Gilbert Reinhardt felt a piercing pain in his chest. His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. For a brief minute, he saw nothing but a whirl of red and black, plashes of dark blood on churned mud, victims scattered across a weakly crude wooden barricade. A deep, awful sound echoed across the smoky air, half growl, half snarl. It vibrated in his bones.
He attempted to breathe, but his throat burned like iron. His tongue felt swollen and dry.
When he peered down, he noticed his hands locked around the hilt of a sword—but not a weapon. A length of pitted, rust-streaked iron barely holding the shape of a blade.
Why am I holding this...
Huh—
Then his memories fragmented and reformed.
Gilbert was not Gilbert. Or, he was. But he was also Akira Nishikawa, a seventeen-year-old Chiba high school student who died while crossing a street in the rain with his headphones blasting some forgettable pop song.
But suddenly he was standing—no, staggering—on a battlefield. In another person's body. Wearing tattered leather armor that smelled of perspiration and mildew. Hands burnt from grasping this poor substitute for a blade too tightly. His heart thundered with an unexpected rhythm that felt weak and vulnerable.
"Hold your ground!"
A voice like molten gold echoed across the land.
Gilbert, also known as Akira, swung around.
For a time, he forgot everything else.
A knight in silver and red armor stood there, glowing unnaturally. A magnificent mane of golden hair spilled from beneath his helmet, and his eyes shone with a radiance that was not really human. His blade, a sweeping two-handed claymore engraved with runes, went faster than imagined. Each stroke cut through monsters twice his height.
Aurelian Flamehart. S-class hero. The protagonist or the first character the player will get in Final Defense after tutorial. Akira's sister had shrieked with delight whenever he appeared on her computer screen.
But the heat on his skin felt too genuine. The smell of copper and rot in the air was overwhelming. His arms were scorched from holding aloft his sword.
Then something smashed into him from the side.
He flew through the air, landing in the churned-up muck. The contact blasted the breath out of his lungs, leaving him wheezing like a fish on land. Spots moved across his vision. A shadow fell over him, resembling a beast rather than a man, with hooked claws, long slavering jaws, and tar pit eyes.
The demon lunged. Gilbert attempted to roll. Pain screamed through his ribcage; something had probably cracked. His rusted blade appeared at the last moment, driven solely by scared instinct.
Claws scraped across metal. Sparks flew. The creature roared, spun, and backhanded him.
His eyesight erupted into white. The globe lurched.
When it had settled, he was back on his back, muck caked in his hair. The devil was approaching him, his teeth wide open and his breath smelling like rotting meat.
No—please—
A crimson flare. The demon's head rolled away in a fountain of black blood. Gilbert flinched, automatically raising an arm to hide his face. Hot drips stung his cheek, just like acid. When he lowered his arm, Aurelian stood over him, engulfed in flames. His claymore dripped with flaming ichor.
"Get up, lord Reinhardt," Aurelian ordered, his voice steady yet tinged with urgency. "This field isn't safe yet."
Gilbert's air rushed in and out of his lungs. His hands shook wildly around his blade. His entire body felt as if it had been immersed in freezing water. But somehow, he forced himself to get to his feet. "Good," Aurelian remarked, giving a modest approval nod. Then he turned away and charged back into the fray.
Gilbert stood there panting. Around him, soldiers in mismatched armor struggled with beasts. He didn't recognize any of their faces. A small number of young men wearing iron caps and shattered shields. Farmers wield pitchforks, shovels, anything that they can use to fend off monsters. Even boys who appeared to be only a few years his senior.
A cry erupted to his left. Gilbert jerked his head, just in time to see a militiaman impaled on a demon's sharp tusk. Blood splattered on the mud. The demon, a boar-like monster (B – class) the size of a wagon—wrenched its head and tossed the corpse aside like a rag doll.
"Move. Move!"
His legs felt like lead, but terror overtook paralysis. Gilbert lurched forward, gripping his blade as a lifeline. He didn't know any sword forms. He did not have muscle memory. He had never held a genuine weapon in his life.
Akira has only ever looked over his sister's shoulder. Never portrayed himself. Didn't know the controls or the mechanics. And that wasn't a game. It was real. Terrifyingly, horribly real.
The boar demon swung around, snorting. Black spittle foamed from its jaws. It lowered its tusks. Charged. Gilbert attempted to sidestep, but he moved too slowly. The creature's shoulder crashed into him and sending him spinning. He hit the ground so hard that stars appeared behind his eyes.
"Get up, damn it" his thoughts yelled. Get up or you die.
A large, polished steel boot landed in front of him, unexpectedly. Aurelian. Again.
"Duck!" the hero exclaimed.
Gilbert crept backwards on elbows and heels, his teeth clattering. Aurelian raised his blade high. Runes down its length shone with golden light. When he brought it down, the air split like a thunderclap. A fiery arc of energy ripped into the boar demon. It let out a piercing cry, tripped, and collapsed in a smoldering heap. The stench of burnt flesh spread across the area.
Aurelian stood over it, breathing hard, his eyes still glowing with internal fire. Slowly, he turned to Gilbert.
"You hold your ground better than some knights twice your size," the brave man replied. There was a glimmer of a smile beneath his helmet. "That is the blood of Reinhardt in you. Do not squander it. Young lord"
Gilbert swallowed, leaving his throat sore. His heart was pounding so hard that he believed it might rip itself apart. Then Aurelian was off again, yelling instructions, gathering men, and blazing a trail through the tumult. Gilbert looked after him, dazed.
This is ridiculous.
I'm supposed to be at home, studying for midterms.
Not fighting monsters with an overpowering fantasy game protagonist.
"I'm going to die here" he solemnly realized. Just as the actual Gilbert Reinhardt did. That lousy excuse for a tutorial dead-meat guy. Dead in the first chapter helps players comprehend the stakes of what they are fighting for.
Not three yards away, a pair of farmers, still dressed in dirty tunics and grasping rusty pitchforks, attempted to repel a squat, scaled monster that slithered like a gigantic serpent. Its teeth slammed tight around one man's thigh, biting straight through. The farmer's shriek was high and harsh, then quickly cut short as he slumped.
The snake demon curled, winding around each other and smashing ribs with horrible snaps. Gilbert stood motionless, eyes wide. His air rushed in and out of his lungs, harsh and shallow. Even as bile swelled in his throat, he couldn't take his gaze away. Then a roar shattered the battlefield, not the bestial shouts of demons, but a human voice ringing with unearthly power.
"Hold the line!" Stand fast when reinforcements arrive, by the grace of the flame!"
But at best there was no one coming, it was most likely just a way for the knight to boost morale.
With each stroke of his massive rune-etched blade, arcs of burning fire cleaved through bands of demons. Bodies were slashed clean through, and the hot wounds cauterized quickly. However, even Aurelian's movements were tense and strained. His plate armor was gouged, and black ichor smoked around the edges. He breathed heavily, the glow of his eyes flickering. This was no effortless slaughter.
A tremendous howl sounded across the muddy plain. Gilbert spun, his heart pounding against his ribs, and almost dropped his blade completely. A Minotaur emerged from among the trees.
Massive. At least eight feet tall, with muscles like coiled steel beneath shaggy black fur. Its horns twisted viciously forward, and its eyes burned with ember-red malevolence. It held a cartwheel-sized axe in its clawed hands, its edges caked with dried gore.
The beast shrieked a deep, bone-shaking sound that brought both militia and peasants staggering back. Some broke ranks completely, fleeing in terror.
Aurelian approached alone.
"Stand your ground!" he yelled.
But even his voice couldn't completely conceal the tremble that ran through the startled defenders. The Minotaur charged. Each booming footfall caused tremors in Gilbert's legs. Mud spilled up around its hooves. When it swung its axe, it sliced through two soldiers at once, sending bodies spinning apart and blood spurting across the churned soil. Gilbert's thinking went blank. He wasn't thinking anymore. Just staring, his heart screaming to go, his legs frozen in place by some horrible instinct that refused to let him run—or even fight.
Then Aurelian met charged.
Their clash created a tremor that seemed to ripple the very air. Enchanted steel collided with cruel iron, causing sparks to fly. When the Minotaur's gigantic axe slammed down, Aurelian caught it with his blade, retreating back a full yard as his greaves sank deep into the muck. The S-class hero's fangs were bared in a sneer, and veins stood out along his neck. With a sharp twist and a yell, he pushed upward, knocking the axe aloft. His blade flashed. A tiny gash emerged across the Minotaur's chest, boiling and smoldering. The beast roared in pain.
And then it struck again, swinging its axe in huge arcs that tore up the earth, sending friendlies and foe alike flying. Each stroke Aurelian deflected caused tremors in his arms, and his blazing sword flared brighter as runes sparked with each impact. Gilbert watched, his stomach churning, scarcely able to stand. This was not a game. This was a massacre, a desperate conflict in which even a legendary hero appeared to be on the verge of death.
All around them, militia lines were breaking. Peasants fled, only to be pursued by pack demons. Gilbert witnessed one elderly man, little more than flesh and bone, attempting to shield a youngster. A shadow loomed over them, a doglike beast with too many eyes, and they were both reduced to red smears.
His vision swam. Gilbert considered fainting for a split second. I'm going to die. This is it. I just woke up in this hellhole, and I'm going to be torn apart before I can figure out why.
Another impact brought his attention back to the main fight. The Minotaur's axe came down; Aurelian wrenched aside just in time, but the blade grazed his pauldron, sending sparks flying. The knight staggered. He tore a flaming line from hip to opposite shoulder. A geyser emitted a stream of black ichor.
The Minotaur stumbled and shouted. Aurelian did not hesitate. He whirled and brought his blade around in a two-handed arc, slamming into the Minotaur's throat. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The monster's head fell
Then it surged, horns aimed at Aurelian's chest. The hero dropped low and snarled as he drove his shoulder into the Minotaur's gut. The markings on his weapon glowed blindingly white. With a vicious upward swipe
from its shoulders. Battered remnants of the militia let forth a tremendous cheer. Even the peasants who clutched to farm implements let out ragged moans, tears streaming down their dirt-smeared faces.
Aurelian stood there, shoulders heaving and sword still gleaming. He planted it tip-down in the muck and leaned on it, perspiration and blood splattering his golden locks. Slowly, he raised his head, meeting Gilbert's gaze from across the field.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment.
Then Aurelian gave a forced, almost reassuring smile.
"Our line holds,"
he remarked, his voice hoarse, before turning aside to manage the cleanup.
Gilbert could not speak. Couldn't even nod. He just stood there, sword hanging limp at his side, knees trembling. The line holds. For now….
All around him, the field was a horror display of mangled bodies, scalding guts, and dying screams. Demons lay in heaps, as did men and boys. Many old men, old as if the face of retirement, die with slack faces.
His hands would not stop shaking. His heart would not slow. He was naive. Completely, horribly ignorant. When he awoke with the memories of two lives twisted together. The awful awareness that he was Gilbert Reinhardt, the weakest shame of a ducal family, a part of him hoped it would all work out. That there would be a miracle cheat. That being a protagonist implied safety.
But I am not the protagonist. I am not even a hero. I'm just the tutorial NPC that guide players in the intro of the game. A worthless stepping stone. A laugh attempted to escape from behind his eyes. He forced it down. His stomach heaved. He almost vomited.
Instead, he took in one trembling breath. Then another. Alive. For now. Only because that S-class hero, the genuine protagonist, carried the entire conflict with pure willpower and blinding strength. But he'll depart, Gilbert reasoned. And then what?
His chest constricted terribly. Because he remembered vaguely from half-watched episodes over his sister's shoulder. The actual menace had yet to arrive.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something flickering faint ghostly letters lingering just outside the real world, translucent as mist.
[System Notice]
Tutorial Battle Completed: Gladeon font's Last Defense.
Experience: +1
Farming System: UNLOCKED.
Loading…. please stand by.
Gilbert stared. His pulse stuttered.
It's real. This is all real.
And somewhere, deep inside him, the icy claw of dread dug even deeper. Because the tutorial was over and the real game was only just beginning.
Congratulations, Lord Gilbert Reinhardt.
Welcome to Final Defense.