Consciousness returned to Sean not in the sterile glow of office monitors, but amidst the coppery stench of a battlefield where forgotten wars echoed in every clash of steel. He scrubbed at his eyes, as if the motion could erase the impossible vista, but the blood caking his hands and the screams shredding the air remained terrifyingly tangible. This was no dream. He had crossed worlds.
He dropped into a low crawl, pressing against the still-warm corpses of two fallen soldiers. Before him stretched a vast grassland choked with chaos—a living tapestry of carnage.
Two armies moved in lethal symphony. One flowed like quicksilver, their disciplined ranks gleaming under the smoke-choked sky. Against them surged a crimson tide, less ordered but burning with feral intensity, each red-clad warrior holding ground against multiple silver adversaries.
Sean had known violence in another life—the clinical precision of counter-terror operations, the clean finality of sniper work. But this... this sprawling melee of thousands... was primal. Terrifyingly new.
The battle cries around him were a foreign cacophony. He couldn't place the language, couldn't grasp a single syllable.
"Just perfect," he muttered. "You dump me here but couldn't be bothered with a damn language pack?"
[System Initializing. Language Pack Integrating: Kingdom of Illyrian. Radiant Legion Tongue.]
Cold, machinelike words echoed inside his skull. A lance of pain stabbed through his temples, followed by waves of dizziness and psychic static.
Then, understanding dawned. The shouts resolved into meaning.
"For the Legion's glory! Cut them down!"
"These Illyrian dogs defile our soil! For the King! No quarter!"
"I don't want to die... Elsa... forgive my broken promise..."
...
"Oh mighty System," Sean mentally coaxed, pride discarded like yesterday's garbage. "A humble new player here. Surely there's a welcome gift?"
[Integration Complete. May Your Journey Be Engaging.]
"That's it? Just languages? No starter gear? Not even a rusted dagger? Cheapskate!"
"Damn it!" The curse tore from his lips as a warhorse thundered toward him. Its silver-armored rider drove his lance through a red soldier's chest, then with a brutal twist, hurled the corpse straight at Sean's position.
"Of all the cursed spots on this gods-forsaken field!" His dead-man act was over.
Sean rolled clear as the body thudded where he'd lain. His fingers closed around the hilt of a fallen cleaver—its weight both familiar and grim.
Discovered. And inexplicably clad in the red armor of one faction. Marked as an enemy.
He rose, hefting the cleaver. The blade lifted, tip pointing directly at the silver knight. A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Sean's face—a silent challenge that needed no translation.
"Come on then," he said, voice low and steady. "Let's see if I can't carve you a path to hell."
"You gutter filth! A common foot-soldier dares mock a Knight-Captain?" The knight—Frand—roared, his face contorted in outrage. In both Illyria and the Radiant Legion, rank was sacrosanct, enforced by martial might. For a grunt to challenge an officer was unprecedented.
"You'll die regretting your birth! I, Frand, endure no insult!" He dug his heels in, the massive warhorse surging forward. The lance became a blur of polished death shooting toward Sean's head.
Steel shrieked against steel. Sparks erupted as cleaver met lance.
The impact jarred Sean's entire arm, a numbing tremor nearly loosening his grip. The knight's speed was terrifying; blocking was his only option.
"You... parried?" Frand's eyes widened in disbelief. This defied all logic. A mere Illyrian conscript? If their rank and file possessed such skill, how had they been decimated at Crestwall? His mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the evidence.
"Distraction is a luxury you can't afford." Sean's voice cut through his confusion. In the heartbeat of Frand's stunned hesitation, Sean moved.
A silver flash. A sickening crunch.
The warhorse screamed as its forelegs buckled, severed. Frand was thrown from the saddle, his world tilting.
"No—!" The cry choked off.
A final, clean arc of the cleaver.
A crimson line bloomed on Frand's neck. His head rolled into trampled grass as his body slumped earthward.
"How dare you!" The guard at Sophia's side drew his sword in a flash of cold steel, its tip aimed directly at Sean's throat. "Another word of disrespect to the commander, and I won't hesitate to strike!"
Sean casually tucked his cleaver back into his belt, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "The master hasn't even spoken, yet the guard dog is already barking fiercely."
"Stand down!" Sophia's sharp command cut through the air, but as she turned to Sean, the frost in her demeanor melted into springwater's gentle flow. She met his probing gaze openly, a cunning smile gracing her lips. "It's true, I didn't dare face Frand head-on. That's why I chose to bide my time."
Such unadorned honesty gave Sean pause. He studied the woman before him—covered in grime and blood, yet her eyes shone with a clear, intelligent light. Beneath the dust coating her features, he could discern an elegant spirit, and those glazed-jade eyes seemed to shimmer with astonishing brilliance in the firelight.
"The fastest to die on the battlefield are always the reckless fools who look down on everyone," Sophia said softly, her fingers lightly tracing the hilt of her sword. Her voice was like pearls falling onto a jade plate. "A woman who values her life as I do must naturally understand how to assess the situation."
The guard at her side couldn't help interjecting: "The First Army's only remaining unit with a complete structure is ours. If not for our commander's strategic planning, we would have long been buried beneath the chaotic tides of war."
"A defeated commander deserves no praise for courage," Sophia sighed softly, a shadow passing behind her lowered lashes. "Warrior, if you're willing to hear my reasons, perhaps we should continue this discussion in my tent."
Inside the Command Tent
The candle flame flickered gracefully within the bronze lamp, casting the shadows of two figures onto the tent walls. Sean stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the interior—a rack of menacing swords and halberds, a sand table displaying terrain before the desk, and only the faint fragrance drifting from behind the rosewood screen added a touch of allure to this iron-blooded space.
Just as he was speculating about what lay behind the screen, the bead curtain rustled, and a fragrant breeze swept past. Freshly bathed and changed, Sophia wore a moon-white undershirt beneath black leather armor, her damp golden hair still glistening with water droplets. The candlelight cast a warm glow upon her delicate collarbones, and her bright eyes, now cleansed of blood and grime, seemed even more captivating and spirited.
"My apologies for the unseemly display," she said, lightly tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the skin of her neck glowing like fine porcelain in the candlelight.
Sean's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice unconsciously growing husky: "With looks like yours, Commander, hiding on the battlefield would indeed be impossible."
The air in the tent suddenly grew thick with unspoken tension. The tips of Sophia's ears turned pink, her jade-like fingers subtly tracing the tiger-shaped tally on the desk. The crisp sound shattered the intimate atmosphere, her tone cooling: "Could it be that the warrior finds this commission for Centurion less worthy of attention than a woman's paints and powders?"
Only then did Sean withdraw his gaze, though the smile on his lips deepened: "How would I dare neglect such a grace bestowed by a beauty?"
"Report—!" The urgent cry from outside the tent abruptly cut short their exchange. By the time the guard entered with the military dispatch, Sophia had already regained her commanding presence, her fingertips tracing the winding mountain ranges on the parchment map. "After the rout at Rushing Surf City, our army is like a homeless dog. Now, retreating to Stronghold Pass is our only sliver of hope."
Sean leaned in to examine the map closely, inadvertently catching the clean, grassy scent of her hair. He pointed to the mark indicating a gorge: "To reach Stronghold Pass, must we take Gloomwind Valley?"
"We can reach it in three days by forced march," Sophia replied, frowning. "But if we detour..."
"The pursuing forces are only half a day away," Sean suddenly grasped her wrist, using it to draw several arrows on the sand table. "Look, the enemy's main force is forming an encirclement."
His warm breath brushed past her ear. Sophia instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but he held it tighter. Dipping his finger in tea, Sean sketched the gorge's topography on the desk, the watery lines like a serpent: "If they set an ambush here..."
"You!" Sophia finally broke free, her fair face flushing. "Even if there is an ambush, should we just wait for death?"
Sean suddenly leaned close to her ear, his breath searing like a hot brand: "Better to play a game of 'a swap of the real for the decoy'." His gaze swept over the guard standing vigil outside the tent. "Have your loyal guard play the commander, leading the main force slowly into the valley. We'll take a small contingent of light cavalry and race through the night to seize Stronghold Pass before the ambush is sprung."
Sophia's fingertips dug into her palms, her eyes sweeping over the soldiers outside who had followed her through life and death. The setting sun bled crimson, illuminating the struggle clear in her eyes.
"Indecision invites calamity," Sean's voice was cold as hardened steel. "Either sacrifice the pawn to save the king, or face total annihilation."
The hitherto silent guard suddenly dropped to one knee, his armor clinking sharply: "This general is willing to die for Illyria!"
Sophia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, her gaze had been tempered into steely resolve. She unfastened the phoenix-shaped jade pendant from her waist and pressed it into the guard's hand. Turning, her cloak whipped dramatically in the air: "Order the three armies—strike camp at once!"
The night was as dark as ink. Sean rubbed the newly acquired command token, watching the slender figure bustling between tents, directing operations. The moonlight traced her delicate silhouette, also illuminating the map where the gorge gaped like a giant's maw.
Now, under the moonlight, Gloomwind Valley resembled a lurking beast, and they were about to walk right into its jaws.