“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?”
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