Alphonse could not believe it. Even as enemy banners rose on the eastern horizon and thousands of mounted warriors charged into view, he refused to retreat. Pride held him fast. His gauntlet clenched around the reins of his warhorse, and his jaw was locked so tightly that it ached.
"Commander, we must fall back!"
One of his captains shouted in alarm.
"Their numbers are overwhelming!"
"Thou shalt be silent!"
Alphonse snapped at the soldier and raised a hand to signal his troops to halt. His eyes locked on Arthur Valerian, the young noble leading the enemy charge. A silver cloak streamed behind him, his face hidden beneath a polished helm. The crest of Valerian gleamed on his chestplate, along with glowing runes that pulsed faintly. Two swords hung at his sides, and he was flanked by knights clad in armor that shimmered with enchantments. The ornate materials were unlike anything they had expected from his forces.
"This alters nothing.”
Alphonse muttered, more to himself than anyone else. In his mind, the size of the opposing army meant little. Arthur had no reputation for tactics or for combat skill. If Alphonse could reach him and cut him down, the rest would collapse. Even with the odds against them, he remained confident. Strength was not measured by numbers alone. In this world, it was levels that determined the outcome.
His army, three thousand strong, was better trained, better armed, and likely more powerful. Even in a full engagement, he saw only one outcome. Victory.
The only real threat was a man named Wayland, who had already defeated Emmerson twice. But if Alphonse could delay him for just a little while, the battle would be his. He kicked his steed forward, shouting in anger.
“Forward, I say! If none shall breach their line, then by mine own hand shall I sunder it!”
*****
The drums of war thundered again as Theodore's loyal army surged forward, discipline holding firm despite their commander’s enraged state. Roland, still atop the walls, didn’t move. His eyes tracked Alphonse like a hawk watching a snake.
"Is he aiming for Arthur?"
He muttered, watching as the enemy forces shifted. The army turned away from the city and redirected its focus toward Arthur, abandoning the siege entirely.
"He is not even trying to retreat. Does he really believe he can win just by cutting Arthur down?"
"He might. It is a basic tactic they teach at the Knight Academy."
Robert answered as he came to stand beside his brother. It was a common tactic to capture or even kill the enemy commander. The Valerian brothers were forbidden from killing one another, even during times of war, but that did not mean accidents were impossible.
Roland would not be surprised if Theodore had already given quiet orders to take the opportunity if it arose. He could easily imagine his brother promising protection to any soldier who carried it out, even if he never intended to keep that promise.
"Yet he isn’t committing all of his troops..."
Although most of the three thousand soldiers were charging toward Arthur, a portion remained stationed at the city gates. Roland could not be certain, but he assumed Alphonse was protecting his rear. The golems still stood there, fully capable of launching an attack. Perhaps Alphonse feared a counterstrike, which would be a reasonable precaution.
Even so, it did not matter. If their enemies believed Roland was the only capable fighter among them, they were making a dangerous mistake.
‘It’s time for those guys to shine…’
And shine they did, with sunlight reflecting off not only their armor but also their metallic limbs. Arthur shouted a command, and the army moved aside to reveal a small group of armored men. At first glance, they appeared to be a standard cavalry regiment, but as they approached, it became clear that something about them was unusual.
Their armor appeared mismatched in several places, especially around their limbs. To an untrained eye, it might have seemed as though they were simply missing pieces of armor, leaving their arms and legs exposed. But this was not the case. Their limbs had been replaced with mithril and dwarven steel, forged to endure battle even more effectively than the flesh and bone they once had. These were veterans of wars long past, knights whose bodies had been broken but whose spirits still hungered for the fight.
What remained of them had been reforged in Arthur’s forges, crafted under Wayland’s guidance. Their missing limbs were replaced with prosthetics made of magical alloys and etched with runes of power. Many had been presumed dead, their names lost to time, their graves empty. But they had not fallen. They had returned.
A hush settled over both armies as the mounted figures advanced. It was the calm before the storm. Smoke hissed from vents in their backplates, and arcane light shimmered along the seams of their artificial limbs. At the front rode a warrior wielding a massive dark glaive. He held it in his right arm, a prosthetic that pulsed with magical energy. His face was hidden behind a heavy, dark helmet, but from one of its eye slits, a faint and ominous glow shone through.
“…Sir Wischard.”
Roland stood atop the battlements and watched the old man break from the formation, charging forward alone. He had once been a legend, a commander from the old border wars, the same wars where his father had earned his title. Stories told of him slaying giants and shattering battalions in the years before the Ardens rose to more fame. He had nearly achieved what Roland’s father had, yet faltered just before the end.
The tale claimed he had died, buried beneath the rubble of a collapsing fortress during a final stand. But that was a convenient fiction meant to preserve his honor. The truth was harsher. He had lost a limb and an eye to an enemy commander in an ambush and barely lived. His own house cast him aside not long after, forcing him into quiet retirement in a small village manor where his name was meant to be forgotten. But now he had returned, his body remade in steel and magic. He rode a warhorse clad in armor thick enough to shrug off artillery fire, no longer an exile but a weapon reborn.
He raised his glaive, and the knights behind him followed in perfect unison. Then they charged. The thunder of hooves became a quake that shook the ground. The rune-enhanced knights moved with terrifying unity, breaking into Alphonse’s line like a blade through cloth. Sir Wischard struck first, his glaive slicing through a line of infantry like they were made of straw. One man fell with his chest torn open, another was thrown back ten meters, armor shattered from the force of the blow.
The next few moments dissolved into chaos and bloodshed. Theodore’s troops, who had believed themselves superior, were facing a brutal awakening. The company of prosthetic knights carved a path through their ranks. One knight impaled three men with a single lance thrust, then slammed it into the ground and vaulted from his saddle. He crashed into a squad of spearmen, swinging a flanged mace that lit up with runes at every impact.
Another veteran, with twin prosthetic arms, spun two curved blades with inhuman speed. He deflected every strike and cut down all who came near. There were not many of them, fewer than a hundred, but they still tore through Theodore’s forces like a storm. At the center of it all, Sir Wischard was like death incarnate.
“He’s really pushing that prosthesis. I may have to rebuild it after this is over…”
Roland remained still atop the battlements, eyes locked on the battlefield. He had always considered Wischard to be on par with the Guild Master, perhaps even stronger. After his injury, Wischard had stagnated, unable to level through battle. But now it seemed he was trying to reclaim lost time, and Theodore’s soldiers would be the ones to pay for it.
“…Arthur, are you sure about this?”
The tide was in their favor, but Roland had stayed behind, not because he couldn’t fight, but because he had been asked not to. Through his helmet he contacted their leader, Arthur who was riding together with his troops, something he wished he didn’t.
“Yes, my friend. You have to let me do this.”
Arthur replied, his voice carrying a hint of strain. This was his first true battle, the first time he would stand as a noble commander in his own right. But Roland understood the reason behind it. By now, it was clear. Unless Arthur led this battle to victory himself, he would not meet one of the conditions required to ascend to his next class. If Roland intervened too much, there was a real risk that the achievement or the title that came with it, would not be recognized by the system.
Arthur had to lead. He had to win. And because of that, Roland would offer only limited support. He stretched out his hand and, with a magical signal, ordered his golems to begin firing.
“Very well. I hope you know what you’re doing. I’ll keep them away from the city, just be sure not to overdo it.”
“Don’t worry about me, my friend. You’ve done more than enough already. Leave the rest to me.”
*****
‘Hah, Leave it to me, I say…’
He repeated the words in his mind, second-guessing them almost immediately. A part of him wanted to call Roland back, to ask for help, to admit he wasn’t ready. Real war was nothing like the training exercises. He had been given bound monsters to spar with, and his retainers had never even let him visit the dungeon for real combat experience.
For over a year, he had been preparing for this moment. He had made up his mind to move forward, to take the next step in his life. But despite all that, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. This was a real battlefield. Men were dying around him. And if he wasn’t careful, he would be next.
Arthur tightened his grip on the reins and looked to both sides. Sir Gareth and Sir Morien rode beside him. They were his most trusted protectors, now Knight Commanders, and they would give their lives for him without hesitation.
For a long time, Arthur had been completing achievements in pursuit of a unique class. He already knew about the vassalage skill that his ally Roland possessed, but he could never accept it. The honor of a lord would not allow him to become the servant of another man. His path had to be his own.
To walk that path, he needed to fight. He needed to lead. And he needed to emerge victorious as the commander. He was not the greatest warrior on the battlefield, but when it came to strategy, he had studied it since his youth. If there was one area where he should excel, it was in commanding troops and making sound decisions. Fortunately, he had been granted an advantage that most commanders could only dream of, and it was all thanks to his friend, Roland.
Arthur spurred his horse forward, his eyes focusing on the display inside his runic helmet. While it was not as advanced as the one Roland used, it was still powerful. He had to press a few switches on the side to change between functions, but it gave him a real-time view of the battlefield.
High above, several floating drones mapped the terrain and tracked the movements of both armies. He could see everything. The position of the enemy commander, the number of troops they commanded, and their formation. Nothing escaped his notice. Now, all that remained was for him to make the right decisions. If he could competently guide his forces and pressure the enemy into a corner, then victory would be his.
“Second battalion, break right! Skirmishers, harass their flanks and draw them into range of the golems! Wischard’s line will punch through the center, infantry, follow in their wake, and secure the breach!”
He rode along the front line, his presence steadying his men. The once-wavering soldiers drew courage from his command, and the trembling in Arthur’s hands faded with each order given, each maneuver executed.
The battlefield rippled with movement. Under Arthur’s direction, the allied army adjusted like a single living organism. Every shift was calculated, every step accounted for. It wasn’t flawless as there were still novices among them, and gaps opened when panic set in, but Arthur compensated with the help from Roland’s golems and his own golemic armaments that compensated for their lack of battlemages.
They came in various shapes and sizes. Some resembled the typical spider golems, while others took the form of more familiar rock constructs. Among Arthur's forces were specialists tasked with controlling these runic machines. With a single order, Arthur could direct them into motion. Thanks to the system they operated under, victory was beginning to slip more easily into his hands than he had anticipated.
“This is preposterous! How could such a troop exist? None of this makes any sense!”
The enemy commander, Alphonse, narrowed his eyes as he watched his formation collapse before him. It felt as if his opponent could anticipate his every move and counter it with surgical precision. Every attempt to maneuver his cavalry was thwarted. Arthur always had an answer. Whenever he tried to pressure the flanks, the allied lines absorbed the assault and then pushed back with twice the strength. And now, his center was starting to collapse.
Alphonse had been surrounded before he realized it. Alphonse gritted his teeth, blood already smeared across the side of his jaw from a stray magical blast. Around him, his most loyal knights had fallen or were barely holding back the encroaching tide. Rune-enchanted blades clashed against steel, and the once-pristine banners of his house were trampled beneath the boots of enemy infantry. The sky seemed to grow darker, not from stormclouds, but from smoke and ash.
Through the chaos, Arthur rode forward alone, his silver cloak fluttering like a banner of judgment. His helmet now off, revealing youthful yet resolute eyes, he raised a hand to halt his own forces.
“Knight Commander Alphonse!”
He called out, his voice ringing across the battlefield.
“You are beaten. Your men are dying for pride alone. Yield, and no more blood needs to be spilled.”
The older knight turned his horse, face twisted in disbelief and fury.
“Yield?”
He spat, drawing his enchanted sword with trembling hands, not from fear but from rage alone.
“To a baseborn wretch? Never!”
He kicked his horse into a charge, sword raised, a desperate scream tearing from his throat.
“Ne’er shall I bend knee to a false noble, draped in gilded trinkets and flanked by curs daring call thyselves knights!”
Arthur stood still, unmoving, even as Alphonse thundered toward him. He was the leader of this army, the commanding officer, and he did not need to fight this battle himself.
"Hold!"
Sir Gareth and Sir Morien stepped into the path of the charging knight. Gareth gripped his sword with unwavering focus, and Morien leveled his spear in Alphonse’s direction. They would not allow their lord to be touched. They knew they were no match for a knight commander of Alphonse’s caliber, but they would rather die than let a single strand of Arthur’s hair be harmed.
“Stand aside, lest I cast thee down!”
Alphonse surged forward, enchantments and skills letting him tear through the ranks like a force of nature. He knew the battle was lost, but he would not surrender. He refused to give his enemies the satisfaction of complete victory. If he could kill Arthur, he could die with a shred of pride. The two knights blocking his path were beneath him in power. He could see it at a glance. He would strike them down, then cut down the so-called noble who led this army.
But just as he prepared to collide with them, a chill ran down his spine. His instincts turned and swung his sword, reacting to a strange flicker in the air, a dagger that came flying from the side. He deflected it, but the force was enough to make his hand tremble. A portion of his defensive enchantments flickered and drained away.
In the distance, through the haze and smoke of the battlefield, he saw a figure. Hooded and still. A person wielding twin daggers stood in the shadows, half-concealed behind the chaos of war.
It all happened in a split second, as if the figure had been waiting for the precise moment when he was distracted by the two other tier-three knights. A sword came at him from one side. From the other, a spear thrust forward. Both weapons gleamed with a strange radiance, their edges glowing with layered enchantments and magical effects.
This deadly combination became his downfall. Still reeling from the deflected dagger, his balance was off. Before he could recover, both weapons struck true…
205