[Before Arcels Became A Slave, Year 1511]

  Southern Westland Border

  “Listen up, rookies! I am the commander of this unit! If you know nothing about war, then you better shut up and listen carefully! Understood?!” roared the Commander Hundred, his sharp eyes glaring at the row of nervous young soldiers.

  “Sir, yes, Sir!” shouted more than a hundred soldiers in unison, their voices echoing between rows of tents and fluttering flags.

  Some soldiers were distributing pamphlets containing information about the military ranks to the new recruits. Arcels received one of those sheets and immediately frowned as he read it.

  Military Ranks

  Soldier Title Based on Country

  "Hmm? I didn’t expect the ranking order to be this simple," Arcels muttered quietly, his eyes still glued to the paper as he stood among the other new recruits.

  Beside him, Follows — a messy-haired rookie with tangled blond hair — lightly nudged his arm.

  “So that means... our Commander Hundred just now is the lowest-ranked Commander, right, bro?” Follows asked innocently.

  “Watch your mouth, Follows!” Arcels hissed quickly, glancing around nervously.

  “Y-yeah… Sorry, bro.”

  Arcels returned to reading, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

  “Wait a second... What do they mean by Triple Cup General, 3 seconds? Double Cup General, 20 seconds? Single Cup General, 1 minute?”

  “Maybe it’s the time each General needs to defeat their enemy, bro!” Follows guessed, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “So the higher the rank, the faster they kill their enemies!”

  “Hmmm... That kinda makes sense. If that’s true, then Generals must be insanely powerful…” Arcels nodded slowly, though doubt still lingered in his heart.

  Suddenly, rows of soldiers in full iron armor, their faces hidden beneath battle helmets, marched past them.

  Their silver armor glinted in the sunlight, and the heavy sound of their metal boots echoed firmly.

  “Whoa... they look really strong, even though they're just regular soldiers,” one rookie gasped in awe.

  Arcels watched the Knights walking in perfect formation, his heart pounding faster.

  “If even they are this strong… doesn’t that mean the Commander Hundred is far stronger?” Arcels whispered, slightly shocked.

  “I-I kinda feel bad now for talking trash about the Commander Hundred earlier...” Follows said, his face blank.

  Once the troops had lined up neatly, the Commander Hundred stood before them, his voice booming as he gave his speech. But Arcels and Follows barely listened, too caught up in their own conversation.

  “Knight, Samurai, Viking, and Warrior… so that’s what soldiers are called in each country,” Arcels murmured softly.

  After that, Arcels, Follows, and the other rookies walked forward to merge with the formation of over a hundred other soldiers.

  The sound of synchronized footsteps echoed, shaking the dusty ground beneath them.

  Row after row assembled, their numbers surpassing 1000 soldiers, continuing to grow without pause until they formed a mighty army of 5000 troops standing tall.

  At the very front, a man clad in golden armor rode a magnificent black stallion.

  A red cape fluttered elegantly behind him, while a silver-ornamented battle helmet partially concealed his face.

  The long sword at his waist gleamed, reflecting the sunlight.

  He was the Commander Five Thousand— Ozkar Schundler.

  His sharp gaze swept over the army with undeniable authority.

  “Advance!”

  With just his command, the entire army obeyed and began to move.

  The voice boomed, making the soldiers who had hesitated stand up straight again. Their footsteps blended together, as if the ground was shaking beneath them.

  Battlefield, Northern Southland.

  A vast land stretched out, its sands trampled by thousands of steel boots.

  The wind blew fiercely, carrying the faint scent of iron and blood.

  In the distance, 5000 warriors from Southland stood in neat formation. Their dark brown armor gleamed under the sunlight, while black flags bearing the symbol of a sword fluttered high.

  Commander Schundler halted his steps.

  His eyes narrowed sharply.

  “So... they really did prepare 5000 troops,” he muttered quietly but firmly.

  “Sir, your next order?” asked one of the Knights beside him, his voice tense.

  Schundler stared straight ahead, his expression cold.

  “Maintain formation. No one acts recklessly.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  A few seconds later, the pounding of drums shook the air, echoing throughout the battlefield.

  The sound rumbled on, growing louder, until it was ended by a long, ear-splitting trumpet blast.

  PROOOOOOOOOOOT!!!

  Suddenly, the Southland troops moved swiftly, charging towards the front line, launching a relentless first attack.

  “The enemy troops are attacking, Commander Schundl—”

  Before the report was finished, Commander Schundler’s thunderous voice shattered the tension in an instant.

  “ATTACK!!!”

  Commander Schundler’s roar tore through the silence.

  His right hand shot up high, pointing straight ahead.

  “OOOOOOOOOOAAHHHHH!!!”

  5000 Westland soldiers roared and moved in unison, pounding the ground with earth-shaking footsteps.

  The Westland troops charged towards the Southland army.

  CRAAASSHHH!!!

  The clash between the two nations was inevitable.

  Sword met shield, spear pierced armor, and death screams echoed across the battlefield that had turned into hell.

  The scent of iron, blood, and smoke mixed in the scorching air.

  Frontline, Commander Schundler Position

  The morning sun cast its golden light, blinding the vast desert that stretched endlessly without shadow.

  A dry wind blew gently, carrying grains of sand that whispered softly between the thunderous steps of thousands of soldiers.

  Schundler rode forward atop his fierce black horse, leading 500 mounted Knights.

  His two-meter-long spear-sword gleamed, reflecting the blazing sunlight.

  “DIE!” he roared, slashing violently, blood spurting wildly and staining the ground.

  Slash! Srak! Swosh!

  Schundler spun, his sword crashing down hard — cleaving through both the shield and chest of a Southland soldier at once.

  Adam — Southland’s Commander Five Thousand — stood tall atop a small sand dune.

  His war axe spun swiftly, his dark eyes glinting as he gazed at Schundler.

  “Westland!” Adam grinned, swinging his war axe ferociously.

  Clang!

  The axe’s strike was blocked, but its impact left Schundler’s arms momentarily numb.

  “Heh... you’re strong after all!” mocked Schundler, his smile thin but his eyes sharp like blades.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Adam Primus. Welcome to Southland!” Adam raised his axe high, smiling as though delighted to meet a worthy opponent.

  Brakkk!

  The axe struck down hard, sand exploding wildly. The clash of their heavy weapons sparked bright flames.

  The ground trembled, and unlucky soldiers were sent flying from the shockwave.

  “Southland’s Commander Five Thousand... Adam Primus, huh?” Schundler scoffed.

  “To me, you’re just a minor obstacle.”

  Rear Line, Arcels Position

  Far behind the frontlines, Follows and Arcels stood tall.

  Follows raised his bow, his blue eyes staring straight ahead without a hint of hesitation.

  Meanwhile, Arcels trembled, cold sweat trailing down his temple.

  His eyes widened at the sight of the sea of corpses and blood ahead.

  “Brother, don’t tremble. We won’t die here,” Follows spoke calmly, his voice firm.

  Arcels glanced at him, surprised, but quickly nodded.

  “C-calm down, Follows! This is nothing,” Arcels stammered, trying to suppress the tremble in his own voice.

  Grak! Grak! Grak!

  Footsteps echoed from behind Arcels’ formation.

  Arcels’ eyes widened in horror as he saw them — 5000 Southland soldiers in simple armor, marching in perfect order, appearing out of nowhere.

  “Damn... we’ve been ambushed!” Arcels hissed, his breath caught in his throat.

  Follows remained silent, his face flat, as if unwilling to move without orders.

  [The Reality of War]

  Frontline, Schundler Position

  Meanwhile, at the frontlines, Schundler was still busy slaughtering the enemy Warriors.

  “Report, Commander Schundler! Enemy reinforcements are attacking from behind us. They’re rookie soldiers, not Warriors, but there are 5000 of them!”

  Commander Three Thousand, Herralex Vergusen, reported in a hurried voice, sweat pouring down his face.

  From afar, Adam grinned wickedly.

  “Hehehe... they’ve arrived…” he whispered, his red eyes gleaming cruelly.

  Schundler clenched his teeth, his eyes narrowing in fury.

  “Damn it! All Knights, charge forward! Don’t let them attack our rear lines! ADVANCE!!!”

  His black horse neighed fiercely as Schundler yanked the reins and charged forward.

  5000 Westland soldiers moved swiftly, forming a sharp wedge formation with Schundler at the tip.

  They sprinted across the burning sands, creating a rumbling roar.

  Schundler led from the front, his two-meter-long spear-sword raised high.

  His blue eyes narrowed sharply at the sight of thousands of Southland soldiers lined up in the distance.

  “BREAK THROUGH! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!”

  Schundler’s voice thundered, shaking the entire army.

  BRAAKK!!!

  That sharp formation crashed into the enemy lines with devastating power. Shields cracked, bodies were thrown, and sand exploded everywhere.

  Schundler’s spear-sword pierced through steel shields and Southland soldiers’ chests at once — blood gushed from the tip of his weapon.

  SWING! SWING! CRASH!!!

  Schundler’s sword spun swiftly, cleaving shields and cutting through enemy soldiers without hesitation.

  Blood sprayed wildly, the once yellow sand turned deep red.

  “DON’T STOP!!! KEEP ADVANCING, MY SOLDIERS!!!” Schundler shouted again, his voice echoing loudly.

  The Knights following behind him slashed without mercy, their spears and swords sending sprays of blood into the air.

  “DESTROY THEM! KILL THEM! ADVANCE!!!”

  CRAAACK!!!

  Schundler’s black horse charged forward, kicking an enemy shield and sending it flying several meters away.

  “Interesting! Come on, try to break through me!” shouted Adam, who suddenly appeared in front of Schundler.

  “Out of my way!”

  BRAAAK!!!

  Adam was easily knocked off his horse, unable to withstand the swing of Schundler’s spear-sword.

  “DAMN IT!!!” Adam cursed, feeling defeated.

  “Run, Follows! Catch up with the troops ahead before the enemy forces behind us catch up!” shouted Arcels, his voice filled with panic.

  His breath was ragged, hot sand seeping into his worn-out boots.

  His trembling hands gripped the sword hilt tightly.

  “P-please…”

  The voice of a rookie Westland soldier sounded weak, his body staggering with a large wound across his chest.

  Sraaakk!

  A long spear pierced his back, blood spurting wildly and soaking the sand.

  The soldier’s eyes widened blankly before his body collapsed, lifeless.

  While running, Arcels glanced back, witnessing the scene, and grew even more terrified.

  “He’s dea—”

  “DON’T LOOK BACK!!!”

  Schundler’s thunderous voice roared from the front, cutting through the fear gripping the soldiers.

  His horse sped swiftly across the sand, his red cloak and golden armor gleaming in the morning sunlight.

  The sky grew brighter as the sun rose higher. The once yellow sand was now mixed with red from the blood of fallen soldiers.

  After finally breaking through the encirclement, the Westland army could catch their breath for a moment.

  However, the sight that remained made Arcels’ heart sink. From 5000 soldiers, only around 4000 were still alive.

  Corpses were scattered everywhere—some headless, others lying still with swords still impaled in their chests.

  On the other side, Southland’s army still had over 9,500 soldiers.

  Black flags fluttered high in the air, as if mocking how slim Westland’s hope for victory had become.

  Schundler removed his battle helmet, sweat mixed with blood dripping down his forehead.

  “Damn it… we haven’t lost yet!” he hissed, his blue eyes staring sharply ahead.

  His hand clenched tightly around his sword hilt.

  Follows took a deep breath, his eyes staring straight ahead without hesitation.

  “Are you okay, big bro?” his voice was low but firm.

  Arcels was silent for a moment, but finally gave a slow nod.

  “T-told you, this is nothing for me.”

  [War Strategy]

  Afternoon, Westland Army Camp, Northern Southland

  The afternoon sky began to turn red, sunlight reflecting off the rippling sand.

  In the distance, two large armies could do nothing but wait and watch each other.

  Hours had passed, yet neither side made the first move.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  But both knew — sooner or later — the battle would erupt once more.

  Throughout the camp, the Westland soldiers set up makeshift tents. Some were busy repairing their weapons, others were treating their wounds, all while keeping their eyes locked on the distant enemy.

  At the center of the camp stood a large, sturdy tent.

  Inside, the atmosphere was tense.

  A round table filled the space, surrounded by seven people:

  Five, Commanders One Thousand.

  One, Commander Three Thousand.

  And Ozkar Schundler — the supreme leader present.

  The tent reeked of sweat and dust, as if reflecting the soldiers’ exhausted mental state.

  Vergusen, the Commander Three Thousand, was the first to speak.

  His eyes were sharp, his fist clenched atop the table.

  “Behind us lies enemy territory — Northern Southland. We’re trapped and outnumbered. If the Southland forces attack us from behind, we’ll be wiped out.”

  Silence fell for a moment.

  Viktor Nowakski, one of the Commanders One Thousand, nodded.

  “True. If we attack Northern Southland now, victory isn’t guaranteed. And if we advance without a solid plan, Adam and his reserve forces could strike us from behind while we’re busy fighting Northern Southland.”

  Schundler let out a long sigh.

  His eyes swept across the table, searching for a solution that refused to appear.

  Then, he clenched his fist atop the table.

  “We have no other choice. We break through them. Relentless assault, no holding back. Keep pushing forward until we make it back to Southern Westland.

  Half of us might die… But at least the other half will survive.”

  The room fell silent.

  That decision felt like a death sentence for many.

  But before anyone could object — a soldier burst into the tent, gasping for breath, his face pale.

  “EMERGENCY! THE ENEMY ARMY HAS MOVED! TOTAL FORCES: 5000 MEN! LED BY ANOTHER COMMANDER FIVE THOUSAND — NOT ADAM!”

  The leaders fell silent for a moment.

  Then, Schundler rose, grabbing his sword.

  “Only half their army is advancing? Perhaps they’re letting their recently-battled troops rest Whoever their commander is — I’ll defeat them all the same…”

  He looked at everyone in the tent.

  His eyes burned with hope.

  “Everyone, prepare yourselves!

  This battle will decide whether we return home… or die here!”

  [The Second Phase of War: South Westland vs North Southland]

  Afternoon, Battlefield, Southern Westland

  The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting terrifying silhouettes of the advancing troops.

  Two armies faced each other, slowly walking toward one another.

  5000 Southland soldiers marched in perfect formation, while the remaining Westland forces advanced in a sharp formation — a living arrowhead with Schundler at its tip.

  Closer.

  Their steps quickened.

  The cavalry tugged at their reins, their horses starting to gallop.

  The infantry broke into a run, then thundered forward like a sandstorm approaching from the distance.

  Amid the chaos about to erupt, two figures slipped between the center ranks.

  Arcels and Follows.

  Both of them now wore full armor, combat helmets, and swords at their waists.

  The armor didn’t belong to them. They had taken it from the corpses of fallen soldiers while the others were resting.

  Arcels walked quickly, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  “The situation is safer for us now, Follows. If there’s a chance, we’ll run towards Westland, understand?”

  Follows gave a small smile.

  “Yes, Brother!” he replied firmly.

  However, fate wouldn’t let them simply run away.

  BRAAAKK!!!

  The two armies finally clashed.

  Battle cries, the roar of horses, the clashing of swords, and screams of pain exploded into one.

  Schundler was at the spearhead, breaking through Southland’s front lines with his brutal spear-sword swings.

  The Southland forces fell into chaos. Only rookie soldiers were fighting, while their Commander Five Thousand stayed in the rear lines.

  The soldiers slaughtered each other mercilessly.

  Schundler spun his sword, splitting open the chests of unlucky enemies.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Their commander was in the back?

  Not a fighter, but just a strategist?

  Schundler paused, thinking for a moment.

  If I kill him, this war is over...

  Schundler wasn’t about to waste this opportunity.

  His sword danced amidst blood and dust.

  Out of 5000 Southland troops, only 4000 remained.

  Westland pushed deeper and deeper.

  After killing his hundredth enemy, Schundler finally reached the enemy’s rear lines.

  There, a man stood tall, blocking Westland’s forces from advancing further.

  He was different.

  In the midst of soldiers clad in iron armor and full helmets, this man wore only pants.

  No shirt, no armor, no protection.

  Only a sword in his right hand and a shield in his left.

  Schundler raised an eyebrow.

  What is this guy thinking?

  The man didn’t look afraid.

  In fact, he looked... calm.

  Schundler gripped his sword tighter.

  This fool will die easily.

  His black horse charged.

  He raised his two-meter-long spear-sword, aiming for the strange enemy’s neck.

  KRANGG!!!

  A loud crash echoed. Schundler’s attack failed. His sword was blocked by the enemy’s shield.

  Schundler’s eyes widened.

  “What?! He blocked it...?!”

  Schundler’s horse veered sharply, turning for a second attack. But this time, he was more cautious.

  His gaze met that of the strange man.

  The man’s eyes showed no fear. There was only confidence, calmness, and a hint of... contempt.

  Schundler narrowed his eyes.

  He pulled on his horse’s reins, creating distance, then spoke.

  “You’re unique... No armor, no horse...

  I am Ozkar Schundler, Commander Five Thousand from Westland.

  I acknowledge your courage.

  State your name.”

  The man swung his sword upward, then drove it into the body of a dying Westland soldier in front of him.

  Blood splattered across the sand.

  Then, in a deep and calm voice, he said, “My name is Marcus Dominus Marcellius... Commander Five Thousand from Southland.”

  [Commanders Battle]

  Southland Rear Line

  The hot wind blew gently, carrying the thick scent of blood amidst the clash of swords and the roars of soldiers killing each other.

  In the midst of the chaos of war, two figures stood facing each other.

  Schundler, atop his black horse, stared at the man he now realized was no ordinary soldier.

  "Heh...? A commander, huh?" Schundler raised an eyebrow, eyeing his opponent from head to toe.

  "Quite a strange name for a Southland man... How about we end this war and let the soldiers return to their homes?"

  Schundler tried to negotiate, but Marcus didn't answer.

  Expressionless, Marcus pulled his sword from the corpse of a dying soldier in front of him.

  Blood dripped from the tip of his blade.

  Then—

  SWOOSH!

  Marcus dashed toward Schundler.

  Schundler snorted.

  "So you're not the type who talks things out... Looks like we'll have to settle this with violence."

  He stayed in his position, waiting for Marcus to approach.

  Marcus charged at high speed, slashing down any enemy that stood in his way without slowing down.

  In the blink of an eye, he was already standing right in front of Schundler, who was still on his horse.

  Finally, the two stood face-to-face.

  Schundler, on his horse.

  Marcus, on the ground, without any protective armor.

  Yet, the tension between them was sharper than any sword.

  BAM!

  They moved.

  SWING!

  Schundler swung his spear-sword horizontally, slicing through the air.

  But—

  Marcus bent backward.

  Just barely enough for the blade to almost graze his nose before missing his body completely.

  Schundler didn’t stop.

  He spun his body on horseback, raised his spear-sword high, and slashed down vertically.

  CLANK!

  This time, Marcus blocked it with his own sword.

  But before Schundler could strike again—

  WHOOSH!

  Marcus threw his shield.

  BAM!

  The shield struck Schundler right in the chest.

  Schundler staggered.

  His horse reared up in panic, then collapsed to the ground—throwing Schundler off the saddle.

  Now, both of them were standing on the ground.

  Southland soldiers rushed in, trying to attack Schundler.

  But the Westland Knights quickly advanced, blocking them.

  SWING! SLASH!

  Schundler spun his spear-sword, cutting down the necks of the enemies around him. He cleared the battlefield.

  Marcus dashed in. His sword slashed straight at Schundler's neck.

  CLANG!

  Schundler parried it.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

  They exchanged blows at incredible speed.

  Dust swirled. The gleam of steel reflected beneath the setting sun.

  Schundler advanced slowly, his spear-sword spinning continuously like a storm.

  Every swing cut down any Southland soldier who got too close.

  Marcus stepped back slightly, his eyes calculating every movement.

  Then—

  He took his stance.

  As Schundler stepped forward, Marcus paused for a moment, then—

  WHOOSH!

  He lunged at full force.

  CLANG!

  He raised his sword in front of him, shielding himself from the attack, deflecting the stormy spins of Schundler's spear-sword.

  THUD!

  His hand wrapped around Schundler's waist, pushing him backward.

  BAM!

  Schundler fell hard to the ground, but at the same time—

  SLASH!

  The blade of Schundler's sword slashed into Marcus' left shoulder.

  Marcus ignored the wound and raised his sword high, ready to bring it down onto Schundler's head.

  But—

  ROLL!

  Schundler rolled away!

  STRUCK!

  Marcus' sword struck the ground!

  Schundler quickly crouched, then swung his spear-sword at Marcus' leg.

  SWING!

  SLASH!

  Blood sprayed.

  One of Marcus' legs was severed.

  "COMMANDER MARCUS!!!"

  The soldiers' screams echoed.

  The Southland soldiers saw what happened. They hurried to help Marcus.

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  Westland soldiers blocked their way. Swords clashed. The fierce battle raged on.

  Schundler stood, steadying his breath.

  Marcus was still standing in front of him, with only one leg left.

  Blood dripped heavily onto the ground.

  Yet, Marcus refused to give up.

  WHOOSH!

  He stomped his remaining foot into the ground and shot forward with the last of his strength.

  Schundler gripped his spear-sword tightly.

  SWOOSH!

  Marcus thrust his sword forward!

  But—

  SHLUCK!

  Schundler’s spear-sword pierced through Marcus’s chest.

  And yet—

  Marcus still attacked. His sword kept swinging.

  SWISH!

  The blade slightly grazed Schundler’s neck!

  But Schundler leapt back, pulling his spear from Marcus’s body.

  Marcus collapsed.

  His body was drenched in blood. His breathing was ragged.

  “Commander Marcus is dead!

  He was defeated by Commander Schundler!”

  The voices of the Westland soldiers roared.

  Arcels and Follows watched from a distance.

  They saw Marcus’s blood-soaked body.

  Arcels swallowed hard.

  “Did you hear that, Follows? Our commander won!”

  Follows stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Marcus’s body.

  Arcels patted his younger brother’s shoulder.

  “Come on, let’s move forward! The sooner we reach Westland, the better.”

  “Alright, brother.” Follows nodded.

  The two of them moved forward, stepping between scattered corpses, treading on the blood flowing into the sand.

  [The Truth of The Legend, The Power of A War General]

  Battlefield, One Minute After Marcus' Fall

  Arcels and Follows stood at the front line, watching Marcus’ blood-soaked body.

  But… something was strange.

  Arcels frowned.

  Blood was still flowing, but...

  “Why is he still breathing?” Arcels whispered.

  The victory cheers of the Westland army echoed around them.

  “Commander Schundler, cut off Marcus’ head!” a soldier shouted.

  Schundler sighed, his gaze still focused on the larger enemy force in the distance.

  “You do it! We must hurry and face Adam’s army! Bring me a horse!” he shouted, prioritizing strategy over ensuring the death of his enemy.

  A Westland Knight stepped forward, raising his sword high.

  Arcels and Follows held their breath.

  They waited for Marcus’ head to be completely severed.

  CLANG!

  SLASH!

  Blood spurted.

  But it wasn’t Marcus’ head that was cut—

  It was that Knight’s head.

  “G-Generrra—?! Hrk…!” The Knight tried to scream, but only a choking sound escaped.

  “W-WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!”

  Arcels stared, wide-eyed.

  Marcus’ body... moved.

  His leg, which had been severed, began to grow back.

  His wounds closed by themselves.

  Marcus stood up.

  In an instant, he slaughtered all the Westland soldiers around him.

  The enemy front line was instantly wiped out—leaving only Arcels and Follows standing directly before the monster.

  Marcus’ gaze now locked onto them.

  “PROTECT ME, FOLLOWS!!!”

  “YES, BRO!”

  CLANG!

  Follows immediately drew his sword, blocking Marcus’ attack.

  Marcus was still wounded and exhausted after fighting Schundler. In contrast, Follows was still fresh and full of strength.

  This was their chance.

  With lightning-fast reflexes, Follows targeted Marcus’ blind spot—his previously severed leg.

  SLASH!

  Marcus’ right hand was severed.

  But right then—

  Within minutes, his leg regenerated like before.

  Arcels and Follows witnessed everything clearly.

  “W-W-W... WHAT?!?!?!” Arcels gasped.

  “His body can regenerate?! What do we do, bro?!”

  Follows gritted his teeth, eyes sharply fixed on Marcus who still stood firm.

  “Run… We have to run from this monster. If we get caught, we die. If we fight, we die. Our only option is to run to the very back lines…”

  “Ah… So you noticed huh…”

  That heavy voice echoed.

  Marcus now stood tall.

  His cold gaze pierced directly at Arcels and Follows.

  WHOOSH!

  In an instant, his body shot toward them.

  Arcels trembled violently.

  His legs felt heavy, as if rooted to the ground.

  “Follows… RUN!!!”

  Both of them panicked. This was their first time seeing a war general. They tried to escape.

  But Marcus was too fast.

  In desperation, Follows drew a small knife from his belt and threw it straight into Marcus’ left eye.

  SCHLUCK!

  “ARGHHH!!!”

  Marcus staggered, his hand clutching his face. Fresh blood flowed from his stabbed eye.

  “DAMN YOU!!!” His scream echoed, filled with rage and pain.

  “YOU BRATS…!!! Even if I can regenerate, I STILL FEEL PAIN, YOU KNOW?!?!?!”

  He growled, his face flushed red.

  But when he looked ahead again with his remaining eye—

  Arcels and Follows were already gone.

  The Westland soldiers witnessed the scene.

  “G-GENERAL…!!!

  HE’S NOT JUST SOME ORDINARY COMMANDER!

  HE IS GENERAL MARCUS!!!”

  Schundler, who was already preparing to attack Adam’s army, turned around.

  And what he saw…

  Marcus stood atop the corpses of Westland soldiers.

  Soaked in blood, both of his legs perfectly intact, without a single wound.

  Schundler was stunned. His breath caught in his throat.

  Fear spread rapidly.

  The Westland army began to fall into chaos.

  On the other side, the Southland army roared in thunderous cheer.

  “SOUTHLAND GENERAL!!!”

  “LONG LIVE GENERAL MARCUS!!!”

  Marcus didn’t die.

  Schundler realized the horrifying truth.

  “He has regenerative powers…?! The power of war generals…?! General… general… general… WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, SOUTHLAND?!”

  Cold sweat trickled down his temple.

  But he didn’t have the luxury to freeze in fear.

  Marcus was staring at him.

  Their eyes met.

  Schundler immediately pulled the reins of his horse.

  WHOOSH!

  He charged toward Marcus, seeing for himself that the chest wound which had pierced through Marcus earlier — was already healed.

  Schundler was utterly shocked.

  His hand gripping the spear-sword trembled violently.

  He understood. Marcus was on a whole different level.

  Schundler fled past Marcus and regrouped with the remaining Westland soldiers in the rear lines.

  Far behind the Southland army, Commander Adam smiled.

  He had heard the roars of the crowd.

  “Heh…? Looks like they’ve found out…”

  [Westland vs General Southland]

  Battlefield, Frontline of Westland Army

  “This is bad… This is really bad…!!!”

  Schundler knew — they couldn’t win.

  “We’re dead… We’re all going to die…”

  Only 2000 soldiers remained.

  Schundler stared at the battlefield.

  Marcus stood among the corpses of Westland soldiers.

  Untouchable. Unstoppable.

  Southland’s army was twice their size.

  Schundler was losing hope.

  “Snap out of it, Commander Schundler!”

  Viktor Nowakski, a Commander Thousand, shook his shoulder.

  “Even if he’s a General, he’ll still die if we cut off his head or crush his skull!”

  Vergusen, a Commander Three Thousand, shouted firmly, cutting in.

  “IT’S NOT THAT SIMPLE! Generals are monsters. He’ll slaughter us all before we even get a chance to strike at his neck!”

  Schundler stayed silent.

  His eyes were hollow.

  Despair crept through his mind.

  “No one… can fight a General…” he whispered.

  Deep down, he had already given up.

  “Westland should’ve sent a General too… A General can wipe out thousands of enemies… They outnumber us too… We’re completely outmatched…”

  SMACK!

  Vergusen punched Schundler in the face.

  “IT’S NOT OUR FAULT THAT YOU’RE NOT A GENERAL!!!”

  Schundler froze.

  “Just give us the order, and we’ll follow it!” Vergusen shouted.

  Schundler stayed still.

  He looked back.

  His soldiers were still fighting.

  They hadn’t given up.

  And neither could he.

  He straightened his back, eyes fixed forward.

  “ALL SOLDIERS!!!”

  Silence fell.

  “FORM A STRAIGHT LINE, ADVANCE DIRECTLY FORWARD!!!”

  The soldiers began to move.

  “KEEP ADVANCING, EVEN IF YOU DIE!!! DON’T LOOK BACK!!! WE HAVE ONLY ONE GOAL—THE GATES OF WESTLAND!!!!”

  “UOOOOHHH!!!”

  The Westland soldiers roared thunderously.

  “CHAAAAARGE!!!”

  Schundler led the way.

  With Vergusen, Viktor, and the cavalry, they broke through the enemy lines.

  CLANG!

  SMASH!

  Schundler parried Marcus’s sword and knocked him aside.

  They broke through General Marcus.

  But behind them, the infantry soldiers — who had no horses — were left behind.

  A massacre began.

  “WESTLAND, FORWARD!!! WESTLAND NEVER LOOK BACK!!!”

  Schundler shouted, tears streaming down his face.

  He forced himself to ignore the horrors happening behind him.

  SLASH! RIP! SLASH! SPLATTER!

  The sound of blades cutting through flesh.

  Schundler kept moving forward.

  One by one, the soldiers behind him fell.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  He mustn’t stop.

  Finally…

  He broke through the enemy lines.

  Commander Adam’s forces weren’t here? A trap?

  No. This is our chance to survive…

  “YOU ARE THE HEROES OF WESTLAND! HEROES NEVER LOOK BACK! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!!!”

  Some soldiers still followed him.

  But then…

  “Archers ready…”

  From afar, Marcus’s voice echoed.

  “FIRE!!!”

  WHOOSH!!!

  A rain of arrows poured down from behind, killed every Westland's army.

  Schundler didn’t look back.

  He rode as fast as he could toward Westland’s Southern Gate.

  South Gate of Westland

  Finally, Schundler arrived at his destination.

  He looked back.

  What he saw…

  Only Herralex Vergusen and Viktor Nowakski remained.

  The others had fallen.

  Schundler was stunned, letting go of his spear-sword, which fell to the ground.

  “H-HEH…?”

  He cried.

  “I-I could’ve saved more…

  I should’ve saved more people!!!

  I SHOULD’VE SAVED EVEN MORE PEOPLE!!!”

  Schundler screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. He intended to return to the battlefield, but Viktor and Vergusen held him back.

  “Enough!”

  Vergusen gripped his shoulder tightly. His voice trembled.

  “Go will go home and rest.”

  Vergusen’s eyes were wet with tears.

  “You did enough.”

  [Becoming Slaves]

  Westland Army's Rear Line, Battlefield

  Arcels and Follows ran in the opposite direction, away from General Marcus.

  They bumped into other panicked Westland soldiers, all desperate just to survive.

  “Run, Follows!” Arcels shouted, grabbing his little brother’s arm.

  “Okay, brother!”

  Amidst their ragged breaths, Arcels thought hard.

  “Single Cup, 1 minute… Double Cup, 20 seconds… Triple Cup, 3 seconds…”

  “That’s not their regeneration time,” Follows quickly added.

  “That’s the time their body needs before the regeneration starts!”

  “What do you mean?” Arcels asked as he kept running.

  “For example, if Marcus’s hand is cut off,” Follows explained while leaping over corpses, “He has to wait 1 minute first, and only after that his hand will start to grow back.”

  Arcels realized something.

  “So, a Triple Cup General only needs 3 seconds before their regeneration starts?”

  “Exactly! It doesn’t mean their body instantly recovers in 3 seconds, but that’s when the healing begins!”

  “That means… the higher their level, the faster their wounds begin to heal…”

  Arcels felt chills down his spine.

  “A Single Cup General alone is already that powerful… What about a Triple Cup General? THAT’S TERRIFYING!!!”

  “That’s why… no matter how amazing Schundler is, he’ll still lose against those with regeneration,” Follows emphasized in a serious tone.

  “Even if it’s only a Single Cup General.”

  They finally reached the very rear line. But Commander Adam and his troops blocked their path.

  “Damn! We’re surrounded again!” Arcels halted.

  “Back to the front, Follows!”

  But…

  There were no more Westland soldiers left there.

  All had been slaughtered by Marcus.

  Arcels gritted his teeth.

  “Damn it!”

  Ahead — Marcus stood, drenched in blood, amidst the corpses of Westland soldiers.

  Behind — Commander Adam’s troops were closing in.

  “Drop your weapons, and we won’t kill you!”

  Marcus’s voice boomed.

  The Westland soldiers froze.

  Some tried to fight back — immediately cut down without mercy.

  Others committed suicide, preferring to die as soldiers rather than become slaves.

  But some surrendered, dropping their weapons.

  Arcels clenched his fists.

  He looked into the eyes of Follows — his younger brother, who had always been stronger and braver than him.

  He had to make a decision.

  “Drop your weapon, Follows!”

  “But, brother—"

  “No matter what happens… Don’t die! THAT’S AN ORDER!!!”

  Arcels raised his voice a little.

  He didn’t want to lose his brother.

  Follows fell silent.

  CLANK!

  Arcels’s sword fell to the ground.

  Follows looked at his brother, then took a deep breath.

  “Okay, brother.”

  CLANK!

  Follows’s sword also dropped.

  The two of them were captured, their hands shackled, and they were sold as slaves in Southland.