In his tent, the commander suddenly snapped out of his drunken stupor. It was as if a veil was lifted from his mind… and his liver. He didn’t remember drinking so much to fall into such a state, but was grateful nonetheless to sober up just as unexpectedly.


    “Permission to enter, commander!” came a voice from just outside the tent.


    “Whuzzat? Yeah, sure.”


    In stepped a male soldier in his late twenties. That was on the older side of the spectrum for members of the warband, closer to that of the veterans on their second training campaign or vacation, but the innocence and trepidation the newcomer gave off said he was otherwise.


    “So what do you want? Run out of sparkle out there or something, looks like you spilled some on your armor there. Or did you hear rumors from the scouts?”


    “Rumors, sir?” asked the newcomer with a tilt of his head.


    “Hey hey, don’t go making yourself all topsy-turvy like that! The rumors about my secret booze stash are completely false! I don’t h-h-have any.”


    The man in the soldier uniform tried to waft the scent of stale alcohol away from his nose with his left hand while the commander was looking away.


    “So what do you want, then?”


    “I have a message from the Dark Lord, sir!”


    “Wait, Dark Lord?” the commander stared at the other man for several seconds, waiting for the blurriness in his vision to disappear long enough to get a better look at him. “You’re not one of my men…”


    “No sir, I’m a messenger here to see you.”


    “Oh… oh! Please come on in and take a seat. Would you like a drink? I have a very nice brandy I was planning to send back to the Dark Lord, perhaps you’d like a sip of it yourself first?”


    “Um, no thank you,” he said, eyes shifting to the side of the tent before back at the commander. “I just wanted to let you know the Dark Lord is pleased with your leadership and wants a check-in of your progress.”


    “Now isn’t that good to hear, though I’m not surprised he feels that way!” he said, flashing a confident smile that fell off his face as he stumbled on his chair. “We’ve been doing wonderfully. The soldiers have leveled up plenty, and we should all be level twenty by the end of the season at this rate, just as the Dark Lord said.”


    “I see,” said the other man with a thoughtful nod. “And of any other missions?”


    “Other missions?” the commander asked as he went pale. “W-we weren’t assigned other missions, this is just a training campaign!”


    “Trick question,” said the other man with a wry grin. “You passed. And what about the hero?”


    “You can’t fool me twice, I know very well we’re to avoid him at all costs, and we’ve done just that. Our next movements will take us away from his current location. And even if he heads our way, our scouts should be able to warn us in time so we can change course. We shan’t interfere.”Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The soldier didn’t say anything, but the commander noticed his shoulders noticeably sag even through his drunken stupor.


    “Is there anything else you need? Would you like that bottle now?”


    “No thank you, I think I have everything I need.”


    “Wonderful then, let me show you around the camp before you go so you can see our progress with your own eyes,” said the commander as he walked over to the tent’s exit.


    As he made his way outside and towards the bonfires, the soldier followed right behind him. It didn’t take long before they reached the site of the celebrations, but in the commander’s inebriated state, he didn’t make much of the silence.


    “Alright, here are the troops, they’re- by the Dark Lord! What happened?! They’re all-”


    Gravity Lance.


    A small hole appeared in the back of the commander’s head, and he immediately fell over dead.


    Artyom took off the set of light armor he wore, glad to be rid of the poorly-fitting leather. He picked it out as the least bloodstained piece, as opposed to going for the best fitting, and had washed it as best he could before wearing it to the commander’s tent.


    But now that his job here was done, he was free to change back into his comfortable linens and head back to the survivors.


    Artyom took one more look at the devastation he’d wrought on the Dark Lord’s warband.


    Business as usual.


    He spit on the ground and turned around before channeling his magic into his legs. Once the spell was cast, he began to run West.


    <hr>


    Two hours was a long time, yet still too little to process what was important. But it was at least enough for what the commander had said.


    The warband existed to train. Not in actual combat, but in System levels. The more they fought, or rather slaughtered, the higher their numbers would get. What this so-called Dark Lord was planning to do with the soldiers, Artyom didn’t know.


    There was likely a war going on or close to starting, but nobody in Freeacres mentioned it. That would normally imply that the front lines were far away, but then how did a war band get so far into enemy territory and expect to terrorize the countryside without any opposition?


    Maybe the Dark Lord was bluffing about that being their mission. Maybe they were just sacrificial pawns meant to sow chaos, and their opponents would be forced to pull troops away from the front lines to deal with them?


    It didn’t matter to Artyom, he wasn’t here to protect random villagers of a country, or even world, he had no allegiance to. He was here to save a kid from Earth in way over his head.


    And on that note, the commander had also said he was ordered to stay far away from the hero. But why? By definition, the Hero was the greatest opposing force against any Dark Lord. It was the very foundation behind every version of the Hero summoning ritual TOAL has found on other worlds; a trope that nobody can get away from.


    So why didn’t the Dark Lord want to send his closest troops to take care of the problem early on? It could be a sense of pride that made them want to be the one to finish the hero off with their own hands. The sentiment fit well with how childish the people in this world could be.


    Or maybe they had some other plan in store for the Hero and didn’t want the novice soldiers to interfere?


    Artyom paled for a moment before shaking the feeling off.


    It wasn’t entirely a bad thing; it meant that there was still time before the actual threat presented itself. Time for Artyom to find the Hero and bring him to safety.


    As the man from Earth resolved himself, the ruins of Freeacres appeared on the horizon. The survivors were beginning to slowly move about a series of small fires. They’d placed several large pots and metal grates over the flames, and filled them up with food. The smell wafted even all this way.


    “They’re getting ready to leave soon. I’m just in time.”