The rain grew heavier. Its drops slammed into the muddy ground, forming filthy puddles that blended with dried blood. Elara—or Valerius—steadied her breathing slowly. Every rise of her chest felt like it was being cut open from the inside. This body was fragile, far more fragile than the one she once had. She could feel every weak pulse from the energy core within her—whatever organ or structure it was—something no human from her original world possessed.
The man who had helped her stand earlier patted her shoulder. "Don't push yourself. Trainer Aldric will skin us alive if you faint again when the formation is set."
That name meant nothing to her. But the man's voice—loud, breathless, and exhausted—showed more than physical fatigue. His mind was nearly broken.
"What's your name?" Elara—or Valerius—asked, her voice slightly hoarse but recovering.
The man frowned. "Elara… still affected by Void Drain? I'm Herand. Your tent-mate for… the last three weeks. Gods, don't tell me you forgot?"
Three weeks… this body had lived its own life before her consciousness took its place. Which meant there were social details she needed to navigate carefully.
"I'm… just a bit dizzy," Elara replied at last. The words were flat, but enough to convince Herand.
Herand nodded heavily. "Makes sense. You pushed your barrier to shield us. If not for that, I'd probably be ash right now."
In her old world, a soldier who was saved would at least show respect—or gratitude—to their savior. Herand showed no respect at all, only a forced sense of guilt.
This was a broken military. Low morale. Unstable structure.
Valerius stored that fact in her mind.
When she tried to stand, her knees trembled instantly. Herand caught her quickly. "Easy. You're still drained. Your core almost melted yesterday."
"Core?" Valerius repeated carefully.
"Yeah. Aether Core. We regular humans have tiny ones. Unlike noble mages whose cores are stable. We—uh… regular infantry—only get basic training so we can use barriers or mana slashes. You know how fragile we are."
Valerius did not know. But she nodded as if she did.
This world seemed to have a natural military caste system:
Nobles – upper class, with strong cores.
Ordinary infantry – lower class, weak cores, used as living shields.
Monsters – Orcs, and other vile beings.
And then there was Elara's body—a common female infantry—now inhabited by her.
"You need to eat something first," Herand said. "Then we prepare for formation. The commander said the Orc counterattack was only delayed, not stopped."
Valerius stayed quiet. This body was hungry, but its hunger felt different… more punishing. Weak humans depended easily on intake.
More importantly, she needed information.
"I want to know the front-line situation," she said while balancing herself.
Herand let out a dry laugh. "Situation? Same as yesterday: we're losing. Same as last week: we're losing. Same as last month: we march forward then die one by one."
"Your officers are incompetent," Valerius muttered without thinking.
Herand stared at her. "If someone else heard that, you'd be beaten to death."
"I only said what's true," Valerius replied flatly.
Herand laughed, but bitterly. "Yeah… but still, we can't say it out loud. Regular soldiers only have two functions: march and die."
A grave mistake, Valerius thought. In proper strategy, infantry was the backbone. Not fodder.
She walked slowly past the tents. Soldiers wandered with pale faces and empty eyes. Some lay down with bandages already turning brown. Others sat staring blankly at the ground—shell-shocked, a reaction she knew too well. Young men who shouldn't be on a battlefield.
Valerius counted. From the steps, voices, and number of tents, she estimated around 180 people in this company—fewer than infantry standards in her old world.
In her old world, a company had 120–200 soldiers depending on doctrine. But these soldiers…
Weak. Poorly trained. Disorganized.
But worst of all: hopeless.
"Oi! You rotten infantry! Form up!" someone shouted.
A large man stepped out of a big tent—wild beard, tattooed chest covered in scars. He wore half-armor, a leather belt, and an iron whip. His eyes were anything but kind.
"Trainer Aldric," Herand whispered. "Don't look into his eyes too long. He's like an Orc born from a human."
Valerius looked at Aldric. She felt no fear. Only a cold assessment activating instinctively in her mind.
"Move! Two minutes! I don't care if you're limping or dying! You're dull blades! And a dull blade's job is to be bait!"
The soldiers trembled and scrambled into formation.
Valerius stood at the end of the line, her body still fragile.
Aldric marched down the row, whipping the air. "We move in an hour! The noble mages want to encircle the eastern valley. And you—" he slapped a soldier's chest so hard the man nearly fell—"will walk right at the front to draw the Orcs' attention!"
Orcs. Valerius had not seen them yet, but based on war fantasies she studied, they were likely stronger than humans.
"If any of you run…" Aldric pointed at the cliff behind them, "I'll throw you off myself."
Shouts filled the air. The line trembled, but none resisted.
Valerius watched all of it coldly.
Aldric's discipline was born from fear. And discipline born from fear crumbles under real pressure.
Defeat was written long before the battle began.
After the crude briefing, the soldiers returned to grab their gear.
Valerius checked Elara's pack: A rusted short sword Thin leather armor Three small mana crystals nearly drained A piece of hard bread A strip of cloth for bandages
Pathetic.
She held the sword. The weight was uneven, the blade scratched badly. Unfit for proper combat.
If Valerius commanded this world's army, her first move would be to fix logistics. Many wars were lost not by strategy, but by chaotic supplies.
While she inspected the sword, Herand approached with two bowls of watery soup.
"Eat. Goblegar soup. Don't think about the taste." It smelled like boiled Orc feet.
But Valerius drank it. This body needed nourishment.
Herand sat beside her. "Elara… you realize you've changed, right?"
Valerius stared sharply. "Changed?"
"I mean, since last night—since you fainted—your way of speaking changed. You're not scared. Not shaking. Usually you… well… panic easily."
That was a problem. Elara's body had its own behavioral history, and sudden changes would spark suspicion.
"Sometimes… near-death experiences make people see the world differently," Valerius answered briefly.
Herand nodded, accepting the explanation.
An hour later, formation was set.
The rain turned to a storm. Fog sank low, covering the muddy field in a thin gray sheet.
Aldric stood before the company. Behind him, three noble mages stood arrogantly, draped in luxurious robes with glowing core-stones on their chests. They looked at the infantry the way one looked at dirt stuck to a boot.
The lead female mage eyed Valerius—or Elara—with disdain. "Female infantry… always the frailest. If you die, try not to scream too loudly. It'll break our concentration."
Valerius met her gaze with restrained irritation. "We will advance."
Her tone startled the mage slightly. Not typical of a frightened infantry.
Aldric pointed toward the fog-covered valley. "The enemy is there. Orcs. Their shamans set up barriers. Our noble mages will clear the path. Your job? March. Attack. Distract them. If you die, you die as soldiers of the Kingdom of Arthas."
War cries echoed. But Valerius felt the hollowness beneath them.
The noble mages began chanting. Blue and gold lights wrapped their hands. Energy gathered, ready to fire.
Herand clenched his sword. "I hate today…"
Valerius stared into the valley ahead. The scent of wet earth mixed with an unfamiliar magical aroma. The wind carried a low rumble—heavy growls. Orcs.
She assessed quickly:
Muddy ground slowing infantry movement. Thick fog aiding Orcs with night-vision—knowledge from old fantasy tales she'd heard as a child. Arrogant mages likely to create openings in their own line. And finally, weak infantry with fragile morale.
A disaster.
But in disasters, she always found opportunity.
When the trumpet blew, the line marched.
Their steps sank into mud, heavy, cold biting at their skin. Valerius led her gaze forward, tracking every shift in the fog.
In her old world, she could read enemy movements from subtle changes in the wind. Here, the same principles applied: war was war, no matter the world.
The growls grew louder.
A branch snapped.
The ground bent with weight.
They were surrounded before the battle even began.
Valerius shouted, her voice slicing through the storm:
"SHIELD UP!"
The infantry flinched. Aldric glared but didn't have time to scold.
From the fog, something shot out—bone-tipped arrows the size of forearms.
Without being told, the line raised their thin barriers. Their mana flickered weakly, summoning faint purple shields.
The first arrow shattered Herand's barrier and threw him back.
The second flew at Valerius.
But with natural reflexes, she ducked low, stepped aside—movement even this weak body could still handle—and the arrow tore through the space where her head had been.
"DEFENSIVE FORMATION!" Valerius shouted again.
Aldric and the mages turned in shock. No infantry had ever dared give orders.
But more shocking: the soldiers obeyed.
As if their battle instincts recognized the authority in Elara's—Valerius's—voice over Aldric's.
From the fog emerged towering figures—two meters tall, dark green skin, glowing tattoos, blazing yellow eyes.
Orcs.
Hundreds of them.
The arrows were only the beginning.
A noble mage screamed, "This is a trap—!? Mana blast! Mana bl—"
Her voice cut off as a massive Orc leapt forward and swung its giant axe.
She was cleaved in half.
Screams shook the valley.
The line collapsed instantly.
Aldric shouted, "HOLD THE FORMATION!"
But soldiers ran, terrified, panicking. They didn't hear Aldric. Didn't trust him.
Valerius stepped forward.
The body was weak, but her eyes were sharp. Her breath heavy, but her voice struck like the command of a war god.
"IF YOU RUN—YOU DIE!"
The line froze. Their eyes turned to her.
An Orc leapt, axe ready to split her.
Valerius grabbed the rusted sword, blocked the axe with both hands. Pain shot through her small arms—but she held it.
Herand stared in disbelief. "How are you—?"
Valerius twisted with technique this body shouldn't have known. The Orc stumbled. With a small step, she plunged her blade into its throat. Green blood sprayed.
The soldiers were stunned.
A weak infantry… killing an Orc alone?
Valerius turned, her new eyes burning with the same fire her old ones carried.
"THIRD RANK! COVER THE RIGHT!" "CORE-BEARERS, ADJUST THE BARRIERS!" "HERAND! TWO STEPS BACK! HOLD THE LEFT!"
That voice wasn't Elara's.
It was the voice of a king.
The soldiers followed. Their bodies moved out of survival instinct. They didn't understand the strategy, but they trusted the voice.
A formation slowly reformed.
Aldric gaped. "How…?"
The moment was brief.
More Orcs approached.
Valerius inhaled. This body was weak. But she felt the little energy core inside Elara—unstable, untapped potential.
"If this is an Aether Core…" she murmured, "…then obey me."
She channeled mana through her arm.
Pain surged like wild lightning. But brownish light began to glow in her palm.
Herand shouted, "Elara, what are you—?"
"Showing you how war is meant to be fought."
With a spinning motion, Valerius slammed the energy into the ground.
A small explosion erupted—not large, but enough to push back nearby Orcs and create space.
The line breathed again.
And slowly, something changed.
The soldiers looked at her with something they hadn't felt in months.
Hope.
In the middle of that chaos, Valerius realized something:
This body was weak. But this world… This world had a power system that could be forged. Mana. Barriers. Aether Cores. And more she had yet to learn.
And Elara's body, small as it was, held an unstable core—meaning it had room to grow.
If trained properly… If disciplined like in her old wars…
She could rebuild her strength. Not as Emperor Valerius IX. But as someone… free.
"This world tried to throw me away as a low-rank soldier," she murmured as more Orcs charged, her eyes cold as steel.
"Fine. I'll start from the bottom."
She raised the rusted sword.
"But I will rise."
She dashed forward, shouting commands, turning chaotic infantry into a formation that moved like newly forged steel jaws.
"And when I rise…"
She slashed an Orc's throat. Green blood splattered with the rain.
"…this world will learn—"
She blocked another axe, turned, and pierced its heart.
"…that the War King never truly dies."
Not in her old world. And not here.
This wasn't the end. It was the beginning.
The beginning of a king… reborn as a powerless girl.
And now, this new world would have to face her awakening.
No longer as Emperor Valerius IX.
But as Elara—the woman who would shake the foundations of the world.
...