While I had grown up on the earth, my parents had divided role models into two simple groups. The good ones and the bad ones. Those I should learn from and those I should avoid. Black and white.

But the last few days had taught me that even these small things were never that simple as the fortress’ atmosphere experienced multiple notable changes.

The first had been a welcome one.

Each afternoon, the new team leaders would gather outside the fortress and provide training to those interested. No orders, no compulsion, no pressure. Only the leaders’ wish to keep their men safe. In fact, they copied the mercenaries’ morning training one-to-one and demonstrated it for those who were too prideful to ask for it.

At first, this sight surprised me, but I didn’t interfere with it. Many recruits still bore a grudge, and any meddling would complicate things.

More than half the recruits accepted the offer and exchanged displeasure and gossip with sweat and pain.

A welcome change.

A step toward the towering role models.

But not every good idea would bring forth excellent results.

The team leaders had been farmhands or day laborers not too long ago, and a few days of morning training couldn’t make up for a lifetime of inexperience.

On the other hand, the remaining recruits weren’t weak or untalented by default. In fact, a useless drunkard might see more brawls than a diligent farmer. A thief might be more skillful with his hands. Even Thea had experienced more fights than the average recruit.

Compared with a trained warrior, all of them were insignificant. But there was no clear divider between the recruits.

Hence, the team leaders soon suffered their first defeats against the trainees.

Nobody would listen to a weak troublemaker, but what about those who positioned themselves above their leaders?

Duel after duel ended with a loss and another circle of leaders emerged around Thea. To be fair, most of them stayed quiet and focused on their training, but their existence alone was upwind beneath the troublemakers’ wings.

It had been too late when I noticed the problem.

Some recruits had already questioned their leader’s authority.

Complacency.

Unwillingness.

Restlessness.

Another powder keg.

I tried to quench all open fire sources, but the troublemakers kept avoiding me. Too strong, no meaning, not one of them. The list of excuses was long, and a forced duel would have the opposite effect.

Stopping the training wasn’t an option either. Not only would it harm the willing recruits, but it would also strengthen the troublemakers’ tales. The tyrannical leaders who would oppress those fearless recruits once the truth comes out.

Hence, I could only stand aside and hope the willing recruits would balance the situation.

Until the third change showed its hideous grimace.

A slow change. An inconspicuous one. At the beginning, even a welcomed one.

Emulate your role models. Try to reach their heights. Imitate their behavior.

Whether or not they admitted it, most recruits looked up to the mercenaries.

Mercenaries have always been the evil adversaries whenever a tale echoed through Gladford’s taverns. Greedy and honorless men, longing for war and slaughter, until the hero freed the lands. The perfect antagonist.

But the mercenaries inside the southern fortress reenacted a different play.

Strong, disciplined, bound by honor.

Stolen story; please report.

If anything, they resembled the heroes.

Stories can be powerful. In fact, it was Rhoslyn’s tragic backstory that had tied me to the game and led me into this world. And Gladford’s tales motivated the recruits as they copied their behavior.

And the fortress’ atmosphere changed with it.

An entire army of leprechauns might approach with each passing day. The scouts already explored the nearby forests. In fact, the recruits’ homes and families could burn right now.

Yet the recruits followed their role models’ example and relaxed.

Failure during training caused smiles and laughter.

Standstill was met with carefreeness.

Some even bet on the training duels.

No sense of urgency.

No motivation to become stronger as fast as possible.

They copied the mercenaries’ behavior and didn’t realize the differences.

For the mercenaries, an hour or two of training was enough to retain their level. Whereas the recruits needed many more hours to improve.

For the mercenaries, a fight against the scouts was nothing but a small skirmish. Yet the recruits had to put their lives at risk to slay a single leprechaun.

For the mercenaries, this battlefield was one of many and they would leave it behind, no matter the outcome. But one wrong step and the recruits would lose everything.

Their situations were entirely different, yet they behaved the same.

The long wait didn’t help either, as any threat paled over time.

In the end, the fortress’ atmosphere became a weird mix of self-satisfaction, restlessness, and lost urgency.

But the biggest change resulted in a commotion that woke me up just minutes ago.

Four lines of mercenaries, divided into smaller group and a horse beside each member, greeted my dozy eyes.

Their resting area was deserted.

Bundled up tents on their horses’ backs. Their firewood stacks empty. Their campfires extinct.

Every mercenary wore a suit of armor, ready for battle.

Or for travel.

Still stoic and quiet.

But the mercenaries were leaving.

Only Rhoslyn stood outside the lines and beckoned me over.

“You are leaving?” A useless question, but nothing else came to mind. Our ways separated once more.

“Master Bernier sent new orders.” A poor imitation of his voice followed. “You and your men shall return and defend Gladford from any unforeseen dangers. We expect your arrival before this circle's end.”

“Master Bernier? Not the Freiherr?”

“The Freiherr left for Haithabu. Yet we still can’t escape his whims.” A silent sigh. “Anyway, we have received our orders and will follow them. So this is where we part.”

“Then… this fortress…”

“Is yours alone.” An encouraging smile decorated her beautiful face. “I wish I could say something motivating, but we won’t take part in this fight. The Freiherr wanted us as far away as possible during his absence. But Master Bernier is a coward who fears defeat more than my men, so he’ll have us defend the city at all cost.”

“A shame.”

“A chance.” Her bell-like laughter agitated the watching recruits, but she didn’t pay them any heed. “Your chance to achieve glory once more. Your chance to pressure the Freiherr even more. And your chance to impress my men.”

“Your men?” I didn’t understand her insinuation right away. “Wait. You mean?”

“My men are a hardened unit, almost impossible to infiltrate. But even they adore the tales of heroes.” She pulled out three small flasks and pressed them into my hand. “And I also enjoy a good story.”

“This is…” I examined the small flasks, and the results left me speechless.

Green liquid, a slightly rotten smell, and small yellow bubbles dancing within.

Low quality healing potions, barely better than a normal dressing, but an instantaneous effect.

In the game, even low level players would disregard them because of their narrow effectiveness and favor magic or crystals instead. The forums even dubbed them herbal soups and hosted fake real life cooking events. But to the current me, these flasks were invaluable.

According to Fabien, the lords would monopolize the potion production for their private troops and the public supply couldn’t keep up with the demand. In fact, the entirety of Gladford possessed only a handful of potions. All of them in the hands of Houdin and his lackeys.

When I looked up, Rhoslyn’s smiling face appeared before me. This time neither encouraging nor forced, but a simple and honest one. Yet I still didn’t understand her reasons. “But how?”

“The powerful command the weak, the rich dominate the poor, and even lords follow orders from bigger nobles. That’s the way of the world.” A longing spark appeared in Rhoslyn’s eyes. “But sometimes there are also those who rebel and try the impossible. And I want to see how far you can go. Will the invulnerable warrior show me another surprise?”

“I will give it my all.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Well then, let me leave you with two pieces of advice.” She lifted her left forefinger. “Number one, the strong will fear those who become strong. So hide your strength until you can face the unreasonable ones. Only then will you be able to walk freely without a lord holding your reins.”

Her facial expressions became a display of sadness and loneliness. It fitted the story, but it didn’t appear to be fake. Instead, it felt so real I wanted to grab her hands and stop the departure.

Stay with me. I’ll use my knowledge to turn you into the invincible sword maiden. With your men and my gaming experience, we won’t have to fear the lords ever again.

These words appeared in my head, but I didn’t utter them. Hidden systems? Experience points? Knowledge of the Future? Who would believe such claims?

I feared the gaze she would show me.

So I let her continue.

“Number two.” Her right forefinger followed suit. “Don’t do anything rash. Keep low, follow orders, and survive. A defeat can be rectified. Lords can be questioned. But one rash action might destroy everything. It might take days, circles, years, decades. But as long as we live, victory can still be ours.”

She put her raised fingers in her mouth and whistled.

“We left ten remounts with your scouts. Use them wisely. Those are lent, not given.” A spotless white obeyed her signal and appeared behind her. One hand movement, one jump, and she sat in the saddle, ready to leave. “I pray for your success. Don’t do anything rash. Treasure your life. Protect your honor.”

One last smile before our parting.

“May you be the victor the next time we stand face to face.”