Fear Not, Princess. This Time, I’ll Be the Boss Myself Chapter 10

At the command, the suffocating advance of the undead army began. Night was their perfect disguise. The skeleton warriors moved forward with cold, unfeeling steps through the silent darkness. They had no breath, no heartbeat—only the dry clatter of bone against bone, a sound that made the scalp crawl. Their pace was not fast. But it was not sluggishness. This was a psychological tactic the undead favored. Step by step. Again, and again. Like death itself—slow, inevitable. This creeping approach placed immense psychological strain on the already disadvantaged front-line infantry.

Far behind the undead formation, at the edge of the forest, the great corpse-lich sat astride a skeletal warhorse, overseeing the battlefield alone.

“Heh… these human wretches… But this formation… interesting.”

It was a loose defensive posture, with considerable space between each soldier—completely unlike the dense formations commonly seen in the Elfin Kingdom’s army. The sight gave him pause.

“Amateur chaos… or something else?”

Within his hollow eye sockets, two flickers of blue soul-fire trembled. This formation would reduce the effective coverage of his prized second-circle spell, Death Shockburst, by nearly half.

He shook his head, casting the absurd thought aside. Impossible. They were nothing but a rabble, most of whom had probably never even seen a spell. How could they possibly understand tactics meant to counter a mage corps? It had to be coincidence.

When the skeleton infantry advanced to within less than two hundred yards of the human formation, a sudden commotion of flapping wings erupted from the forest behind them. In the dim night, it was impossible to make out what they were.

But Nolan didn’t need to look.

They’re here.

The corpse-lich’s most familiar opening move—raising expendable fodder from the forest itself with a summoning of spirits: skeletal hawks. Predictable. By any standard of aerial units, skeletal hawks were the most worthless flyers on the entire Vaughn Continent, weaker even than the lowest-tier flying fodder of the Undercity. Level 1. Fragile. Shatter on contact. Their only advantage was quantity. Bird bones were plentiful in forests, and the mana cost to raise them was negligible.

But the undead had never used them as a true air force. Their real purpose was—projectiles. After all, archers were considered elite troops. Even the most basic skeleton longbowmen in the Shiva Empire’s undead legions were solid third-tier units; valuable assets.

As expected, in the next instant, a vast swarm of dark shapes rose from above the forest. After circling once in the air, they accelerated, flying straight toward the guards’ formation.

Seeing this, the tension in Nolan’s chest finally eased.

A tide of skeletons in front, skeletal hawks for ranged saturation… He had briefly worried that this world, this version of Glory after his transmigration, might present unknown variables. Whether living or dead, the greatest variable was always people. But now, it seemed he had overthought it. It was all the same familiar formula. The same rigid tactics from the lich lord “Gangrene.” Compared to the true war prodigies of the future, like the vampire warlord “One-Eyed” Tarton with his near-demonic Hurricane Battle Formation, or the grand lich “Spirit King” Oga with his apocalyptic Bone Dragon Fire Coordination—this little display was almost laughably naive.

The guards could not clearly see what approached, but they could hear the unnatural, rattling thunder of dry wings beating against the air, sharp and jarring.

Aside from Hank and Nolan, sweat beaded on every brow. Hands gripping weapons began to tremble again.

“Hold steady!” Nolan’s voice cracked like thunder in every ear. “Remember every word from training! Follow my command!”

The swarm of skeletal hawks had already completed their targeting and alignment. A vast black mass, like a storm cloud, blotted out even the moonlight above.

“Steady! Maintain formation—do not break!” Nolan roared again, forcing his voice to suppress the rising fear within the soldiers.

Moments later, the high-speed swarm folded their wings, plunging downward like falling stones. The shriek of tearing air was piercing, unbearable. Color drained from the guards’ faces. Some had already shut their eyes, bracing for death.

Closer.

Closer still.

Nolan fixed his gaze on the encroaching shadow of death. Only when they had plunged to less than thirty meters did he draw in all his strength and roar, “Shields up!!”

Shhk! More than two hundred kite shields rose at once, lifted high toward the sky. Every soldier immediately dropped into a half-crouch, minimizing their exposed surface.

This was the most effective method Nolan had taught them against skeletal hawks.

Unlike arrows, these low-tier undead still retained their instinct for flight. Raise shields too early, and not only would it obscure vision, it would also give them time to adjust their angle. Only by holding steady, waiting until their dive had reached a speed where no maneuver was possible, could the shields be raised to minimize the damage. The window lasted barely a second. Only a commander intimately familiar with them could seize it.

And Nolan was exactly that.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Countless skeletal hawks slammed violently into the iron curtain of shields. Bone fragments and splintered wood burst into the air!

Nolan felt several tremendous impacts crash against his shield, numbing his arms, but his level eighteen strength held him steady as a mountain.

The others were not so fortunate. The impacts lasted three to four full seconds. The hawks’ suicidal assault sent shattered bones flying everywhere, clattering against the ground.

It was Klose’s first time facing such a scene. He gritted his teeth and braced his shield with all his might. But his experience was lacking, and his strength weaker. Under the relentless, successive impacts, his arm grew unbearably sore. At last, he faltered—the shield tilted off angle. In that fraction of a second, the final wave of diving skeletal hawks shot straight toward the gap he had exposed.

It’s over.

Klose’s mind went blank. He tried to lift his shield again, but his arm felt as heavy as lead, refusing to obey. He could only watch as the pale beak and hollow eye sockets rushed toward his face, the chill of death already brushing against him. He couldn’t react.

But someone did.

Just as Klose thought he was doomed, a flash of cold silver light streaked across his vision without warning.

Shhk!

The skeletal hawk less than a meter from his face—its momentum, its deadly threat—was cleanly split in two. The shattered remains, stripped of momentum, crashed down. Most struck the ground before him; a smaller portion slammed into his breastplate.

Thud.

It felt like taking a heavy punch head-on. Klose staggered back uncontrollably and fell hard onto the ground; disheveled, but unhurt.

Still shaken, he looked up and saw that Nolan was already standing before him, sword drawn, its tip angled toward the ground.

Nolan extended a hand. “Are you alright, sir?”

Klose swallowed and nodded. Grasping that steady, powerful hand, he pulled himself to his feet. In his mind, that fleeting flash of the sword replayed again and again. The speed. The precision. The effortless control. Was this truly the skill of a mere Bronze-rank militiaman? Even the Silver-rank swordmasters his father had hired at great expense could not match that clean, decisive elegance.

As he looked at Nolan’s back, so reliable now, his heart churned violently. A shame he had never felt before surged within him. He, a noble, had been frozen with fear on the battlefield, and this commoner he had always despised had stood like a guardian, saving him.

“First squad—no casualties!”

“Second squad—all accounted for!”

“Third squad—one lightly wounded!”

…

Reports came in one after another. When the tally was complete, the result left everyone in disbelief. Against a full barrage of skeletal hawk strikes, an attack that would devastate an ordinary army, this force of two hundred and eighty men had suffered not a single death, with only three sustaining minor injuries. It was a miracle.

In the distance, the great corpse-lich watched as nearly every human soldier rose back to their feet after the impact. The soul-fire in his eye sockets flickered violently.

How was this possible? That had been a full strike from the skeletal hawks! Even the regular troops of the kingdom’s Southern Legion would have suffered chaos and casualties under such an assault. And this poorly equipped local garrison… had taken it without loss?

For the first time, events were slipping beyond his expectations. An ominous feeling stirred within him. Could these be elite troops of the Southern Legion in disguise?

That arrogant envoy—“One-Eyed”—had insisted Rosenberg had nothing but a worthless garrison. If this was “worthless,” then what were his own forces? He couldn’t help but curse that unreliable envoy under his breath.

Still, it didn’t matter. His skeletal tide outnumbered them ten to one, and his corpse-lich mages stood ready. Victory would belong to the great Lady of Darkness.

The great corpse-lich raised his bone staff and began to chant softly, “Go. For the glory of the Dark Lady.”

On the battlefield, the distance between the two forces had shrunk to less than fifty yards. The black mass of skeleton warriors flared with brighter soul-fire in their hollow eyes. No longer maintaining a steady pace, they began to accelerate. From a walk, to a brisk march, to a run. The clash of bone and metal grew louder, sharper, more relentless.

Hank stepped forward, his towering frame forming the first line of defense. His roar drowned out every other sound on the battlefield.

“Lower your center!”

“Points forward!”

“Their weakness is the soul-fire in their skulls!”

“Prepare—!”

“Brace for impact!”