The world smelled of iron.
The sharp sting of blood wasn't just around him—it was in his throat, on his cracked lips, soaked into the cold stones beneath him. His consciousness flickered like a dying candle, sputtering against a void where memories should have lived. Faces, names, a purpose—emptiness.
There were some new memories, memories of places and people he had never met, memories of battles he had never fought, but he also had knowledge and experience that belonged to him, though he couldn't tell how. Who is he? Where is he? Why is he?
Then, a voice thundered in his skull:
[System Notification]
Mission Activated.Defend Ashthorn Keep until the enemy retreats.
Victory Condition: Survival and Strategic Dominance.
Reward: UNKNOWN
Test Conditions:
Body: Throne (30-year-old commander)
World: Test world created by system. All foes are under level 0, and every living being is under system restrictions.
The words burned away the fog, and with it came the pain—a deep, bone-throbbing ache radiating from his ribs. His eyelids fluttered open, greeted by a sky he didn't know: ink-black and smeared with clouds, pierced by the blood-red glow of an alien moon. The ruins of battlements loomed overhead, jagged like broken teeth.
And then, the sound. Not the clash of swords or the ring of steel, but deep, predatory howls.
He staggered upright, unfamiliar muscles straining under unfamiliar armor. His hands—scarred and calloused—were not his own. His gaze swept the devastation around him: bodies strewn like discarded dolls, their lifeless forms caught in grotesque stillness.
Beyond the shattered walls, the earth shifted and churned like a living wound. Shapes moved through the dark—twisted, humanoid silhouettes, crawling, pacing, snarling.
The Skarnlings.
Bone-masked, gray-skinned creatures. Some stood upright, armored in rusted iron, while others scuttled on all fours, malformed limbs propelling them like beasts. They moved in disciplined packs, their inhuman eyes gleaming under the red moon.
And they were legion.
A soldier stumbled toward him, a gaunt young man with sunken cheeks and desperate eyes, his armor dented and blood-spattered.
"Commander Thorne—you're alive."
His voice cracked between hope and panic.
"Orders, sir? They're massing again."
Commander Thorne. The name sat in his chest like a stone. Was it truly his? The system did not correct the soldier. It let the title hang.
He clenched his jaw. The identity didn't matter. The mission did, because every part of his mind and soul was telling him to do so.
His gaze drifted back to the walls. The Keep was dying. Its defenses reduced to rubble, the oil traps spent, and the defenders—barely five hundred men and women—looked more like ghosts than soldiers. The Skarnlings, by contrast, numbered in the thousands.
[System Notification]
Warning: Command Chain Unstable. Morale Critically Low.
System Assistance Locked Until First Tactical Decision is Made.
The soldier's pleading gaze stabbed at him harder than the pain in his ribs.
"How long until they strike?" His voice was hoarse, yet iron-clad.
"Minutes. Less, if the Skarnling Warlord orders it."
He scanned the broken courtyard. Shattered siege weapons, bloodstained stones, the crumbled statues of saints long forgotten. Yet amid the ruin, an idea sparked.
"The catapults. Are they functional?"
The soldier hesitated, shaking his head. "The ammo's gone, sir. Used up yesterday."
A faint, humorless chuckle rumbled in his throat.
"Then we tear down the statues. The dead can wait for their tributes."
The soldier blinked, stunned. It was madness—or genius. But it was a plan.
"Now," he barked, voice hardening. "Gather every able body. Oil the inner walls, torch the outer. If they breach, we burn them from within."
The soldier saluted, conviction flickering behind his eyes, and sprinted away into the chaos.
[System Notification]First Tactical Decision Made.
System Assistance Unlocked: Basic Tactical Map Online.
Reward: Pain Dampening +10%.
A faint, translucent grid unfurled across his vision. The fortress unfolded like a game board—walls, courtyards, gaps in the defenses glowing red. Enemy clusters beyond the perimeter pulsed like coals in a dying fire.
500 defenders. 9,000 hostiles.
Reinforcements: None.
Retreat: Impossible.
The Skarnlings' war drums began to beat, a slow, relentless rhythm. The sound wasn't merely noise—it was psychological warfare, a predator's lullaby meant to erode human resolve.
The newly-claimed 'Commander Thorne' stood tall, the alien weight of command settling on his shoulders like a mantle of iron. His past was gone, erased by the system's decree. His name would remain a mystery until his mission was done. He knew completing the mission would help him complete himself.
But this much he knew:
They would bleed for every stone they took.
And if the Skarnlings thought the defenders would fall easily, they had another lesson to learn.
The first battle was about to begin...…..