The dawn came slowly and bleak over the damaged village, its faint chill snaking between bent rooftops and skimming over churned dirt still stained with blood. A crow called once from beyond the trees, a long, ragged caw that faded into silence.
Aurelian Flamehart stood alone among the militia tents, his armor barely partially buckled, his breath rising in little white puffs. His big sword lay on a neighboring rock, easily accessible. Even at repose, he appeared like a seasoned knight, with wide shoulders set square and eyes narrowed and scanning the tree line.
Then, with a slight whisper of feathers, a sleek black hawk descended from the sky. It came to a smooth stop, landing on Aurelian's outstretched wrist with the ease of years of expertise. The bird's sparkling eyes glistened. A small scroll, tied with blue ribbon and emblazoned with a royal crest, clung to its leg. Aurelian worked it loose with gentle hands. His eyes traced the exquisite letters, and as he read, his jaw tightened gradually. His breath hissed from between his teeth.
"So soon…" he said quietly, only the frigid dawn could hear him.
The bird soared off again with silent wings, disappearing back toward the horizon. Aurelian watched it depart, the faint roll of parchment still in his palm. He let out a deep sigh and turned to face the cluster of tents, his countenance enigmatic. Instead of marching out, he crossed to the little, lopsided tent Gilbert had shared with him the night before. For a while, he merely remained there, gaze remote, as if mulling over a private subject.
It would have been natural—even expected—for a knight of his status to go without ceremony. The king's summons took precedence above everything else.
Lesser men recognized their station and awoke to find their champion gone, with no explanation.
But Aurelian remained.
Minutes went by. Around them, the camp began to stir slowly and reluctantly. The 10 remaining militiamen pulled themselves out of their tents, their armor clattering gently and their voices muted with tiredness and despair. A few people peered cautiously through doorways, their haggard features still etched with terror and hunger.
Finally, the tent flap twitched. Gilbert stumbled out, his hair matted with sleep, his eyes swollen and unfocused. When he looked up and found Aurelian waiting, he was shocked little.
"My Lord Reinhardt." Aurelian's voice was low, but iron was woven through it. He cocked his head, not quite a bow, but a respectful gesture nonetheless.
Gilbert brushed a palm across his face, determined to awaken completely. "Is there something wrong? Why are you standing like this?"
Aurelian tightened his mouth slightly. His hand lifted, revealing the little, royally sealed manuscript. "A bird came at daybreak. The capital requires my services. Immediately"
Gilbert's stomach sank. A rush of cold surged across his skin, unrelated to the early air. His mind raced through half-remembered moments from the game, including Aurelian's quick departure, the village's second wave, and the tutorial bloodbath, which had previously been limited to numbers and scripted phrases.
He licked dry lips. "I see," he replied. His speech seemed thin and papery.
Aurelian regarded him silently for a little more. Then his posture relaxed with a bare notch, and he let the scroll roll closed again.
"I would not have left without telling you to your face," the knight eventually stated, his voice harsh. And you stood alongside your men yesterday, however unprepared. "That's not nothing."
Gilbert couldn't avoid it. His expression shifted between a grimace and a feeble, faltering smile. Because in reality, that was all he had. Not strength, nor cleverness. He lacked the fortitude to remain instead of fleeing. And somehow, that was enough to keep Flameheart here in these final moments.
The young lord's lips parted and then closed again. For one crazy pulse, he wanted to beg. Stay. Please. Only a bit longer. We will all die if you leave. Even as the words tugged at his throat, he gulped them back.
He remembered too well the game's structure. It had to happen. The plot required some upheaval. Aurelian was not supposed to stay. More than that, Gilbert realized the notice was urgent. Even if this was now a harsh reality rather than pixels on a screen, the kingdom's survival was undoubtedly dependent on heroes like these. Not in a single broken village.
Aurelian observed him. A small furrow appeared between his brows. The late-night walk had never occurred before in the game. The weighing. The Gilbert Reinhardt from the files was pretentious, weak, pessimistic, they'd never had that solemn, pained conversation by lantern light the night before.
Perhaps that slight difference, that delicate sliver of humanity, was enough to send shockwaves through even the most hardened hero. Because Aurelian took a big breath and replied, almost gruffly, "I can't leave you completely exposed to this storm. Even if it signifies nothing in comparison to what may come."
He removed two stoppered glass vials from his belt, softly gleaming with ruby and sapphire light. "Two A-grade health potions. Keep them close. One A-class mana, despite having zero to none talent. Refilling a tiny pool can save a life in an emergency."
Next, he took out a wrapped bundle of pungent plants and a small twist of white linen. "Basic Herbs. "You can use them; it will beneficial once you learn basic medicine."
Then a heavy purse with a solid metal chime. "Twenty gold. A pittance in the capital, yet here it could be a fortune. Spend it carefully, Reinhardt. "On walls, food, men—not on pride."
Gilbert's mouth was dry. His hands shook as he took each item and stacked them awkwardly in his arms. But Aurelian was not done. With a pensive gaze over Gilbert's dirty, blood-caked outfit , which was torn in three places and stiff with dried gore, the knight let out a faint huff and rummaged through his own travel pack. A folded set of knight's underclothes with faint embroidery at the cuffs appeared.
Good thing that I brought spares. You'll look better in these. He paused looking at him before continuing to rummage his stuff. "Or at least a less miserable one."
"Well, you might look like knights from the capital…. Hahaha" he commended a small joke seemingly to lighten the mood.
"A lord, like you, should always be presentable no matter what."
Finally, Aurelian released his sword. Not the enormous rune blade that had slashed through the Minotaur, but a little smaller longsword sheathed in well-used leather. He held it over both palms almost ceremonially.
A Mid-Upper-class blade, a former companion of mine before I attained higher ranks. Still balanced and eager for blood. "May it protect you where I cannot."
Gilbert looked, his throat tightening. His eyesight clouded weirdly. He reached out with shaky fingers, gripping the blade as if it might shatter at his touch. When his palm wrapped around the hilt, a faint bell-like chime rang in the back of his consciousness. Then phantom letters spread across his vision.
[System Notice]
Received Items:
2x A-grade Health Potion
1x A-grade Mana Potion
10x Medicinal Herbs (Basic)
20x Gold Coins
(B+) Flame heart's Knight's clothes & Undergarments (Reinforced Stitch)
(B-) Sword [A Flamehart's Soul]
Items ready to be stored in personal inventory.
Please tap [CONFIRM] to finalize.
Gilbert's breath was stuttering. His fingers moved mechanically, tapping a thin phantom square. The writing faded away, leaving only the cold air and Aurelian's strangely eager stare. He opened his mouth and tried to find words. Thank you felt impossibly small and sadly insufficient. But before he could stutter out anything, Aurelian did something surprising. He took a step back, pressed his left palm at the center of his chest, and performed a deep, somber bow.
"May you flourish, Lord Reinhardt. And live well—for your people, if not for yourself. If fate is kind, we may share a field again under a brighter sun."
Gilbert could not move. Could barely breathe. His fists clenched around the hilt of the gifted blade, knuckles whitening. Then Aurelian straightened up, gave one final little nod that appeared almost sorrowful, and turned away. His boots crunched across frost-kissed mud, propelling him toward the group of militiamen who were already preparing to accompany him back down the hard route to the capital.
And with that, the devastated community was left in the hands of a naive, terrified boy who had recently graduated from school. Who now possessed a hero's first sword and a horrified hope that he may survive long enough to learn how to use either.
Aurelian Flamehart was gone.
It happened with terrifying finality, despite the fact that it was not unexpected. The urgent message from the capital had arrived at daybreak, carried by the sleek hawk whose claws had left faint markings on Aurelian's bracer. The knight had read it alone, his face stiffening in silent irritation, before folding the parchment with meticulous, almost resigned care.
There was no escort, no bodyguards to accompany him. The ten tattered militiamen who remained here were dispatched by Gilbert's father, the Duke, and their task was to protect this tiny fief. The majority were older, gray in beard and lined in face, with joints too stiff and armor too patchworked to make the long, quick trip back to the capitol. Their tenuous loyalty remained tethered to this desolate frontier.
So they remained, moving around the village square as Aurelian's tall figure faded along the muddy path, his sword across his shoulder, alone yet strangely carrying all the world's confidence with him. Gilbert waited there for a long time after the knight had left. The cool morning air clung to him like damp wool, heavy and suffocating. The gifts weighed heavily in his arms, warm from the knight's hands but strangely alien.
Then a soft chime played in his head. As he faced back again on the faint ghostly glow appeared before his eyes. Gilbert's breath came out in a thin, shaky line. He looked around, at the fatigued militia adjusting rusted greaves, at the townspeople peering through doorways with sunken, alert eyes. Nobody else noticed the ghostly screen hovering there.
With a dry gulp, he raised one shaking finger and pressed [CONFIRM].
The world seemed to breathe inwardly. The spare clothes unraveled first, with threads of soft light breaking away and disappearing into nothing. The herbs then disintegrated, resulting in thin green sparkles. The potions melted into tiny red and blue orbs that appeared briefly above his palms before disappearing. Even the small packet of coins made a lovely ring as it crumpled inward, spinning gold dust.
His hands lowered, suddenly empty.
The system messaged through him clinically:
[System Notice]
[Inventory Established]
Personal storage dimension was introduced.
Current Capacity: 50 slots (upgradable as level increases).
The items here are protected from theft, decay, and harm. Access at any moment with the mental or vocal command "Inventory."
A second prompt appeared, unfolding neatly in lines.
[Optional Enhancement Detected.]
Would you wish to enable the AI voice interface?
(Can be turned on/off at will.)
[Yes] [No]
Gilbert exhaled a tiny breath that nearly trembled into laughter. The ridiculousness of it all — menus, slots, safe zones in the air, overlaid the village's ugly muck and destroyed life. However, there is also a frail and desperate possibility.
He tapped YES.
A subtle warmth spread over his chest. A voice that wasn't quite a voice appeared on the outskirts of his consciousness — courteous, waiting, patient as eternity.
"Configuration is complete. "Awaiting your orders, Lord Gilbert Reinhardt."
Gilbert wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the empty road where Aurelian had vanished. I still need to learn more about this system and how could I prepare a next level invasion.
The ten militiamen, his father's worn-out, discarded men, shifted alongside, pretending not to watch him too closely. The residents slowly returned to their houses, hollow-eyed and cradling children who resembled shadows. A dog barked once and then was silent.
Gilbert stood for quite some time. Then he took in a breath that tasted like old smoke and damp decay as he continued to observe further.
"Right then, he said softly to himself. I suppose… it's just us now."
And thus began Gilbert Reinhardt's true test: The fourth child and weakest son of the Duke, lord of a community that was little more than a living grave, with only a handful of fatigued militias and a strange, a small-battered village with countable residents, icy system voice to protect him from oblivion.