The sergeant from the militia training squad wasn't lying—essential experience can save your life when it matters most.
If it weren't for that month of intense training, I probably wouldn't have dodged that deadly sword strike in my sleep just now. The sudden attack jolted me awake, like a lightning bolt of awareness tearing me from a deep dream. As I opened my eyes, the sight of a sharp blade sent a chilling coldness coursing through my veins.
It was terrifying.
Honestly, I don't even know how I reacted in time. Maybe it was a reflex honed by long hours of drilling. At the critical moment, I tilted my head just enough for the blade to miss, grazing my ear as it plunged downwards.
That was close—too close.
Only then did I notice the gleaming steel sword, emblazoned with the black rose emblem of Bromanto, set in a square iron plate. For a moment, I couldn't believe what I was seeing: "The undead army of Madara!" It was like a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped over my head, snapping me fully awake. What the hell are these monsters doing here?
I distinctly remember being at an old manor in the countryside of Butchi, a property that belonged to my late grandfather. With the family's permission, I had come to stay here, taking care of the estate.
My mother is from Cardirego—perhaps the only trace of noble blood in my veins. But my father was just an ordinary miller, a man who never even fought in the famed November War or earned a Candlefire Medal, unlike my grandfather. My father was a simple, honest man.
And me? I'm just a regular young man in the kingdom, with dreams no bigger than joining the army or going on an adventure to make a fortune. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll find a beautiful wife and live out the rest of my days in peace. Perfect, right?
But let's not get carried away. The fact that there's a terrifying undead creature by my bedside right now is causing me no small amount of anxiety. Thankfully, the training I received hasn't completely fled my mind in my panic. I quickly recall that my sword should be by the bed. But there's no way that skeleton is going to let me reach it—it's times like these when you realize it's a bad habit not to keep it under the pillow.
Of course, all these thoughts raced through my mind in a split second.
Instinctively, I dove to the side, rolling off the bed while pulling the skeletal figure down with me. At that moment, I remembered every word the drill sergeant had drilled into us during our first combat training:
"Remember, the lowest-ranked soldiers of Madara are driven by pure soul fire. They're slow, lack intelligence, and are weak."
I hadn't even finished the thought when a massive force surged from beneath me, as if I was wrestling with a bull rather than a skeleton. The overwhelming strength threw me across the room, crashing me into a cabinet. My bones and the bookcase groaned in protest, the sharp pain spreading through my body making me grit my teeth. But I quickly shook off the dizziness—because I knew what I had to do. Through my blurred vision, I saw the skeleton standing upright, reaching for its sword embedded in the bed.
Its movements were indeed stiff, but this strength was anything but weak!
I was ready to run, as that thing had just become dangerous again by reclaiming its sword. I knew I couldn't match its strength—even three of me wouldn't stand a chance against it. And crucially, I had no weapon.
My sword was on the other side of the room, conveniently blocked by the skeleton. I'm sure it was just a coincidence, as skeletons have no intelligence.
Scrambling to my feet, I barely reached the door when I cursed my luck—because I saw that the door to the main hall below had been smashed open. A stream of cold moonlight poured in, a scene almost poetic if not for the skeletal figure it illuminated.
This second undead, fresh from the outside, held another steel sword. Its bones were clad in Madara's standard-issue chainmail, and it wore a dark helmet.
What disheartened me the most was when it lifted its head, the two crimson flames flickering in its hollow eye sockets locking onto me.
It had seen me.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, this wasn't looking good.
"Blessed Marsha," I prayed silently to the goddess. "I'm only nineteen—I can't die in this godforsaken place."
I still hadn't confessed my feelings to the girl I fancied. Just thinking about that charming merchant girl across the street made my heart race. I couldn't let her be in danger.
I forced myself to calm down, desperately searching for a way out. As my thoughts raced, the sergeant's teachings came to mind:
"Only by staying calm can you fight."
That advice fit my situation perfectly. But I had no weapon—I couldn't very well fistfight a monster, could I? I pressed myself against the wall, breathing heavily, my eyes darting around the room. The old manor was far from empty, but there wasn't much in the hall that could serve as a makeshift weapon.
If only my grandfather had been a great noble, like the Remington Earl. I'd been to his house—their grand hall was five times the size of this one, with walls covered in shields, swords, and axes. I could have easily found something to fight with there.
And my swordsmanship isn't bad, not to brag. The old sergeant had personally praised me, saying I was the best swordsman in our class.
Even the Bressen boy couldn't match me, though I've always envied his father's position as a local magistrate. If my father were a local official, I'd have joined the garrison too.
But that was pointless now. My sword was still on the other side of that skeletal soldier. Though they couldn't run, they moved as fast as a normal person, just a bit slower.
On the training field, I bet I could run circles around it, but in this cramped space, I was likely to get skewered if I charged.
The two skeletons were closing in, their rattling footsteps echoing in my head, my heart pounding like a drum.
I was at a loss—the skeleton in the bedroom had come out and was now striding towards me. I took a step back, bumping into something hard.
That's when I remembered there was a painting behind me, a family heirloom passed down from my grandfather's generation. A lame man from Black Pepper Alley once offered ten gold coins for it, but my father refused.
My father was a stubborn old man, but I'm not like him. If not for this situation, I often thought about selling the painting when I hit rock bottom, then buying a fine horse and setting off on a grand journey across the continent with that merchant girl.
But that was neither here nor there—this heirloom was about to save my life. I turned and yanked the painting from the wall, not caring if I damaged it—though it was supposedly worth ten gold coins. I always suspected it was worth more because that lame man was notoriously stingy.
Ten gold coins are a fortune—the most money I've ever seen is about ten silver coins.
I took a deep breath, my hands trembling uncontrollably. I planned to throw the painting at the undead, then slip past it to grab my sword and hack these skeletons to pieces.
I could also flee into the street, but I wasn't sure there weren't more of these things out there. Running out unarmed would be suicide. So I steadied myself, deciding that bravery was the better part of valor.
Though it was an idealistic plan—what if the skeleton ignored the painting and skewered me instead? I'd be meeting Marsha soon after.
I couldn't help but wonder if they'd erect a tombstone for me, inscribed with—
"Poor Charlotte, who clearly miscalculated—"
I shuddered, shaking off the grim thoughts—no, I wasn't going to die here.
I looked down at the dusty old painting in my hands. To be honest, I never understood its value—ten gold coins? Would that lame man from Black Pepper Alley regret it if I threw it at the skeleton?
But the terrifying undead was right in front of me. I had no time to mourn the loss of ten gold coins or the chance to journey across the continent with the merchant girl. Without thinking, I flung the painting.
My aim was perfect. The painting flew straight towards the skeletal figure, and the fool predictably swung its sword, slicing the canvas in two with a loud rip.
What strength! But thankfully, the sergeant hadn't lied about the important details—these boneheads were indeed lacking in smarts.
I had barely registered this thought when I was already charging forward.
The bedroom door wasn't far. Thank the goddess, just a few more steps, and I'd reach my sword, lying there so peacefully.
That sword was another family heirloom, one my grandfather had taken to war. He'd once served as a knight's squire, and the sword had been a gift from that knight.
It was a standard sword from the year thirty-two, marked with ivy to commemorate the victory at the Golan-Elsen Plateau.
I remember that year when His Majesty changed the cavalry sword's design, shortening the blade from two arms' length to one and a half and replacing the bronze decorations on the hilt with iron to cut costs during the prolonged November War.
Yes, it was a cavalry sword.
Once I had that sword in hand—
"Madara scum, your time has come—"