Nolan stepped out of the command room and gently closed the heavy wooden door behind him, leaving Hank’s inner turmoil sealed within. He had not forgotten about advancing to the Kingdom Guard class, but he knew that a true persuader understood when to sow and when to reap. Eight o’clock tonight would be the perfect moment.
He strolled outward, and the sight of the garrison made his eyes light up.
The entire atmosphere had changed.
On the training grounds, shouts rang like thunder. The guards, stripped to the waist, glistened with sweat as they poured all their strength into strike after strike against the wooden posts.
Bang! Splinters flew.
The laziness and indifference of the past were gone, replaced by a fierce desire to grow stronger. The hard-won victory in the defense of the city had utterly transformed this third-rate local guard unit.
Nolan even noticed a long line at the recruitment post by the gate. After learning of the undead threat, the people of Rosenberg had not packed up to flee. Instead, something in their blood had been awakened.
Apprentices from the smithy, farmers in their idle season, even gray-haired veterans came to enlist. The women organized themselves, mending uniforms and boiling meat soup.
Watching all this, Nolan felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
This was how it should be.
A nation could not rely on a handful of great figures or heroes alone to become strong. Heroes would always fade, and great men would eventually pass. When mediocre descendants failed to bear the weight they left behind, decline became inevitable.
The Elfin Kingdom of his previous life had been a brutal lesson in that truth. Even with heroes rising one after another during its fall, they had been unable to reverse the tide. Only when every ordinary citizen was willing to stand up for the land beneath their feet and the home behind them, to fight without regard for themselves, could a nation truly possess an unbreakable backbone—only then would it have the foundation to survive in an age of chaos.
“Ha…” Nolan let out a long breath.
The feeling of personally changing the fate of a city, even a nation, was far more intoxicating than obtaining any legendary artifact.
He walked to a corner of the training ground and drew the Darkpiercer, the power of the Silver tier surging through him.
Strength training. Endurance training. And finally, the military swordsmanship of the Elfin Kingdom, etched deep into his bones. In his hands, each movement turned the ordinary into something extraordinary, a simple killing art unfolding into endless variations.
Nolan lost himself completely in his own world, his blade flashing. He did not notice when the noise on the training grounds gradually died down. All eyes had turned to him.
By afternoon, he came to a halt, heat rising from his body. Only then did he realize he was surrounded. Every guard looked at him as if he were a god, their expressions filled with awe, fervor, and admiration.
“Adjutant Nolan!” A scar-faced guard rushed forward, flushed with excitement. “Your swordsmanship…is art! Please, teach me!”
Before he could finish, someone else shoved him aside. “Yeah! Sir, something felt off about my power just now!”
“Sir Adjutant, teach us!”
The crowd surged, jostling one another as the scene turned chaotic and fervent.
Nolan could only laugh at the situation. Looking at those eager, expectant faces, he had no way to refuse. He began teaching right there on the training ground, sharing without reservation the battle-hardened techniques that players had refined over countless trials. Afterward, he suppressed his Silver-tier strength and accepted challenges from anyone, relying purely on skill.
“You hesitate when you strike—lock your wrist!”
He sidestepped a slash, the hilt of his sword snapping against the opponent’s wrist and sending the blade flying.
“Your footing is unstable—full of openings!”
A light tap of his blade sent a burly man stumbling, his guard wide open.
No one lasted more than two exchanges against him.
Finally, urged on by the crowd, he demonstrated a one-against-five teaching match.
Faced with simultaneous thrusts from five directions, Nolan did not even move his feet. His blade flowed in arcs of light. A series of crisp clang, clang rang out as each precise parry was followed by a lightning-fast counter. The five opponents staggered back, clutching their aching wrists, their faces full of disbelief.
For a moment, the entire training ground fell silent before erupting into thunderous cheers.
Under gazes that bordered on worship, Nolan quietly slipped away.
He took a quick wash, changed into his uniform, then lay back on a pile of hay by the garrison gate, a blade of grass between his teeth as he stared into space.
Next, he planned to head to the capital of Veli Province and further strengthen himself through secondary class advancement. After that, he would find a way to make contact with Princess Flina. As for that “way,” it would almost certainly involve armed conflict. Power was what he needed most right now, and time would not wait.
The setting sun cast its glow across his young face as he looked toward the southern forest—the direction of the Shiva Empire.
“Gangrene”… was only the beginning. The early appearance of the Imperial Chosen Corps meant that, on that dark land, the true storm was already brewing.
***
At the same time, on the border of the Shiva Empire, atop the lich tower of “Gangrene.” Cold blue candlelight flickered, illuminating the lich’s twisted, lifeless face, warped by fury.
“My finest lieutenant! And fifty full-fledged corpse mages! Not a single one made it back!” Its voice, laced with dark magic, echoed again and again, “And this is the ‘lightly defended’ Rosenberg from your intelligence?!”
The scale of the loss was so great that even its long-stilled heart seemed to bleed.
The one being questioned was a young man clad in ornate armor. His features were strikingly handsome, his complexion unnaturally pale. One eye was covered by an elaborate gem-studded eyepatch, which only added a strange, sinister charm instead of making him look ridiculous.
If Nolan had been there, he would have been stunned.
This man was none other than the rising prodigy of the Shiva Empire two years in the future, the commander of one of its four great legions—the Midnight Legion—Tarton “One-Eyed” Krauser.
Faced with the lich lord’s barely contained rage, Tarton’s expression did not change in the slightest. He even took the time to adjust his vambrace, speaking in a tone as casual as if discussing the weather. “As far as I know, Rosenberg’s standing force numbers fewer than three hundred. Isn’t it possible… that your subordinates were simply incompetent?” He inclined his head slightly, adopting a polite posture of apology. “Ah, forgive my bluntness. It’s just that no other explanation seems likely.”
“You—!!” The soul fire in the lich’s eye sockets flared violently. “Drop the sarcasm, insolent vampire! When I carved out this domain through death and battle, you were nothing but a blood thrall unworthy of your first embrace! Did your family never teach you the most basic courtesy—respect for your elders?!”
Tarton shrugged elegantly. “They only taught me to respect the strong. As for pity toward the weak, I’m still learning.” A hint of amusement flickered in his single eye as he assessed the lich. “Given your disastrous performance this time, I believe… your qualification for inclusion in the ‘Imperial Chosen’ deserves to be reconsidered.”
The words Imperial Chosen struck like a nerve.
The lich fixed its gaze on the emblem on Tarton’s chest—the mark of direct authority under the emperor—as dark magic churned wildly.
“Don’t think that backing from the emperor gives you the right to act arrogantly before me, ‘envoy’! Remember this! I accepted the Chosen Corps’ summons only for the resources you promised, not because I fear anyone! And don’t forget whose territory this is! In my domain, the emperor is worth less than a barking stray dog, let alone you—his lapdog!”
The moment the words fell— Clang!
With a flash of silver, Tarton had already closed the distance. A sharp blade rested against the lich’s withered neck.
“You may posture all you like. You may even insult me to your heart’s content.” Tarton smiled gracefully, though there was no warmth in his eye. “But I suggest you show at least a measure of respect and reverence toward the great ‘Black Pearl.’”
The lich looked at the blade at its throat and burst into laughter. “You think tricks like this can frighten a lich? This tower is filled with my loyal servants. Do you truly believe you’ll leave here unscathed today? I am immortal, fool! A mere Silver-tier whelp—so long as my phylactery remains, you cannot kill me!”
“Perhaps not,” Tarton replied, his smile growing ever more refined. “But I must make my stance clear. Otherwise, you might develop the illusion that within the Empire, one can insult the great ‘Black Pearl’ without consequence. That would be… unfortunate.”
Just as the lich was about to sneer again, another voice rang out from the shadows at the top of the tower—calm, cold, and abrupt, “Is this… the phylactery that you mean?”
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