Not long, a big scarlet alert flashed over his eyes, with lines of text unfolding like a judge's order. It was as if the faith itself was toying Reinhardt's situation. The crimson-colored screen, he already knew that it'll come soon from, especially when her sister continuously knacks him with game lore. Now, Infront of him was real. A situation where can he even get a good amount of breather.
[Player Reinhardt]
A demon horde is nearing your area and is anticipated to assault.
Estimated time left for defense planning:
09:00:00
"To increase your chances of survival, please ensure that your region is well-maintained. Gilbert's breath caught. His throat tightened so quickly that it felt like unseen hands had pinched it."
"Wait, what...?"
The system's voice was completely serene, almost cheery in its antiseptic neutrality.
"We detected the approach of organized demon forces. Standard horde infiltration pattern. Based on the trajectory and present velocity, the estimated arrival time is nine hours."
Gilbert swayed where he stood, the brilliant world around him shifting nauseatingly.
"Nine hours?" There isn't enough time to—"
The system simply continued on without incident.
"Recommendation: Begin defensive preparations immediately. Evaluate the village's infrastructure, militia readiness, and personal resources. Additional subroutines for fortification aid are available upon request."
Gilbert's heart thumped so violently that his vision pulsed. He made a slow circle, taking in the wrecked field, the far weak line of cottages that used to be his hamlet, and the thin whisps of cooking smoke rising into an uncaring sky. This small village can't even sustain itself, what more can it do. Certainly, fending of monsters was already out of the damn question.
There are nine hours till another wave like this. Or worse.
His knees almost buckled. Only sheer, unadulterated dread kept him standing.
Then, slowly and painfully, he took a breath that shook all the way to his ribcage.
"Alright then," he rasped.
"Show me everything I can do."
As if reacting to his hoarse remark, the system rang again, this time with a softer, almost eager tone.
[New Features Are Unlocked! ]
- Territory Management System Activated
Gilbert gulped hard. "What about territory management...?"
The system's voice responded with calm, leisurely precision.
"This feature allows the direct oversight of your granted territory basic metrics: population census, citizen morale, economic and structural ratings, defensive assets, and overall administrative health."
He blinked, his mind spinning. Essentially, a lord's true job. Now it's quantified.
The system continued. Definitely could learn something, a thing or two.
"To access this module, simply speak the command: 'Territory.' From there, you may review current status, allocate resources, and issue administrative directives within your authority."
Gilbert took a long, nervous breath. Then he clasped his hands, bracing himself for what he was going to see. "...territory," he murmured.
Suddenly, ghostly lines of text and feeble diagrams appeared in front of him, forming a primitive three-dimensional map. It lingered barely over the blood-soaked ground, painting little wooden farmhouse, miserable dirt roads, and a single half-collapsed fence in a dismal, flickering hue.
[Ashwood Territory]
Village: Ashwood
Total Census:
50 Total 10 adult militia (dispatched by Grand Duke Reinhardt) 20 adult men 15 adult women (adults that are some farmer's and majority are unemployed) 5 children (4 female, 1 male), including one nursing infant
Happiness Rating:
Extremely Unsatisfied
Citizen Favorability:
Extremely Unfavorable
Gilbert's stomach knotted tighter with every line. But the worst came last — a brutal summary that cut sharper than any blade.
Territory Status:
Amenities: FStructures: FCommerce: FDefenses: F
He felt his knees collapse and had to put a hand against his thigh to avoid sinking straight into the muck. Everything is failing. Everything has hit rock bottom. This responsibility is getting heavier and heavier, every time I find a new feature.
The system conveniently added:
"Please keep in mind that these indicators have a direct impact on citizens' morale and willingness to support you during a crisis. Low favorability and satisfaction significantly enhance the likelihood of defection or internal sabotage."
Gilbert closed his eyes. A harsh laugh rose from his throat. Even if it were true, no one will even sabotage, just straight up dying. Hunger, Basic means, Survivability. Heck, I don't even see any senior citizens around here if were not counting my father's militias.… to be honest, the oldest age probably here is 35… maybe even lower?
"Basically, I'm the ruler of a ghost village on the verge of revolt if they even have the energy to do so." And I have nine hours till a demon horde arrives to finish us out."
The phantom map of Ashwood remained before Gilbert's eyes, its lines trembling slightly like a dying candle flame. His throat felt dry, and the words stuck like splinters. The system's voice returned, calm and somewhat amused.
"For the time being, Lord Reinhardt, I strongly advise you to prioritize your defenses. By all practical standards, you are completely unprotected."
Gilbert stiffened, his shoulders hunched. "I get that. I can see the entire village is falling apart."
The system mockingly replied, "Correction: It's worse than a wreck. The remains of your outer farm fencing date back over 50 years. The structural integrity is similar to a loosely stacked arrangement of pebbles."
Gilbert made a choked sound. Half chuckle, half hopeless moan. Suddenly, a faint glitter appeared to the right of the hovering map. It settled into a compact, rugged shape, with a thick wood handle and a dark iron head that glinted slightly in the sunlight as if it had been dipped in oil.
It was followed by a quick and slightly smug system line.
[System Gift Granted]
You've acquired:
5x axe Rough Iron Axe. Basic quality.
Effective for woodcutting, with minimal combat utility.
Gilbert stared at the axe as it hardened completely, hefty and genuine in his hands. The hard handle bit into his palm.
"Woodcutting," he whispered.
"Yes," the system replied enthusiastically. "A moderately healthy forest borders the northern limit of your domain. With this instrument, you may harvest lumber. Consider seeking assistance from the militia under your leadership, assuming they still have enough loyalty to respond.
Gilbert swallowed, his heart thumping. "So I am meant to build a wall. With about ten exhausted, half-starved old men. "In nine hours... The problem is if anyone of them is willing to help!"
"It is statistically more advantageous than doing nothing," the system said calmly.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. Then his fingers tightened on the axe handle, making the wood creak.
"Alright, we'll try. Because I will not perish behind these meaningless fences without swinging once."
The axe vanished into his inventory with a delicate swirl of motes, only to reappear the moment he picked it. Gilbert watched with wide, tight eyes as the instrument appeared out of thin air, formed by faint lines of blue light that solidified into rough wood and chilly dark iron. When it was finished, it fell into his waiting hands with a hard, satisfying thump.
Then, with a rib-scraping gasp, he turned toward the settlement.
The modest militia camp was only fifty paces from the edge of the mass grave field, nestled between the twisted ruins of two old farmhouses. A few patched tents stood in sagging lines, the fabric smeared with ancient blood and mud. The battered warriors Duke Reinhardt had dispatched – Gilbert's own father's leftovers — huddled around modest fires or sharpened rusted knives with mechanical precision.
They looked up as he approached. The movement was almost hesitant. Several hands moved for spear shafts and dented swords. Gilbert's throat worked. He pushed his shoulders back and gripped the axe a little firmer.
He could now perceive their genuine situation. At least four of the ten that had originally arrived with him were visibly unsuitable. One sat with his leg tightly tied in unclean wrappings, his ankle twisted in a way that made Gilbert's stomach turn. Another person cradled one arm in a rough sling, face pallid and drawn. Two more coughed softly in a corner, leaving dark streaks on the cloths they held over their lips.
That left around six men who were still theoretically serviceable. Six old, half-starved militiamen whose armor hung loose on shrunken frames and whose eyes had become dull from years of witnessing far too many deaths.
The surviving militiamen crowded around the hurriedly erected tent, shoulders sagging and eyes sunken from long nights. Their hands were raw from days of dragging stone and lumber to repair the broken barrier, not wielding swords or hefting shields.
When the conversation went to preparing for another offensive blow against the demons, one man let out a piercing, angry laugh.
"With all respect, I've no blood left to spill," he rasped, pointing to the rough bandages that encircled his forearm. "I need some breathing, not chasing shadows through the woods."
When the topic of launching another assault on the demons arose and the immediate need for barricade, the tired man bristled glared unamused. He spat into the dirt. The battered militiamen stood in a loose semicircle, dirt crushed into their tunics, bandages protruding from sleeves and necks. Their features were drawn, their eyes sunken from fatigue.
"We've no energy for another march, ser. Barely enough to keep upright on this cursed soil, let alone chase hellspawn."
Another mumbled in agreement, his voice hoarse.
"My legs are still shaking from the previous skirmish. I haven't eaten or slept well in a week. Last night didn't help at all. A third, younger militiaman looked at the ground."
"The truth is, my brother was taken two days ago, with the same faith. I can't even hold a spear still with my hands shaking like this. "I have nothing left to give, and I'll probably die in this place as well"
The men nodded from the young militias woes. Their whispered refusals blended into a chorus of shame and false resignation. It was evident that they would not be able to march out again so soon. Not with bodies beaten and spirits drained.
Then, from inside the tent, came a deep, racking cough. The flap opened, revealing Sir Garric Ironvale. His hair was thick at the neck but streaked with ghostly grey, and deep lines etched stories of countless campaigns into his weary face. Despite the tremble in his breath, he carried the bearing of a knight like a mantle—back straight, chin fixed, a subtle sparkle of iron resolve in sunken eyes.
He shouted, with a gravelly thunder that silenced the camp, "your hearts are spent, and your arms are weak." I will not condemn you for it. You've done your part, and did what outmost you can do. "But our war is far from over."
His eyes fell on Reinhardt with an evaluating weight.
"So. Your men are spent. The militia cannot and will not march."
He coughed again, chest rattling, and took a close look at Reinhardt.
"But our defenses must still be manned, else these walls fall the moment the demons press again."
Sir Garric moved closer, his voice falling into something almost conspiratorial.
"So, boy, here's my offer: go to the villagers." Convince them to take up arms, post on the walls, help rebuilding this forsaken hell. Show me you have the wit to stir the common people, the courage to face their anxieties, and the tenacity to lead them. Do that—prove you can bend hearts and loyalties your way—and my men will be by your side when the next storm hits."
He let it hang in the air, eyes furrowed, measuring Reinhardt's resolve.
"If you can't persuade farmers to defend their own hearths, what right do you have to command knights or alike peasants in darker times?" Leadership entails more than swordplay. It's instilling loyalty where there was only fear."
He straightened, shoulders hitching with another rasping cough. "So, what say you, Lord Reinhardt? Will you take this burden?"
Sir Garric then stared at Gilbert, clearly testing the waters. "Or shall I start carving names on gravestones now, to save us the time?"