[System Notice]
Tutorial Battle Completed: Gladeon's Front Last Defence
Experience: +1
Farming System: UNLOCKED.
Congratulations, Lord Gilbert Reinhardt.
Welcome to Final Defense.
He was still staring, everything happening so fast, staring at a blue screen perplexed. Somewhere, deep inside him, the icy claw of dread dug even deeper. The words didn't inspire hope. They did not feel like a cheat or a blessing. They felt more like a chilly, mocking affirmation that he was permanently locked in this nightmare.
His hand moved forward, fingers brushing against the empty air where the notification hovered. Nothing occurred. Just frigid wind, laden with the odor of blood and bile. But before he could even question the system, The shining knight that defeat an army of demons approached him, covered from the dark blood of his foes and stanched that can jerk your nose.
"Lord, Reinhardt."
Gilbert flinched forcefully. His hand dropped. The ghostly letters flickered out, like a snuffed candle. When he turned, he saw Aurelian Flamehart standing a few paces away. The hero's armor was splashed with dark ichor and marked with shallow gouges. His golden hair was saturated with sweat and who knows what else, and his broad shoulders were plainly tight. Even his breath came out in ragged, straining tugs.
For the first time, Gilbert grasped how difficult this victory had been. Even an S-class hero bled, breathed, and staggered from the weight of so much slaughter. Aurelian's sparkling eyes riveted him. There was no heat in them, only fatigue and a steely thread of censure.
"Why are you standing there, staring… nothing?" The hero demanded, his voice quiet but piercing. "The battle may be done, but our duties are not."
Gilbert opened his mouth. Words did not come. His tongue felt thick and adhered to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed, squeezing out a little croak. "I—I just…" Pathetic. Even he thought his voice was small.
Aurelian sighed, the sting of irritation fading into weary authority. He turned slightly and gestured across the devastated field.
"Look around you, my lord."
Gilbert's eyes followed the sweep of his gauntleted hand. It was like having cold water splashed on his head. Bodies were scattered everywhere. Some twisted in agony, while others remained still, glassy eyes staring at nothing. Farmers who had gathered rusting spears for a forlorn stand. Militias who were hardly trained and had arms as thick as Gilbert's. Even tough mercenaries were among the dead, slumped over with monstrous wounds that sliced deep into both armor and skin. Crows had already started to circle. In the far line of trees, darker things awaited wolves or worse.
Aurelian's voice was quiet, rough covered in fatigue. "These men held their stand. Many have no training and no promise of compensation. Only the hope that their families would see another sunrise."
He paused, peering down at a youngster who couldn't have been more than fifteen, clutching a rough wooden charm with stiff fingers. "They deserve more than to be left here as feed for scavengers." Gilbert swallowed again. His throat worked painfully. He couldn't take his gaze away from the boy's lifeless face, where blood had dried in rivulets along his chin.
Aurelian's eyes hardened. "Seventy souls, by my count. Fifty militiamen and twenty simple villagers took up something to defend from. A field like these rots quickly, Reinhardt. The darkness is already setting in. If we try to bury them all, we'll be out here all night, and other monsters will follow the scent."
He paused and added with quiet finality. "A mass grave." It is not noble. But that's what we have time for. Gilbert's stomach turned violently. The concept pricked something deep within him, something that still belonged to the soft-hearted Akira, who had once put flowers at shrines for every stray cat he'd ever lost.
Aurelian gave him his whole attention now. "My Lord, we cannot afford to be idle. As a noble who owns this country, it is your responsibility to care for your men."
Gilbert's head snapped upward. "M—me? "
"Yes, you." Aurelian's haggard stare remained unwavering.
"You are Lord Gilbert Reinhardt, son of Duke Reinhardt, even if only by title. These soldiers died under your banner, defending your fief. You must get them gathered and their bodies prepared. Even a simple grave with a prayer is preferable to letting wolves and carrion birds take them."
Gilbert stood motionless for quite some time. He felt like a child being reprimanded for something he didn't comprehend. Memories of Akira's lovely life tumbled uselessly through his mind, school desks, bustling city streets, the smell of convenience store ramen. Nothing prepared him for this.
However, they were no longer Akira's problems.
They were Gilbert Reinhardt's. His stomach twisted. His fists tightened on the sword's hilt, but he no longer remembered feeling comforted by its weight.
Finally, he said, "I—I'll see to it. "Right away."
Aurelian paused for a moment before nodding. "Good. I'll assist your men in monitoring the outskirts to ensure that no stragglers remain. "But this..." His gaze returned to the blood-soaked earth. "This is yours to see through…" he said while his eyes keenly patrolled the area, guarding fallen men, Making sure at least with a little respect left. Their flesh remained untouched by hungry flesh-eating animals.
Gilbert flinched, realizing he hadn't, and hurriedly rasped, "We'll…bury them." All together. To the east of the village, at least somewhere a little bit safer…
Aurelian offered a brief nod, as if that was the only rational option available. "Good. With the light waning, there is no time for burials organized by name or family. A mass grave will have to serve; offer whatever prayers you can. I'll continue to patrol the perimeter. We can't be sure if another pack is stalking the woods, enticed by the scent."
Gilbert's chest felt as if it would fall in on itself.
But he did manage to nod, too.
He turned away without waiting for another word, moving with the careful grace of a soldier. His armor caught the setting light in short bursts as he prowled the damaged fringes, blade in hand and eyes constantly searching.
Gilbert drew a shaky breath before returning to the heart of the shattered settlement.
Ten militiamen remained alive among the fifty who had marched to this desolate border fief. Their armor was dented and rusted, and their faces were drawn with shock and strain. None of them looked straight at him. They were too busy carrying victims across the churned mud, some of them were still twitching weakly in their final moments.
The villagers stood still in their places from their poor conditioned farm like houses. Slim, rag-wrapped people with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Men are too old to fight. Women gripping small infants tightly, hiding their faces from the worst of the terror. None of them wept anymore. Their grief appeared choked into quiet, replaced by something more difficult - a mix of fear, resignation, and a brittle anger that scraped against Gilbert's sensitive nerves.
They are judging me, he realized numbly.
They are blaming me. So why wouldn't they?
I am their lord, no matter how meaningless a title that is. This is my land. My field has turned grave. But in truth I'm just a high school boy thrown in this hellish world.
As the surviving militias worked even if some of them were battered hard, people flinched at the blood splattered over the ground and the muted groans of the dead who hadn't been completely terminated by claws or knives. A child wept somewhere, but shaking hands immediately quieted him down.
The sun was only a small ring of fire on the horizon when the first bodies were lowered into the huge, hastily-dug pit – farmers next to men in rusting armor, boys with broken limbs crushed together in a heap. Shadows stretched long and twisted, swallowing up the modest houses and unkempt gardens. Gilbert stood near the grave's edge, clutching his sword as if it was all that kept him standing. His throat burned, sounding dangerously close to a sob.
This location... Even in Japan, where he spent quiet afternoons watching his sister play through cutscenes, this settlement was only a dot on the map. A useless tutorial zone, remembered solely for how readily it collapsed. A steppingstone. A living grave, he mused grimly. That is all it has ever been.
He noticed the locals were still watching him. Eyes hollowed by hunger and despair, and yes, even inspection, looking for any sign their so-called Lord may disintegrate or escape, leaving them without everything. Some of them probably wished he'd do just that, so that the King's decree would fall on the Reinhardt family like a guillotine. Others seemed to cling to the faintest glimmer of hope that he would somehow save their lives.
Gilbert swallowed, his throat terribly dry. Then he attempted to steady his voice.
"Cover them well," he commanded the remaining militiamen, his voice low and shaky. "I'll attend to prayers." And tomorrow, we'll see what happens—about tending to the wounded…
None of them responded. They merely returned to their sad labor, scraping earth over the bodies and tamping it down with boots that left dark impressions in the new soil. Behind him, he saw Aurelian coming down the tree line, the waning light glittering on his sword. Even after all that bloodshed, he remained vigilant.
But as the earth piled up over seventy hurriedly arranged bodies, he muttered anyway, anything to fill the silence. "For all of your souls. May you find the tranquility you were denied here."
It was pitiful. But this was all he had.
Aurelian placed a strong hand on his shoulder. Gilbert flinched, and the hero gave a thin, exhausted smile.
"It's a brutal world, Lord Reinhardt. But you faced it today... Many wouldn't have."
Gilbert was at a loss for words in response. He just bent his head.