There were no more screams — only muffled sobs now, as the remaining villagers walked in a line toward the town square, clutching jewels and coins in their trembling arms. They had been holding a festival before our arrival. Now it looked more like a mass funeral.
With pain and tears in their eyes, one by one they dumped their offerings at Kent's feet — right beside the shattered skull of their mayor. On either side of Kent stood a vanguard, or so he guessed, judging by their size and weapons. They kept careful watch of the ceremony like buzzards watching a slow death.
Kent tried to keep up what he hoped was a stern, commanding gaze, though inside his mind was pure chaos.
This is the worst, he thought. I should've never chosen Northern Raiders…
Everything was painfully clear now. Even if he still couldn't believe it — or begin to understand how it was possible — he had no choice but to accept the truth.
Right. Now. He. Was. Inside. The. Fucking. Game.
Must be that lightning strike! Damn those lying real estate agents — 'state-of-the-art lightning protection system,' my ass!
If only Kent had known he'd actually get sucked into the game, he would've picked a nicer start — something peaceful, maybe A New Company or Trading Caravan. Not these weapon-swinging killing maniacs.
Okay, calm down. Think! What's my most urgent problems right now?
Problem one. Don't let these lunatics realize he's no longer their "Chief".
If they found out, they'd probably hang him in the name of "banishing the evil spirit that stole their Chief's soul."
Problem two. Survival. Plain and simple.
He needed to make sure he could stay alive — or at least fight back if things went south.
Kent was a master strategist. He knew every stat, every enemy type, every exploit this game had to offer.
Back when it was turn-based.
Back when his brain was the only weapon that mattered.
Now?
Now it felt like he'd been dropped into an action VR nightmare — one hit away from permanent death.
Escaping? Not even worth thinking about. He'd seen enough isekai stories to know how that usually went.
No way home. No save file. No second chance.
Survival first — that's what his so-called "calm mind" kept telling him.
Alright. This is just another Ironman run. Nothing to be afraid of. You can do it, Kent. In fact, you've done this hundreds of times already.
To his surprise, slipping his mind into "gaming mode" actually helped him think more clearly. He began to plan his next move.
Now then, the next step would be… saying goodbye to this whole raider business and starting a new life — as a mercenary. For that, he needed one thing.
Or rather, one person. And if the game followed its usual pattern, that person should already be here.
Kent tilted his head, peering past the villagers standing in line. Heat shimmered in the smoky air, and at the far end, he spotted exactly who he was looking for.
Thank heaven, he's really there…
At the very back stood a middle-aged man — thin, sunburnt, with a shaved head and a simple robe that practically shouted, "Hey, I'm a monk!" Which made perfect sense, because, well… he was one.
A wave of relief washed over Kent. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, something had gone according to plan. He took a slow breath, straightened his posture, and waited for the line to move forward — rehearsing in his mind what he'd say next to make this little "opening act" go perfectly.
After what felt like forever, the monk finally stood before Kent.
Unlike the other villagers, his hands were empty. The vanguards did not like that. As if that weren't bad enough, the monk opened his mouth to speak.
Swish.
The vanguard to Kent's right swung his axe, aiming for the monk's neck. Thankfully Kent had seen it coming and shot his hand up to stop him. The blade stopped mere millimeters from the poor man's throat. Kent could see sweat trickling down the monk's temple.
"Speak," Kent said in a low voice, trying to be as "Chiefy" as he could.
The monk somehow kept his composure. He drew a long breath, spread his arms wide, and began in a solemn voice.
"From the ancient time when the Old Gods created this world—"
Kent cut him off, raising his hand again.
"Look, bald preacher. I allowed you to speak, not to bark that farking bullshit. One last chance. Think carefully, because your next words might be your last."
Kent deliberately egged him on. Heaven knows these barbarians wouldn't tolerate that kind of sermonizing for long. He raised an eyebrow at the monk.
Make. It. Short.
The monk pursed his lips. He got the hint. Monks tended to be among the sharper folk in this world, after all. He stopped the arm-spreading theatrics and spoke plainly.
"Alright, then if you want gold, depart these silly games. This raiding and pillaging, it is all worthless compared to the treasures of the south. The nobles won't have you in their armies, but they are forever in need of mercenaries and rarely have the time or luxury of choosing where these hired fighters come from. You'd make all the crowns you'd ever want. Come south, raiders, and be sublimated into sellswords."
See? You can do it after all. Kent nodded slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Those were exactly the words he'd needed from the monk. It wasn't like he could just stand up and say, "Hey, let's stop this stupid raider crap and become mercenaries instead." No — with these muscle-headed savages, that would've been the last thing he ever said. Kent needed someone else to plant the idea first, so he could play along, pretend to be "convinced," and steer them where he wanted.
The vanguard on his right — the same one who had almost taken the monk's head off — turned to Kent, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
"Can I take his head now, Chief?"
Damn these tribalistic fuckers. Kent forced down a sigh and snapped.
"No. You can't."
The word hung in the air like a spark in dry hay. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, suspicious, unblinking. For a moment, the firelight flickered across their faces — rough, scarred, eager — and Kent felt every instinct in his body screaming run.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady.
"The bald preacher speaks the truth," he said. "I've long heard tales of southern riches and the travels of adventurous swords for hire. It'd be far better than freezing our asses off here, robbing peasants who barely have anything left. How much more can we bleed from them, huh? No — we'll go south. We'll become sellswords!"
A low murmur rolled through the raiders. Some looked uncertain, others intrigued. Kent didn't wait to see which way they'd lean. He just wanted out — out of this burning village, out of the stench of blood and ash, away from the hateful stares of the survivors who were still alive enough to curse him with their eyes.
"Oh, and one more thing."
He pointed at the monk.
"You're coming with me, bald preacher. It'd be an affront to the Old Gods to leave you to die here after all you've said and done."
Relief washed over the monk's face. So maybe he hadn't been that composed after all. Still, he'd won his gamble — saved his life, and somehow "redeemed" a bloodthirsty raider into something, well, a bit less evil. That should earn him a nice review on whatever divine evaluation form his god used.
"We won't do as you said!"
Suddenly, a voice cut through the murmuring crowd.
Of course. Kent smiled to himself. It would be troublesome for me if you all actually do, after all.
He turned toward the voice. It was… a raider. Then again, they all looked the same to him — the same rough faces, the same wild hair, different tattoos though.
"You may be Chief," the man continued, gaining confidence as a few others nodded in agreement, "but you can't order us to abandon our way of life!"
Kent tilted his head slightly and replied in a calm, almost amused tone.
"Of course not. You can do whatever you want — follow me, or keep living the way you always have. In fact, I'm not even your Chief anymore!"
That stopped them cold.
A few seconds later, the crowd broke into loud arguing as the raiders turned their attention to a much more important matter — choosing their next Chief.
While they were busy shouting and pointing at each other, Kent walked toward the pile of loot and crouched down. Time to divide the spoils. But as he turned around, he noticed four people standing behind him.
One of them was, of course, the monk. But the other three made Kent blink in confusion.
Wait… shouldn't there be only two more? Three raiders in total, me and two more...
Then he remembered. No, it's right — three raiders, the monk, and me, the Captain. He almost forgot that he was the Captain and not just a raider. Normally, the Captain didn't even have an in-game avatar and never took part in combat.
Yeah. That was going to be a problem.
If this were still just a game, that'd be fine. But now, this was real — and there was no skipping turns or hiding behind menus. Combat was unavoidable, which meant his own strength suddenly mattered. Kent knew for sure that the raiders got nice stats, but what about him?
Damn. Let's hope I've got decent stats. As the (former) Chief, I should be the strongest among them, right? That's how these barbarians pick their leaders… right?
Kent silently prayed that the answer was yes.
He began sorting the loot — they need enough food for five people to last at least half a month. He ignored the gold and jewels, prioritize supplies instead: cloth for bandages and warmth, tools and basic gear. No ammunition, since they didn't have any ranged fighters anyway. That was just how this origin worked in the early game.
When he finished, Kent stood up. The three raiders didn't say a word, quietly splitting the luggage among themselves. Guess they still respected him — now as their Captain.
The rest of the raiders didn't object either. They took the remaining loot and marched off with their new Chief, heading back north. They'd rest for a while, then start another raid when the hunger returned. What a wonderful way of life, Kent thought dryly. No envy from me, though.
Kent and his new company left the village in the opposite direction. He looked back one last time. The remains of the village lay behind them — broken, smoking, but still alive. It would rebuild, recover, and someday grow rich enough for another tribe to come and take everything again.
But that wasn't Kent's problem. Not now, anyway.
He turned his eyes forward, to the men walking beside him. They looked uncertain, confused — yet in their eyes there was a faint glimmer of something new. Maybe hope. Maybe ambition. Maybe just curiosity.
Kent drew a deep breath and spoke the words that would mark the start of everything.
"We'll strike out south."