The moment Kent finished that sentence, he felt it — a flicker of hope on the long, brutal road ahead.
Hope that appeared in the form of glowing icon buttons inside his head.
The familiar buttons he'd spent thousands of hours with. The ones he'd been wishing for ever since he first opened his eyes in this world.
Final-fucking-ly!
Let's be honest — Kent was, when all was said and done, just a gamer. No matter how much he tried to lie to himself about surviving here, deep down he knew he was doomed. He was good at playing games, not leading a real band of sellswords in a world crawling with brigands, killers, raiders, undead, and monsters. As far as he could tell, this whole thing was just a slow death sentence. And he's not too sure about the slow part.
Until now.
For the first time since arriving here, Kent actually felt confident. Everything was back in his hands again. No matter how realistic this world seemed, it was still based on a game — his favorite game. And that, he could handle.
Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. Kent had always dreamed of an adventure in a world like this. Maybe all gamers were the same — drawn to fantasy worlds because they let us live our dreams, even if only through a screen.
If he looked at it differently, this could actually be the best thing that ever happened to him.
…Except for one small detail.
He really, really, really shouldn't have chosen this hellish origin.
"M-May I ask you something, C-Captain?"
A voice suddenly pulled Kent back to reality. It was the monk. Judging by his trembling tone, it had taken every ounce of courage he had just to speak.
"What is it?" Kent asked.
The three raiders turned their eyes toward the monk as well, their stares doing nothing to ease his nerves.
"I-I still haven't learned your name…"
Oh. That was actually a good question. Kent blinked. Wait… what was my name again?
That moment could've been an instant Game Over for "Kent the you-don't-know-who," if not for the little blessing that had just returned to him — the game system.
He mentally clicked on the Roster icon. The familiar interface popped up before his eyes, displaying five figures. Looked like he had his own model now, despite being "the Captain." Thank heaven for that.
Wait a second… which one's me?
He squinted. Not only did he not know his name — he didn't even know what his face looked like in this world.
That thought lasted barely a heartbeat before he highlighted the one figure that clearly didn't match the other four.
A young man stared back at him from the faintly glowing panel — broad-shouldered but lean, with a sharp jawline and cold, pale eyes that gave off an edge of authority. His hair was dark and bound loosely at the back, a few strands falling across his forehead. A faint scar cut diagonally across his right cheek, and dark blue tattoos curved over the left side of his face like fangs biting upward from the jaw.
Way better than Kent expected, honestly. Hell, I actually look kinda cool.
But there was no time to admire his virtual reflection. The monk was still waiting, looking like he might faint any second.
"Keldrak," Kent said finally. "Keldrak, second son of Bloodfang."
The monk's eyes widen as he heard the name.
"Bloodfang… Bloodfang? As in… THE BLOODFANG?!!"
Kent nodded. Honestly, he was just as surprised by that information as anyone else.
"Right. People also call him the all-powerful Great Chieftain of the North — the Barbarian King. Anyway, that's him."
He could practically see the monk's jaw drop and sparks of admiration lighting up in the eyes of the three raiders. Kent quickly followed up before anyone got the wrong idea.
"But that's all in the past. I'm just Keldrak now. Heck, you can even call me Kel. Or Captain Kel, if you prefer."
Yeah, that sounded better. Kent wanted a clean break from his "raider past," and having a so-called barbarian king for a father wasn't helping. He had no intention of encouraging tribal traditions in his company. Nope — he is, uh… an entrepreneur now. Of sorts. Even if his company's specialty happened to be killing, it's a completely legitimate and honorable line of work in this world.
Let's promote a healthy company culture and work environment, he thought. For starters.
One of the raiders — the biggest one, the same guy who'd nearly chopped off the monk's head earlier — stammered.
"B-but we can't do that, Chief! How can we call you in such… such a disrespectful way?"
"Not Chief," Kent corrected him with a smile. "Captain Kel. Or just Kel if you want. We've known each other long enough, Joltul."
He'd taken a quick peek at their info earlier — at least now he knew their names.
The other two raiders didn't look convinced either.
"S-still… what about the tribe's tradition?"
"No, this doesn't feel right!"
Kent sighed. Alright, time for the ultimate attack.
"How do we divide loot, according to the tribe's tradition?" he asked.
Joltul blinked, thrown off by the sudden question, but answered anyway.
"The Chief — that's you — divides it based on how he thinks we performed in the raid."
The other two nodded along.
"And if there's no raid?" Kent pressed.
"Then there's nothing to divide. Isn't that obvious?"
"I see." Kent nodded. "From now on, we're a band of sellswords. That means you guys get paid daily — even if there's no work."
"What?"
"Huh?"
"Eh?"
The three spoke in unison, blinking like confused children.
"Twenty-five crowns a day," Kent said, delivering the finishing strike.
There was a long pause. Then —
"CAPTAIN KEL!!!"
The cheers hit like thunder. The raiders slammed their weapons against their shields, shouting his name to the skies. The monk flinched at the noise, half thinking they'd lost their minds.
Too easy. Kent smirk. Tis the power of capitalism.
"Oh right, you too… er…" Kent turned to the monk, the only person who still looked unfazed by his sudden fist of capitalism.
"Ruthard. It's Ruthard, Captain."
Of course Kent already knew the name, but he pretended not to — it would be hard to explain otherwise. He leaned in, speaking casually.
"Fine, Ruthard. Five crowns a day for you. Any problem?"
"Of course not. Thank you for your generosity."
The monk answered honestly. Their kind did not want much in the way of material things. Ruthard even seemed a little surprised that he would be paid at all, since he clearly would not be of much help in combat. Not that he would be of much help with other tasks, either. Kent did not let him carry any luggage because that would slow them down. Ruthard could barely keep up without a load.
"May I ask another question, Captain?" Ruthard said, sounding more confident this time.
Kent shrugged. "Next time, just ask away."
"Why are we heading for the mountains instead of following the main road?"
Kent stopped. Everyone else stopped too.
"Because the main road leads to big cities," Kent said slowly, stressing each word.
"And?" Ruthard still did not get it.
Kent sighed internally. Maybe this monk was not as sharp as he thought.
"And there will be knights in big cities," Kent continued. "Angry men in heavy armor, always looking for some raiders to kill."
Before Ruthard could say anything, Joltul finished the sentence for him.
"And they'll hang our asses up, if our heads are still intact by the time they're done with us."
"B-but we ain't raiders no more, we're sellswords now…" Ruthard stammered.
Kent sighed. That's the problem with these types, sometimes they're too naïve for their own good.
"It doesn't work that way," he said. "Well, maybe it does for you and your gods, but not for angry men in heavy armor."
"Can you make sure we won't get lost in the mountains, Captain?" one of the raiders, the smallest one, spoke up hesitantly.
Kent glanced at his info screen. Loki — a boy taken from a southern village and raised amongst the barbarians of wastes. While he learn the language and culture, he never fit in and was a constant victim of cruel jokes and games.
That explained why he'd chosen to follow Kent, whether it was to find his way home or just to escape his "family."
"Yes," Kent said confidently. "I can."
No one said anything after that. The silence that followed felt almost respectful. It seemed his authority was already firmly established — which wasn't surprising, considering he was now the one paying their wages.
But Kent wasn't just trying to reassure them. If anything, he was being honest. He was absolutely confident that no one in this world could navigate better than him.
Thanks to a little something called the Map feature, which he happened to be looking at right now.
Most of it was still covered in fog, of course, since he'd picked "Unexplored Map" when starting the game. But still, he always knew where they were. The concept of getting lost simply didn't exist for him.
One of the greatest challenges of surviving in this brutal world — finding your way — had just been quietly deleted from Kent's list of problems.
Thanks to that, Kent could finally focus his attention on something far more important as they made their way toward the mountains, the single most crucial thing for any mercenary company.
The combat ability of its members.
Or, as any true gamer would call it… Stats and Traits.