The hills of Thalgrenn welcomed them with silence.

  High ridgelines curved like sleeping beasts in the distance. Pines stood tall and unyielding, their roots coiled through the stone. The path beneath Tanir’s caravan grew steeper, winding, as if the mountain itself wanted to test every traveler.

  Karl stood on the lead wagon, watching the fog peel away.

  “We’re in,” Tanir said beside him, adjusting his coat. “This is your kingdom now, Your Highness.”

  It didn’t feel like home.

  ---

  They crossed the first abandoned watchtower by noon.

  Moss had eaten through the roof. The royal crest was half-charred on the side of the wall—black paint smeared into a clawed spiral.

  A player muttered, “Damn. This place got Elden Ring’d.”

  No one laughed.

  They kept moving.

  ---

  By the second day, they hit trouble.

  Tanir called a halt near a fork in the valley trail. Ahead, the map showed a faster route—but it cut through a patch of unclaimed land. Tribal land.

  Karl scanned the hills. “How many tribes still live in this region?”

  “Hard to say,” Tanir replied. “Ten, maybe twelve. All scattered. Most only care if you get close to their herds or water.”

  “And if we do?”

  “They attack first. No questions.”

  ---

  The decision was made to proceed.

  They needed the speed.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  And Karl needed to know what his new army could do.

  The first contact came near dusk.

  A shrill cry echoed from the cliff. Then came the painted warriors—bare-chested, wielding spears and short bows, faces streaked with ash.

  The tribal warband charged from above.

  The players didn’t panic.

  They were waiting for it.

  ---

  “Form line!” shouted one of the more organized captains.

  The front row raised shields—crudely built but reinforced with scrap metal. Behind them, spearmen braced.

  Two players knelt between the ranks with looted imperial hand cannons. One veteran handled the powder, another lit the fuses.

  BOOM. The first shot cracked like thunder.

  One tribal fighter cartwheeled backward, screaming.

  BOOM. A second blast, this time shredding through two attackers with a cloud of splinters.

  Then came the melee.

  ---

  Steel met bone.

  Players swung rusted sabers, many still learning the balance of the weapon. Tribesmen jabbed low with stone-tipped spears. One leapt onto a player’s back—only to be thrown off and trampled.

  A recruit screamed. Another held his ground.

  The veterans barked orders. “Don’t lunge—stab and step! Stay tight!”

  The players learned fast.

  And they didn’t fear pain.

  One had his shoulder pierced—but laughed through it, spitting blood.

  Another took an axe to the thigh and kept swinging, yelling, “THIS IS JUST A TUTORIAL!”

  It was chaos.

  It was brutal.

  But it was one-sided.

  ---

  By nightfall, the battlefield was theirs.

  Twelve tribesmen lay dead.

  Six were captured.

  A dozen more fled into the hills.

  Karl walked the field slowly, counting his dead.

  There were none.

  Six wounded, but all would live.

  More importantly—players had learned.

  Their squads had tasted real battle.

  And liked it.

  ---

  The loot was modest but significant.

  Beaded jewelry with silver threading.

  Copper bracelets.

  Even a necklace inlaid with small bits of gold leaf.

  The Star Key recognized them immediately—currency.

  And so began the cycle.

  ---

  That night, around the campfires, players gathered with their squads.

  Some boasted.

  Some rested.

  Others approached Karl, trading their findings for fresh supplies.

  Food flowed—canned stew, smoked pork, buttered biscuits.

  New recruits ate like kings.

  Veterans of ten campaigns stared in disbelief as they bit into canned beef.

  “This… is what we’re fighting for,” one whispered.

  Another nodded solemnly. “I’d kill for more of this.”

  Karl watched it all, seated beneath an ancient pine.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t need to.

  The players had found purpose.

  And now, his army had momentum.

  ---

  Tanir crouched beside the fire, watching a few players teach their new men how to reload a flintlock.

  “You turned murder into logistics,” he muttered.

  Karl looked toward the hills.

  “We’ll have to do it again tomorrow.”

  Tanir chuckled. “Welcome home.”

  And above them, on a cliff, a single figure watched.

  Painted. Silent.

  Gone in the blink of an eye.

  There would be more tribes ahead.

  More battles.

  But for now, they had survived.

  And the war had begun.