More than a hundred soldiers had gathered in the open field, armored and lined in formation under the pale morning sun.
At the front stood the man Alex had met before General Asmon now clad in a full set of enchanted armor. He sat astride a beast, posture commanding, his voice silent for now as he surveyed the troops.
In this world, certain kingdoms possessed rare, unique resources and Evermore's pride was its beast mounts.
Unlike traditional horses, Evermore's mounts were called Dracs, reptilian creatures the size of a warhorse, walking upright on two legs, with scaled hide and a narrow, draconic head.
Their reptilian eyes gaze sharply, and their claws dug effortlessly into the dirt as they shifted in place.
Dracs were stronger than horses, faster, and blessed with natural regeneration that made them perfect for prolonged battles.
But their numbers were limited, very limited. Breeding them was difficult, and taming them even more so.
Only commanders of Asmon's rank were granted the honor to ride one.
Alex's gaze locked onto the creature. 'It's unfortunate everything in this world is just data…'
He analyzed the creature idly, gaze narrowing. It was flawless. Too flawless. 'Is it based on a real beast? From outside this simulation?'
That idea made his fingers twitch. Back in his inventory, he had a six-legged horse-like monster, powerful, sure, but it was nothing compared to a Drac. In terms of speed and adaptability, it wasn't even a contest.
'This thing… looks like a species from Dragari planet,' he thoughs. 'Is it a reference? Or did someone really upload the beast into the system?'
As his thoughts wandered, the rumble of Asmon's voice snapped him back to the present.
"Soldiers of Evermore," Asmon's voice thundered across the field, amplified by a minor spell, but carrying the weight of iron.
"You've bled, you've fought, and many of you have died and come back, but today, we stand on the edge of something far greater than the usual skirmish."
The wind stilled. The field went silent.
"This is no raid. This is no scouting mission. Today, we march to strike the heart of Basilea."
A ripple moved through the formation some startled, some grinning, others tensing in anticipation.
"Yes," Asmon continued, "the very kingdom that hides behind walls of gold and smiles lined with poison. They call us warmongers. Monsters. But we know the truth.
They are the ones who poison wells, who steal relics from sacred lands, who brand the hungry as thieves and the dying as worthless."
He paused, eyes sharp beneath his helmet, scanning the men and women before him.
"We are not the villains. We are the blade that cuts through their lies. We fight for the forgotten. For the ones they left behind. For our families. For our future."
The Drac beneath him stomped once, letting out a low hiss that echoed across the ranks.
"I know many of you are tired. I know the last campaign drained your strength. Some of you haven't even had time to bury your dead."
A hush fell over the soldiers. Some looked down. Others clenched their fists.
"But I swear to you," Asmon's voice softened, then sharpened like a drawn blade, "this mission will be worth it. The place we secure today hold more than just stone and shadow, they hold power. Real power. And the spoils will not go to the nobles in their towers. They will go to you."
He raised his sword, the steel gleaming in the sunlight.
"Boon, gold, promotion, whatever it is you seek, you will find it on this path. And those who rise above, those who return victorious, will not be forgotten. Evermore remembers its heroes."
The army stirred. Weapons were lifted. Shields slammed into the ground.
"Secure the site. Claim their Lithe. Bring ruin to Basilea. Bring Glory to Evermore"
Then, with a cold, confident grin, Asmon raised his sword high and shouted, "And don't worry! With the blessing of our god Valkarion, nothing will stand against us!"
The response was thunderous. A roar tore through the ranks, raw and fierce.
Swords shot skyward. Shields clanged. Armor shook with the sound of a hundred warriors rallying as one.
And Alex, standing among them, couldn't help but feel it, the momentum shifting.
The war had already begun.
"Onward!!" Asmon bellowed.
With that final command, the army surged into motion.
Dust rose behind iron boots and heavy mounts as formations shifted. Asmon quickly split his hundred-man strike force into four squads, each handed off to a captain he trusted.
One of those captains was Alex.
A soldier approached, handing him a sealed command scroll stamped with Asmon's insignia. Alex cracked it open, scanning the orders with a faint smirk.
Their squad wouldn't march directly into the fray with the main force.
They were to follow behind the vanguard, shadowing the advance through the broken forests and rocky passes.
Their mission: identify and strike critical points, supply lines, scouting towers, ambush chokepoints then vanish before Basilea could respond.
Hit hard. Hit fast. Leave confusion in their wake.
He closed the scroll, tucked it away, then turned to the squad now gathering behind him. Twenty four men and women stood waiting, eyes locked on him, judging, measuring.
He exhaled once, cracking his neck, letting the tension settle.
"Alright," he said with a lazy grin, voice carrying just enough weight to snap them to attention. "This is my first time being put in charge of a full squad, so let's get one thing clear."
He raised his head, letting his gaze sweep over them.
"I'm not interested in ranks, titles, or who's kissed whose boots back at the barracks. You follow my orders in the field, we all go home breathing. Simple as that."
He tapped his chest. "Name's Alex. Not captain, not sir, just Alex. I won't babysit you, and I sure as hell won't carry you. You do your job, and I'll do mine."
If this were the old Jack, some of them would've probably grumbled, maybe questioned his authority, tested him with side eyes and sarcastic remarks. But this wasn't Jack.
This was Alex. And his presence carried a quiet charisma that didn't need shouting or flexing to be felt.