his eyes were the same—bright and sharp. He should have had a brighter future. Yet, weary of war, he had chosen to retire and return to his hometown of Rosenberg, serving as captain of the guard, wanting only to protect a corner of peace.

In the original story, fate would mock him with cruel irony.

At this thought, Nolan’s chest tightened.

Though Hank had sensed the danger, he had ultimately been limited by the understanding of the time—the Shiva Empire would not launch a large-scale war. That fatal misjudgment led to Rosenberg being overrun by the undead due to insufficient response. The entire guard was wiped out, countless civilians were slaughtered and turned into fodder for the undead army, including the daughter he cherished most.

The surviving Hank was consumed by endless guilt and grief. Under the alias Red Lion, he later formed the most renowned mercenary group in all of Elfin—the “Red Lion.” As long as the target was undead, his fee was always a symbolic five copper coins, the price of a single piece of black bread. That price was simply his way of telling the world that he was still fighting.

In his previous life, countless players—including Nolan himself—had benefited from this legendary hero. In the final days of the kingdom’s turmoil, he led the Red Lion into the war of defense without hesitation. In the last battle before the kingdom fell, he charged into an undead army ten times his size, fulfilling his final loyalty with his life. Only after his death did people discover the dust-covered Silver Star among his belongings and learn the true identity of the mercenary commander.

This man was a true hero in Nolan’s eyes. And this time, he would not be allowed to repeat that fate.

Meeting Hank’s gaze, Nolan showed no trace of hesitation. His voice was clear and steady. “Acting militia captain of Shire Town, Nolan! I bring urgent military intelligence that must be reported to you immediately!”

Hank Corot had been about to personally lead a team to investigate the raids on nearby villages. He reined in his horse, his sharp eyes sweeping over Nolan, quickly noting the drying blood on his face, the mud covering him, and the captain’s badge that did not match his age. “Your courage is commendable, lad. But I’ve already received multiple reports about the raids. The situation is urgent. You can head to the guard post first—”

Before he could finish, Nolan moved. He yanked off the heavy object wrapped in ragged cloth at his waist and raised it high. The cloth slipped away. It exposed a massive skull, far larger than that of an ordinary skeleton.

“Captain Hank, the situation is far more serious than you think!” Nolan’s voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly across the entire gate. “This is the proof!”

“A… a Skeleton Overseer!” One of the guards who had just been scolding Nolan went pale when he recognized the skull. His legs nearly gave out, and his voice trembled. “Mother Goddess above! How could something like this appear here…?”

A Skeleton Overseer. To every Rosenberg guard who had ever faced the undead, that name was synonymous with nightmares. It was an elite unit among the undead ranks, a monster that even a full squad might fail to survive against. And now, its skull was being held in the hand of a young militiaman who looked even younger than them.

Hank paused mid-draw on his cigar. The surprise in his eyes quickly gave way to the grave focus unique to a seasoned soldier. Seizing the moment, Nolan produced the bone staff he had taken and presented it with both hands. “On my way here, I also wiped out an undead scout squad. The one leading it was a corpse mage.”

A corpse mage. If the Skeleton Overseer brought shock, then that name alone was enough to send a chill through everyone present.

Hank exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, briefly obscuring his expression. When he looked at Nolan again, his gaze had completely changed. It was no longer that of a superior looking at a subordinate, but of a commander assessing a piece of blood-soaked intelligence that could alter the course of battle. He hesitated no longer. Swinging down from his horse with decisive efficiency, he moved like a blade leaving its sheath.

“Come with me!” Grabbing Nolan by the arm, he strode quickly toward the guardroom beside the gate.

Bang! The heavy wooden door shut, sealing out the noise from outside.

Hank turned, his hawk-like eyes fixed on Nolan. “You’re a good soldier, Nolan. Thank you for bringing this information.” He walked over to the map, his expression grave. “A corpse mage scout and a Skeleton Overseer… this means the scale of these raids far exceeds anything before. I’ll immediately dispatch three additional ten-man patrols and expand the patrol radius to thirty miles.”

Nolan’s heart sank. Just as before. Hank’s judgment far surpassed that of ordinary men, yet he was still bound by the limits of his time.

This time, Nolan had to break those limits.

“Captain Hank, that’s wrong.” Nolan stepped forward. His voice was not loud, but it was unwavering. “Sending patrols out now is sending them to their deaths.”

Hank turned sharply, his brow furrowed, authority and warning flashing in his eyes.

Nolan did not yield. He met his gaze head-on. “A scout unit led by a spellcaster isn’t a raider’s tactic. It’s the signature reconnaissance method of the lich lord ‘Gangrene.’ Raiders wouldn’t approach a large city like Rosenberg either. If all they wanted was plunder, a siege would never be worth the cost.” He paused, then delivered the conclusion that could change Rosenberg’s fate. “This isn’t a border raid. This is an invasion—with the clear strategic objective of taking Rosenberg.”

Hank stared fixedly at the young militiaman before him. His calloused hand silently gripped the hilt at his waist. In Nolan’s eyes, he saw neither deceit nor fear—only an unshakable certainty, as if he had already seen everything that was to come.

After a long moment, Hank spoke, his voice hoarse as he removed the cigar from his lips. “An invasion… Do you understand the weight of that word, young man?” His gaze pressed down like a physical force. “If your judgment is correct, then what we’re facing is… war. Can you stake your life and honor on it?”

Chapter 3: Crisis

“I can.” Nolan’s voice did not waver in the slightest.

“Young man, I must remind you—since the end of the First Mandala War, the kingdom and the Shiva Empire have maintained fifteen years of peace. Those piles of bones haven’t dared to touch a single walled city since.”

Hank’s voice was heavy, carrying the stubbornness of a veteran. Nolan knew that experience could be armor, but sometimes it was also a cage. He did not argue. Instead, he raised the bone staff and held out the skull emblem wrapped in chains at its tip for Hank to see. “Because what’s coming this time is not something as simple as the border warlords you’re used to. Captain Hank, you’ve fought the Shiva Empire and guarded Rosenberg for years. Have you ever seen this?”

Hank frowned and leaned in to examine it closely. After a moment, he shook his head. He had never seen such a mark.

“This is the insignia of the ‘Imperial Chosen Corps,’” Nolan said quietly. “A force within the Shiva Empire that answers directly to the Undead Monarch himself. They are the king’s blade—the will of the empire made manifest. Their appearance points to only two possibilities. Either this operation has the approval of the empire’s highest authority, or the monarch is using our blood to purge certain unruly elements. Either way, it means the Undead Monarch is no longer content with the empire’s current state.” Nolan’s speech quickened. “And when that empire’s ‘Black Pearl’ completes centralization, a war that sweeps across the entire kingdom will become inevitable!”

Silence fell between them. Hank needed time to process the weight of this information. He stared hard at Nolan. The certainty in the young man’s eyes sent a faint chill through him. That was not the look of someone seeking attention.

“This level of intelligence… is far beyond what a border militiaman should have access to,” Hank said hoarsely. “Who are you, really? What do you want?”

Nolan had prepared for this. “My father…was part of the Wyvern Unit of the Southern Legion. He died in that war fifteen years ago. I don’t even remember his face. All I remember is my mother, clutching his belongings, crying herself blind. From that day on, I swore I would learn everything about these walking bones, better than I know myself. Every legion, every insignia, every cursed habit—they’re all carved into my mind!”

The story was only half true, but the hatred in his eyes was real, carrying the weight of two lifetimes. In his previous life, after the tragedy of Rosenberg, players had realized how critically lacking their intelligence was.

The kingdom could not reach that far, so countless players relied on their “immortality” to form reconnaissance teams, throwing themselves again and again into the heart of the Shiva Empire to gather information. On the official game forums, a thread compiling undead intelligence had been pinned for two and a half years, updated daily without fail.

Nolan had been one of them. In the mid-to-late stages, he had joined those reconnaissance teams, even sacrificing his own level progression, falling out of the top ranks, until the kingdom fell.

His explanation had flaws, but the mention of the First Mandala War struck directly at a veteran’s heart. That was exactly Nolan’s strategy—prescribe the right remedy.

Hank fell silent. How long had it been since he last heard those words? The glory and pain of the past had grown so distant they felt like someone else’s story. Ash from the cigar at his lips fell unnoticed onto the back of his hand. Before his eyes rose once more that hellscape of corpses and blood, the dying roars of his comrades still echoing in his ears. Barely one in ten had survived. That war was a wound his generation would never forget.

When he looked at Nolan again, his gaze had completely changed. Scrutiny and suspicion gave way to sympathy and understanding. If this young man was the son of a fallen comrade, then his maturity beyond his years and his near-obsessive knowledge of the undead all made sense.

So this was what the fire of vengeance looked like.

“…Hah.” Hank let out a long breath, then crushed the half-smoked cigar hard against the table, as if extinguishing the last trace of hesitation in his heart. He turned sharply, tore the military map off the wall, and slapped it down with a crack. “Kid, show me where you encountered the scouts!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Nolan pointed precisely to a narrow pass between two small hills on the map. “Here.” His voice was crisp and certain. “At the undead’s marching speed, their main force will reach Rosenberg in at most two days.”

Hank’s eyes widened. That estimate matched exactly the calculation he had just made in his own mind. He stared at the map and asked the most crucial question, “The undead main force you mentioned… what’s your basis for that?”

Nolan knew the decisive moment had arrived. He hadn’t had time to scout personally, but he carried knowledge of what was to come. Whether he could convince this legendary figure depended entirely on what he said next. He met Hank’s sharp gaze without the slightest flaw in his expression. “I took a risk and got closer, hiding in the mass grave outside Parson Town. The vanguard has already begun collecting corpses—that’s preparation for war. I didn’t dare stay long, but from what I saw alone, there were at least four infantry formations. At least… two thousand.”

Hank stiffened, but Nolan wasn’t finished.

“There’s also a mage corps made up of at least fifty low-tier corpse mages.”

“What?!”

The color drained instantly from Hank’s face. He staggered, one hand bracing hard against the table. Cold sweat soaked his temples.

Two thousand infantry—and a fully formed mage corps. If Nolan hadn’t brought this information, with Rosenberg’s current lax defenses and total lack of preparation, once such a force struck… The city would fall in the blink of an eye.

“Captain Hank, it’s not too late to prepare!” Nolan’s voice cut in, pulling him back from the shock.

That’s right!

Hank straightened abruptly, the discipline of a hardened soldier crushing down all fear and hesitation.

“Move!”

He grabbed the helmet from the table.

“To the garrison!”

---

The two of them rushed out of the guardroom one after the other, almost breaking into a run as they headed toward the western garrison. The streets were in chaos—refugees fleeing here mixed with local residents, cries, curses, and the shouts of guards blending into a deafening uproar.

This unrest was a preview of the crisis about to descend upon the city.

Hank’s steps grew heavier.

When they finally reached the garrison entrance, the sound of arguing from inside made his expression darken further.

A young guard, dressed in a crisp uniform and wearing a faintly glowing enchanted longsword at his waist, was pointing angrily at a shorter squad member, as if about to strike him.

“Stop!” Hank’s roar silenced the entire courtyard.

The two arguing guards froze in terror when they saw him. They snapped apart and stood at attention, left hands pressed to their chests in a stiff salute.

“Captain Hank!”

The taller young man swallowed nervously. “Y-you… weren’t you out on patrol?”

Nolan couldn’t help glancing at Hank. This man’s authority within the guard was no joke.

But Hank was in no mood for idle talk. His face was as hard as iron as he barked, “Klose! I left you in charge of the garrison—is this what you do, beating your fellow soldiers?!”

The young man called Klose flushed red and pale in turns, looking thoroughly embarrassed. He pointed at the shorter guard and hurried to explain, “It’s Little Donnie! He heard some rumors from survivors who fled from Parson Town and started spreading nonsense about an undead army coming! The whole city is already on edge, and now he even wants to take a team out of the city to ‘scout’ on his own—that’s blatant disobedience! I stopped him to stabilize morale and prevent further chaos!”

Little Donnie immediately grew agitated, about to argue back.

“Enough!” Hank’s sharp command cut him off. Both men fell silent, not daring to utter another word.

Ignoring them, Hank gave Nolan a slight nod. “The command room is this way.”

Klose and Little Donnie were stunned to see Hank treating a dust-covered young man in a worn militia uniform with such respect.

Who exactly was this guy?

As they stood there in confusion, Hank took a few steps forward, then suddenly stopped. Without turning around, he let out a cold snort at the two who were still standing there like posts.

“You—and you. Follow.”

—

The door to the command room was kicked open by Hank, then slammed shut with a bang. Klose and Little Donnie stood at the entrance, staring at Hank’s imposing back, not daring to breathe too loudly.

Hank strode to the command table covered with a massive military map and braced both hands against it. “From this moment on, we begin a tactical briefing.” He was always serious, but now, to Klose and Little Donnie, he seemed ten times more severe. “The Rosenberg Guard is to enter Level One alert immediately!” He raised his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over Klose. “Deputy Captain Klose, after this meeting, you will lead a team to seal all city gates except the south gate! Then, gather every guard—active duty, on leave, even those in confinement. I want to see all of them on the training ground within five minutes!”

Klose was stunned by the sudden order and instinctively protested, “Captain, it’s just unrest in the surrounding villages. Is it really necessary to mobilize on such a… large scale?”

Hank slowly lifted his eyes. The coldness in them made Klose’s heart skip a beat. “This is Nolan, acting militia captain of Shire Town.” He gestured toward Nolan, who stood calmly to the side. “He has brought intelligence that concerns the life and death of Rosenberg.”

“Life and death?” Klose and Little Donnie exclaimed in unison. That was no small matter.

Little Donnie’s young face flushed red as he stepped forward excitedly. “I told you, Deputy Captain Klose! I said those boneheads were acting strange! They’re not scattered raiders like before. Their movements are highly organized, with clear intent—like… like an army!”

Klose’s expression immediately darkened. What he hated most was that look on Little Donnie’s face, as if he understood everything. He shot Nolan a disdainful glance, clasped his hands behind his back, and spoke loudly, “Captain, military intelligence is no trivial matter. But to mobilize the entire defensive system of Rosenberg based on the word of a single, unidentified militiaman—isn’t that too rash? If the intelligence is wrong, it will not only cause panic within the city but also waste our already strained war resources! With all due respect, what kind of insight could a backwater commoner from places like Shire or Parson Town possibly have? Most likely he ran into a few skeletons, got scared out of his wits, and exaggerated the whole thing!” He felt his words were both forceful and professional—impressive, even.

But the approval he expected from his captain never came. Hank only looked at him coldly, making the hairs on the back of Klose’s neck stand on end. His mind raced, and a dreadful realization struck him. Cold sweat broke out instantly.

He remembered.

Captain Hank Corot… before being knighted… had also been born a commoner. His earlier remarks had just insulted the one person in Rosenberg he absolutely shouldn’t offend.

“Hmph,” Hank let out a cold snort. “Put away that shallow, aristocratic arrogance of yours, Klose. Acting Captain Nolan’s insight and courage surpass ten of you.”

Every word from Hank landed like a slap across Klose’s face.

Ignoring Klose’s ashen expression, Hank asked directly, “Tell me—how many troops can the Rosenberg Guard mobilize right now?”

“Uh… the number is…”

Klose opened his mouth but couldn’t give a clear answer. He had obtained his position through his father, Baron Locke, the city lord. To him, the role was more about prestige than responsibility. Aside from strutting around the city and thinking about how to look more impressive in uniform, he had never concerned himself with such details.

“Two hundred thirty…? No, wait, maybe two hundred si—” he stammered, while Hank’s face grew darker by the second.

Beside him, Little Donnie struggled not to laugh, barely holding it in.

Hank’s sharp gaze snapped toward him. Little Donnie immediately straightened, wiping away any trace of amusement.

“Reporting, Captain! The Rosenberg Guard has a total of 312 registered personnel! Excluding the wounded, sick, and those on long-term assignments, the maximum number we can mobilize within the city immediately is 280!”

Two hundred eighty.

So few?

Even though he had expected it, Nolan still let out a quiet sigh.

Hank’s fingers pressed against the map, his nails digging deep into the rough parchment, nearly tearing it apart.

Two hundred eighty men… against two thousand undead, and a mage corps. For a moment, the blood-soaked battlefield from fifteen years ago flashed before his eyes—his fallen comrades, their broken bodies strewn across the ground. Even with advance warning, the situation still hung by a thread.

He drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising and falling violently. When he looked up again, the despair had already been crushed beneath sheer iron will. He decided, for now, not to reveal the enemy’s true numbers to the other two. If morale collapsed, then there would truly be no hope left.

Nolan, meanwhile, was also considering countermeasures.

Across the entire Veli Province, only the capital, Veli City, had a standing army. Other cities relied solely on local forces like the guard for defense. But this wasn’t just a matter of numbers. From the fact that someone like Klose could become deputy captain through connections—and from the lax attitude of the guards outside—it was clear the kingdom was already rotting from the inside.

Hank took a deep breath and pointed at the map as he began issuing orders. “Klose, inform the city defense—within two days, move all heavy crossbows to the southern wall for reinforced deployment! Little Donnie, divide the remaining guards into three shifts to rotate on the south gate wall. Assign at least five scouts to the top of the bell tower for lookout, reporting every five minutes—”

“Captain Hank, forgive my interruption!” a voice cut through his orders. It was abrupt, but not disrespectful.

Everyone froze and turned toward Nolan. Interrupting the commanding officer during a military briefing was a serious offense in the kingdom—one that could lead to trial.

Klose immediately felt a surge of schadenfreude, eager to see this overconfident nobody get torn apart by the captain. But Hank only frowned, not erupting on the spot. Still, without a good explanation, that restraint might not last. “You have something to add?”

Nolan stepped forward, his finger tracing across the map as he laid out three clear suggestions. “One proposal. First, despite our manpower shortage, we must detach thirty men to form an independent strike unit, composed of our most elite members, tasked with executing assault operations. Second, clear out all the fire oil and torches from the warehouse and distribute them. In addition, every soldier must be issued three flint stones for ignition. Third, prepare all bows and adjust their strings. Distribute arrows to the second line. Gather all reserve minor holy water used for healing from the warehouse and centralize its storage and allocation.”

When Nolan finished, silence once again filled the command room.

Klose’s expression looked as if he had just seen a ghost. He glanced between Nolan and Hank, utterly baffled. What kind of nonsense was this? They already didn’t have enough troops, and now he wanted to split off thirty men for some “strike unit”? Wasn’t that just speeding up their deaths? Torches and flint? What for—a bonfire party at night? And the most important resource, the minor holy water—something meant to save lives in critical moments—shouldn’t each soldier keep their own supply? Wasn’t this just an attempt to hoard it for personal gain?

Klose’s gaze flickered between Nolan and Hank, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. If the captain hadn’t spoken yet, he would have already shouted, “Seize the spy!”

Even Little Donnie looked confused. He trusted the captain’s judgment and believed Nolan wasn’t ordinary, but these suggestions were too strange—completely beyond his understanding of conventional defensive warfare.

Yet the most striking reaction in the room did not belong to either of them. The cigar in Hank’s mouth slipped free with a soft tap, falling onto the map and scorching a small black mark. He stared at Nolan as if looking at some mind-reading demon capable of stealing memories.

Torches… Holy water…

This young man—this so-called militia from Shire Town… How did he know these supplies existed in the Rosenberg Guard’s warehouse?

That warehouse—aside from himself and the quartermaster, not even Klose, the deputy captain, knew its exact inventory.

…Who exactly was he?

Chapter 4: How did he get even stronger?

“How do you know all this?”

Faced with Hank’s wary gaze, Nolan remained calm. He knew this was the most dangerous threshold before trust could be built—and also the strongest foundation. One wrong word, and everything would collapse. He had anticipated this question.

“Captain Hank, you know I’ve been investigating my father’s past. Before joining the Southern Legion, he served for several years as a quartermaster in Rosenberg.” Nolan put on a reflective expression. “Only after his death, when I sorted through his belongings, did I come across some old warehouse records. For example, fire oil was always stored separately from dry linen in the south and north corners, because the southern wall corner tended to seep slightly during the rainy season. In his notes, he often complained that inventory was never updated—it was practically a standing habit.”

He inwardly muttered, That warehouse in Rosenberg was probably so dusty you could plaster walls with it. Luckily it was, or this lie wouldn’t hold together today.

That seemingly trivial detail shattered the last line of defense in Hank’s mind.

That’s right—the seepage in the southern corner was something only he and the quartermaster knew. Sometimes, what a man in a high position, burdened with immense pressure, needs is not a flawless truth, but a reason he can accept—something within the bounds of his understanding. And Nolan had given him exactly that.

Far better than claiming to be some reborn prophet—he’d be locked up as a madman for that. The suspicion and shock in Hank’s eyes slowly faded.

He was about to continue issuing orders when Nolan spoke again, dropping another bombshell, “Captain Hank, I’m not finished with my proposal.”

Nolan lifted his gaze from the map, sweeping it across the three men present.

“We’re going to fight. And not by cowering behind the walls, waiting to be battered.” He extended a finger and drew a firm circle on the open ground south of Rosenberg’s gate. “We go out—and fight them in open battle!”

“Are you insane?! You’ve completely lost your mind!” Klose finally snapped, pointing at Nolan and shouting, “Captain! This man is mad! He has no grasp of military fundamentals at all! Abandon the city walls to fight in the open? You’re trying to get all of us killed!” He turned desperately to Hank, his tone almost pleading. “If you follow his plan, you’ll doom Rosenberg—and all of us!”

Even Little Donnie, who had been curious and impressed by Nolan, stood there with his mouth open, unable to speak. Marching out to meet the enemy? How was that any different from suicide?

Hank ignored Klose’s outburst. His eyes remained locked on Nolan. “I need a reason. A reason strong enough to convince me to stake the lives of 280 men—and this entire city—on your plan.”

Nolan did not flinch. “The reason is simple. I understand these undead better than anyone here.” His confidence was absolute. “The force attacking us is a detachment under the lich lord ‘Gangrene,’ one of the border lords of the Shiva Empire. Their strength is roughly a third of his total army. Their tactics are as rigid as the dead—which they are. Light infantry advances the line, while the mage corps provides decisive firepower. Fifteen minutes—that’s their fixed coordination cycle. Then they gather souls, replenish fodder, and bombard with spells. There’s nothing innovative about it.”

Nolan tapped the symbol of the towering city wall on the map.

“Their defining trait is an unusually high proportion of mages. If we think the terrain gives us an advantage, then in the eyes of those corpse mages, we’re nothing more than rows of stationary targets! The walls may block the tide of skeletons, but they also strip us of the depth needed to evade long-range attacks! The skeleton soldiers are just fodder. Their real killing power lies in mass spell bombardment. Once the defenses on the wall are exhausted, the city’s fall is only a matter of time, especially since we have no mage corps of our own. As for the Guard’s ranged capabilities… you know better than I do. We lack any effective means of countering them at range. Taking the field is our only chance to survive! My proposal is this—” Nolan’s voice rose sharply, “assign up to twenty men into four five-man teams to operate heavy crossbows, maintaining long-range suppression on the corpse mage corps! Of the remaining 260, allocate thirty as mobile cavalry for covert maneuvering. The final 230 will march out to engage! Form loose formations to draw frontal fire, but do not stray too far—maintain a distance within 500 yards of the south gate, forming crossfire support with the heavy crossbows on the walls!”

Nolan wasn’t making this up. Because this very tactic was something Hank himself would pioneer in the future. He was simply offering a flower borrowed from tomorrow to the present.

Three listeners—three completely different reactions.

Little Donnie’s eyes burned with excitement. The boldness of the plan and his desire for vengeance made him want to cheer out loud.

Hank frowned deeply, his broad hand unconsciously clenching and unclenching on the table as he ran through every possibility of this unorthodox strategy in his mind.

As for Klose, his face showed nothing but naked disdain. “Utter nonsense!” He cut in rudely before Nolan even finished. “Have you even read anything? The Kingdom Infantry Manual clearly states: when at a numerical disadvantage, one must hold the city and await reinforcements! That is iron law!”

Nolan didn’t even bother to look at him. “Seems our Deputy Captain Klose slept through his theory lessons. The manual also says defenders should be equipped with longbow units and stockpile arrows at least ten times the enemy’s numbers. Tell me—does Rosenberg meet those conditions? As for waiting for reinforcements—even if the Southern Legion stationed in Veli City decides to come, it would take at least ten days to assemble and march. Can we hold that long? And one more thing…” Nolan turned, his gaze piercing straight into Klose’s eyes. “Here’s a line for you—free of charge Those who learn the manual live. Those who copy it blindly die.”

Klose was struck speechless, his face flushing a deep, ugly red.

And Hank—when he heard that final line—felt his entire body jolt.

Those who learn the manual live. Those who copy it blindly die…

That sentence… word for word…

He had only ever heard it once before—from the old legion commander who had dragged him out of a mountain of corpses all those years ago.

A long-buried, nearly forgotten memory suddenly surged into his mind.

The First Mandala War. A blood-soaked canyon. Their squad had been driven into a dead end by the undead, and everyone believed they should hold the pass and wait for the main force. Only he had chosen otherwise. With fewer than twenty men ready to die, he braved a rain of arrows, scaled the sheer cliff from the flank, and struck at the undead commander.

He survived that battle and became a hero. But that sharp edge he had carved out from mountains of corpses and seas of blood—how long had it been since he last felt it? The long years of peace had worn him down, dulled his instincts. A conventional defense, holding the city and waiting for reinforcements, seemed the safest option.

But where were those reinforcements?

The main army of Veli Province was stationed far away in the capital. Even if a messenger were sent now, by the time help arrived, Rosenberg’s walls would already have been swallowed by the undead. To hold fast was to wait for death.

Nolan’s plan was aggressive and dangerous. One misstep would mean total defeat, perhaps even faster than if they stayed behind the walls. And yet… Its unpredictability, its sheer madness, might disrupt the undead’s rigid, formulaic assault and catch them off guard.

Everything hinged on the young man before him. Was he truly reliable?

Hank was still locked in inner conflict when Nolan spoke again, his voice steady and resolute. “To prove my resolve, and to put the men at ease, I request a temporary transfer into the Rosenberg Guard. When we march out to meet the enemy, assign me to the very front line.”

Hank lifted his head and met Nolan’s eyes, blazing like fire. There was no trace of deceit in them, no hesitation—only determination and responsibility. In that moment, Hank Corot made the most dangerous decision of his life, and the one that felt the most right.

He gave a firm nod, his tone more formal than ever. “The Rosenberg Guard formally accepts the transfer order. Effective immediately, Nolan, acting captain of the Shire Town militia, is reassigned to the Rosenberg Guard’s special operations unit as… wartime adjutant.” He enunciated the final words with weight, fixing Nolan with a hard stare. “Adjutant, I’m placing half of the lives of these two hundred and eighty men in your hands. Don’t disappoint me.” He then turned to Little Donnie. “Are there any spare horses in the garrison?”

Donnie froze for a moment, then shook his head, his expression turning dejected. “Captain, the horses we lost during the last bandit suppression still haven’t been reimbursed. Baron Locke hasn’t approved the funds yet, and it’s already been three weeks…”

“Then give him my spare warhorse,” Hank cut him off without hesitation.

Both Klose and Donnie stared at him in disbelief. A warhorse was a cavalryman’s second life, one of the most valuable strategic resources of the age. And Captain Hank was giving his own spare mount to a commoner he had only met today?

Klose’s face turned ashen. He wasn’t a fool; he knew exactly what this meant. This was more than approval. It was absolute trust.

---

Night fell.

The once-bustling guard garrison lay in silence.

News of the undead’s approach had stirred unrest among the guards, but Hank’s meticulous arrangements acted like a calming draught. With the decisive battle only two days away, everyone had been ordered to rest and conserve their strength.

Nolan sat alone atop a pile of hay in the training yard, staring at the familiar stars above, lost in thought.

“Can’t sleep, Adjutant?” a clear voice sounded behind him.

Nolan turned to see the boy from earlier, Little Donnie, hugging a training spear taller than himself, looking at him eagerly.

When Nolan nodded, the boy plopped down beside him without ceremony.

Friendly, this one.

Nolan didn’t recognize him. History hadn’t recorded his name either, just like the countless others who had died in the Rosenberg disaster.

“I can’t sleep either,” Donnie said.

“You’re only fifteen. Poor sleep at your age isn’t a good sign,” Nolan replied, raising a brow in mild teasing.

The boy clenched his fist excitedly, lowering his voice but unable to hide its tremor. “Just thinking about avenging my parents with my own hands… it makes me shake!”

Nolan smiled. He lifted his gaze back to the starry sky, speaking as if to no one in particular, “Yeah… there are too many things to do, too many people to save. How could I possibly sleep?”

Donnie didn’t quite understand. He scratched his head, assuming it was just pre-battle nerves. “Uh, haha… hey, there’s this joke from my hometown, Parson. A pig and a beastman walk into a bar…”

Despite the gap in their ages, the two quickly grew at ease with each other in the quiet of that night before battle.

Not far away, hidden in the shadows of the barracks, a pair of blue eyes watched them silently. The ember of a cigar flickered in the darkness. Hank exhaled a slow ring of smoke, letting it blur the figures on the haystack.

There was no longer any doubt in his gaze, only a burning intensity—hope, and the resolve of a man staking everything on a gamble. Fifteen years ago, he had done the same, placing countless lives on a single reckless idea. This time, he had chosen to stake the fate of Rosenberg on the young man named Nolan.

“Kid…” he murmured softly, as if swearing to the stars, “let me see just how great a fire you can ignite.”

—

The first faint light of dawn had yet to pierce the horizon, yet the forge within the garrison of the city watch was already ablaze. Each heavy hammer strike rang out like a final prayer offered to the fate about to descend, deafening in its force.

On the training grounds, sweat soaked through coarse linen uniforms as the soldiers’ shouts tore apart the stillness before dawn. In the most primitive way, they tried to drive out the fear coiled deep within their hearts. The air was thick with the scent of rust, sweat, and the grim austerity of impending war.

In a corner, a scruffy old veteran awkwardly wrote something on a yellowed sheet of parchment. Perhaps it was the first letter of his life, and also the last—a final testament.

Rosenberg, a lion that had slumbered for far too long, finally bared fangs not yet dulled by time at the very moment a blade pressed against its throat.

Nolan did not join in the frenzy of activity. What surprised him slightly was that the boy called Little Donnie was now directing a squad with surprising competence, his youthful face set with a determination far beyond his years. Though the youngest, his strength ranked just below Hank’s. Talent, after all, had never been a reasonable thing.

With time pressing, Nolan exchanged a brief word with Hank before leaving the garrison alone at a brisk pace. With a great battle imminent, strengthening himself was paramount.

---

The Adventurers’ Guild in the city was as noisy as ever, filled with the mingled odors of cheap ale, sweat, and leather. Nolan walked straight to the counter and rapped his knuckles against the surface.

A drowsy receptionist looked up and asked lazily, “What is it?”

“Registration,” Nolan said, concise.

“Oh, registering a mercenary group? Please fill out this form. You’ll need at least three members—”

“No.” Nolan cut her off. “Independent mercenary.”

The receptionist paused, then took another look at the young man in the worn militia uniform before her. A flicker of impatience passed through her half-lidded eyes, but she still asked the routine question Nolan had been waiting for. “Confirm registration as an independent mercenary?”

Before Nolan’s eyes, a translucent azure screen only he could see suddenly appeared.

【Profession detected. Confirm advancement to “Mercenary”?】

“Yes.”

Acquiring this profession was simple. It required no training or ritual; all it took was for the receptionist to ask that single question.

Before she could slowly complete the paperwork, Nolan poured all the experience he had gained from eliminating the corpse mage scout squad into this brand-new profession without hesitation. Since the mercenary class had not yet reached the level 10 experience threshold, this was the most efficient way to increase his strength.

【Mercenary level increased to 2!】

…

【Mercenary level increased to 8!】

【Total Level: 18 (Militia Lv.10, EXP: 178/5000); Mercenary Lv.8, EXP: 0/240】

Nolan clenched his fist and clearly felt his muscles tightening, growing firmer at a rapid pace. The only regret was that neither Militia nor Mercenary had reached level 15, meaning he had yet to unlock any valuable class skills.

This level of strength was still far from enough. Only when one’s total level surpassed 25 and entered the Silver rank could one truly begin to gain a foothold in this world. As for the Gold rank, it was exceedingly rare throughout the entire Elfin Kingdom.

He suppressed his thoughts. One step at a time.

With his business done, he left without the slightest hesitation.

What he did not know was that the receptionist, who had been impatient just moments ago, was now staring in stunned silence. Having seen all kinds of adventurers and mercenaries, she rubbed her eyes. Was it an illusion? After that brief moment of blankness in his gaze, the young man’s presence had suddenly grown much steadier. Could someone really achieve enlightenment just by standing there?

Nolan, already striding away, was clearly not going to give her an answer.

By the time he returned to the garrison, Hank stood at the center of the training grounds, supervising the drills. When he saw Nolan, he was slightly taken aback.

Hmm?

The boy had only gone out for a short while, yet his entire bearing had become much more grounded. That morning he had merely been a capable militia soldier; now he carried something of the seasoned veterans of the Southern Legion. What had he gone to do?

---

The next day passed quickly, and night fell once more.

Inside the command post, candlelight flickered, stretching shadows into long, thin shapes. The intelligence brought back by the scouts confirmed all of Nolan’s judgments: the undead army was steadily advancing toward Rosenberg, and its vanguard was now less than ten miles from the city walls.

“They don’t need sleep and prefer to move under the cover of night.” Nolan’s finger tapped the map. “They’ll likely launch their attack tomorrow night. To be precise, around midnight, when people are at their most exhausted.”

“Maintain constant alert.” Hank rubbed his temples. “Have everyone rest in shifts and be ready to fight at any moment. Dismissed.”

Late at night, in the shadows of the stables, Klose was skillfully saddling his warhorse, his movements as light and quiet as a practiced nightingale. Clutched in his hand was a secret letter.

It came from his father, Baron Locke, lord of Rosenberg. The contents were simple: the undead forces were overwhelming, and Rosenberg had no chance of holding out. That very afternoon, he had already fled in secret with the family’s most valuable possessions, heading to Veli City to take refuge with his younger brother, who held a military post there. At the end of the letter, he ordered Klose to find a way to slip away immediately and catch up with his party.

Father… ran?

The realization left his mind blank. Soon after, a complicated surge of fear and relief welled up within him. He had long believed that the plan of that provincial militiaman was nothing more than a madman’s delusion. Now, even his father had fled. Did that not prove his judgment correct?

“This kind of suicide mission—one more person like me won’t make a difference. I’m a noble. How could I just throw my life away like this? To stay is to be buried alongside that madman.”

Leading his horse, he crept cautiously toward the garrison gate. Once he passed through it, the world would be wide open—he could go anywhere. Yet just as he was about to succeed, a voice drifted lazily from the shadow of a haystack beside the gate.

“Deputy Klose?”

Klose’s heart skipped. Someone was here? Forcing himself to stay calm, he pretended to adjust the saddle, putting on the appearance of heading out for a night patrol.

“Going on patrol this late?” the voice continued. “How… devoted.”

Nolan.

Cold sweat broke out across Klose’s back. He was waiting for me. Hearing the mockery in Nolan’s tone, he knew his movements had already been exposed. With nothing left to hide, he gave a cold laugh. “So it’s the newly appointed Adjutant Nolan. I’m the deputy captain. My movements don’t require your approval, do they?”

Nolan ignored the provocation and brushed the bits of hay from his clothes. “With a battle imminent, it’s better to conserve your strength.”

“A battle?” Klose let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Drop the commander act. This is a mass suicide. Commoners will always be commoners, dreaming of staking everything on one reckless gamble to make a name for themselves. Any noble with real sense has already seen through your foolishness. Who would stay here and go mad with you?”

Nolan’s expression did not change. He only asked calmly, “Oh? So what you’re saying is, the nobles have already secured their own ‘way out’?”

Klose faltered. The words struck uncomfortably close, and he found himself unable to refute them.

Nolan sighed inwardly. Even with his early warning, the city lord had still fled. Just like in his previous life, nothing had changed. Perhaps this was what people called the inertia of history. Still, it was better this way. This time the escape had been secret, not like before when it caused widespread panic in the city and led to the premature collapse of the defenses.

“Y-you’re talking nonsense!” Klose snapped, realizing he had let something slip, trying to recover.

But Nolan cut him off.

“Go. I won’t stop you, and I won’t report this to Captain Hank. Because someone whose only thought is to run will only get his comrades killed if he stays on the battlefield.”

Klose had expected rage, a drawn sword, a shout to seize a deserter. Instead, there was nothing. That calmness left him completely at a loss. All the retorts and sneers he had prepared were choked back by that infuriating composure. He stood there, stunned, disbelief written across his face.

Nolan stepped closer, his expression unchanged. “The wheels of the Shiva Empire will not stop because of disagreements between you and me. You may escape this time. Perhaps next time as well. But if you lack the courage to carve out a path for yourself, the road you use to flee will one day come to an end.” Looking at Klose, who stood there with his mouth half open, he continued, “I respect your choice. I only hope that when the moment truly comes—when you have nowhere left to run—you won’t regret having personally given up your chance to live.”

With that, Nolan turned and walked back to his temporary quarters without a single glance behind.

Klose was left alone at the gate, holding his horse, standing there in a daze. The night wind swept past, carrying with it the chill of early autumn. He gripped the reins tightly, unmoving for a long time.

---

The next day, at dusk.

The dying light of the setting sun stained the sky blood-red. A carrier pigeon cut through the twilight and landed on the windowsill of the command post.

Hank removed the message tube and unfolded the slip of paper. There were only five words written on it.

The main force is approaching.

Hank drew a deep breath, crushed the paper in his hand, and strode to the doorway. Already fully armed, he looked as though he had returned to his days campaigning with the Southern Legion, radiating killing intent. With a sharp motion, he drew the longsword at his waist and raised it skyward, his roar echoing throughout the entire garrison.

“All units, prepare for battle!”

Chapter 5: Rosenberg’s Defense

The cold iron rings pressed against warm skin, sending a shiver down the spine.

Nolan fastened the thick, well-oiled leather straps with practiced ease. Though it was still nothing more than basic gear, the sense of security it provided far surpassed the tattered militia armor he had worn before.

【Guard Chainmail】

【Defense: 5–7】

All the remaining members, whether fresh recruits or seasoned veterans, donned their armor and took up their weapons under the captain’s roar, assembling swiftly on the training grounds according to the formations arranged in advance.

Watching the scene before him, Nolan gave a quiet nod. Though they were only a third-rate local garrison within the kingdom’s military structure, barely qualifying as quasi–first-tier troops, under Hank’s tempering as a battle-hardened veteran, they at least carried something of a real army’s bearing.

Hank stood at the very front of the formation, saying nothing as his gaze swept from the left flank to the right. Every guardsman instinctively straightened under his scrutiny.

Nolan’s attention, however, fell on the man standing behind him, Klose.

He hadn’t run.

As if sensing Nolan’s gaze, Klose’s body stiffened noticeably. Yet he did not look away. Instead, he tightened his grip on the faintly gleaming longsword at his waist, once little more than decoration in his eyes. Forcing the muscles of his face into place, he adopted a stern expression and stared straight ahead.

“For Elfin!”

Hank needed no lengthy speech. A single line was enough to set every heart ablaze.

“For Rosenberg!”

Two hundred and eighty soldiers roared in unison with all their strength.

“Move out!”

The formation began to advance, heavy footsteps merging into a single rhythm as they marched toward the southern gate.

“Mr. Nolan.” Little Donnie had come up beside him at some point, gripping his sword so tightly that sweat had already soaked the wrapping around the hilt. “I… I feel a bit nervous. My legs are cramping.”

Nolan patted his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. If, on the battlefield, you feel fear or don’t know what to do… Then stay close to me.”

Little Donnie froze for a moment. Then light flared in his still-boyish eyes, and he nodded firmly.

The column moved along Rosenberg’s main thoroughfare. On both sides of the road, crowds of townspeople had gathered after hearing the news. They did not dare make much noise. Instead, they watched in silence as this force marched out to fight for them. Fear and unease lingered in their eyes, but even more so, there was hope.

A gray-haired old woman pressed a hand-sewn charm into the arms of a passing young soldier, murmuring, “May Mother Goddess Sethis bless you.”

The blacksmith raised his arm high toward the formation and struck his chest in silent salute. His soot-darkened face, usually hardened by the forge, now showed a rare trace of supplication.

Yet whispers still drifted on the wind. “Meeting them outside the city… can they really manage it?”

At the head of the formation, Hank couldn’t help but cast another sideways glance at Nolan.

This had been Nolan’s suggestion. The day before, Nolan had insisted against opposition that news of the undead advance and the plan to meet them outside the walls be made public, while deliberately downplaying the enemy’s threat.

In Nolan’s own words: “Give them a controlled truth. The people’s will is an invisible wall, sometimes stronger than stone. We need them to see hope, or the unknown and despair will cause greater panic.”

Hank didn’t know where this young man had learned such insight that cut straight to the heart of the matter. He only knew the decision had been right. The expectations of the people had instilled a sense of purpose into the guards, and the