I Became the Commander in a Trash Game Who Copies Skills

Chapter 23: Mask (1)

Tribus von Zarhill.

The human necromancer who would become the second Vampire Duke in the distant future.

The items I looted during the process of raiding his lair and rescuing Alina Pewin were as follows.

A few scraps of gold.

A pouch of silver coins.

A torn plate-steel robe.

Kha’ulder’s Staff.

A white mask.

Buzzzzz—

‘…And this statue.’

It was the only item among the loot that I didn’t recognize.

Paradoxically, in this game, my ignorance was directly proportional to the object’s importance.

The reason was simple.

From factions, heroes, units, items, skills, and traits, to even the minutest settings.

All information up to World Scenario 3.0 was neatly organized in the database inside my head.

Take the Kha’ulder’s Staff he used, for example.

‘A relic of Kha’ulder, the white mage who founded the White Tower three hundred years ago. Basic effect: 20% increase in proficiency for spells Level 5 and below. Penalties: Reduced mana capacity. Reduced mana recovery. Reduced strength.’

For reference, this was an overpowered item.

The penalties were there, but they paled in comparison to the leap in spell proficiency.

Moreover, when activated, it imposed an immobility penalty but allowed chanting omission for spells Level 4 and below, essentially turning the caster into a fixed turret with insane special abilities.

However, I had no reason to use it, so I kept it stored.

Thanks to Warrior’s Insight, my skill proficiencies were already at maximum.

The chant omission effect wasn’t particularly useful either.

I planned to give it to a trustworthy mage ally later.

Anyway.

Buzzzzz—

‘…I don’t remember a statue like this. It must be a new item from the 4.0 update.’

That was why this item was important.

World Scenario updates were massive variables encompassing new factions, scenarios, heroes, units, skills, and items.

These updates, which ultimately led to end-game content expansions, had already left two major footprints in this run.

The first was raiding Tribus and rescuing Alina.

This eliminated the potential for the Vampire Archduchy’s late-game revival.

The second was Viscount Pewin’s survival.

That was why we were now in the Vampire Archduchy conquest war.

‘And this statue is the third.’

The statue’s appearance was suspiciously ominous at first glance.

I’d have to wait and see what footprint it would leave.

Anyway, given the regular pattern of vibrations, it seemed like some kind of pager.

I didn’t know the principle behind its operation, but one thing was important.

If this was truly a pager.

Then who was calling me right now.

Buzzzzz—

It wasn’t that I had no guesses.

The statue’s form was quite distinctive.

Chess-piece sized, fitting in one hand, with writhing tentacles supporting a smooth octahedron.

Not many groups in this insane fantasy continent favored such grotesque design aesthetics.

“….”

The statue, which had vibrated for about a minute, soon fell silent.

I waited for a while, but there was no sign of it ringing again.

I paced inside the tent for a moment, thinking.

Should I bury the statue in the ground as is?

Or take it with me?

Well, the conclusion was already set.

‘I’ll take it.’

An unknown variable was a crisis.

But it also had ample potential to be an opportunity.

Either way, excluding it was a poor move.

In this vicious game, crises clung even more tenaciously the moment you ignored them.

Like how a man giving off a subtly off vibe in a tavern turned out to be an assassin sent to kill me.

Or how avoiding battle with a troublesome young orc chieftain led to him later leading a massive horde that set the continent ablaze.

“….”

And perhaps.

Perhaps this statue would give me some opportunity—I had a faint guess.

I shoved the now-silent statue deep into my gear and slipped into my sleeping bag.

Sleep didn’t come.

***

Capturing a major stronghold didn’t mean the conquest was over.

Operations continued after the occupation.

The Imperial army established supply, administration, and security systems, solidifying the base.

Meanwhile, we mercenaries—especially those formally hired—were given separate missions.

Namely, reconnaissance.

“Here’s the report from this reconnaissance.”

“Good work.”

Actually, it felt more like a search than reconnaissance.

We scoured the surrounding area centered on the fortress.

First, one-day round trips.

Then two days, three days.

The reconnaissance I just returned from was four days.

Each reconnaissance ended with a visit to the command center for reporting, like now.

“Here’s the payment for this reconnaissance mission. Rest for a day and prepare for the next one.”

The bureaucrat, who quickly skimmed the report’s key points, handed over the payment.

Payments during the campaign were in the form of vouchers.

Vouchers stamped prominently with the Archduke’s seal.

They could be exchanged for gold coins upon returning after the war.

The bespectacled bureaucrat, rummaging through documents, added as if remembering.

“Ah, the main supply merchants departed from Baron Burken’s territory yesterday and arrived. The Archduke mentioned it in advance, so you should be able to use the received vouchers like gold coins.”

It was like a primitive version of credit currency.

The reason for this seemingly complicated method was surprisingly efficient.

Adding heavy, tempting gold chests to an already burdened supply line would be foolish.

From the frontline fighter’s perspective, a pouch of gold coins was cumbersome anyway.

Of course, it also aimed to prevent mid-campaign desertions by mercenaries like us.

With an uncertain battle ahead, anyone with a heavy pouch of gold might consider fleeing.

But with vouchers, to get real gold, one had to stay until the end and return to the Empire.

It was a wise way to buy loyalty with money.

Clack—

I left the command center and returned to the mercenary lodging.

My bosom held plenty of vouchers to distribute as bonuses.

It felt like being a breadwinner on payday.

As I approached the lodging, an unexpected guest was waiting.

It was Poodle, the mercenary captain I had befriended during this expedition.

Somehow, he had a small beer keg tucked under his arm and was squatting by the door.

“Little brother! Why so late! This is black beer from the Empire’s north—I secretly got it from a merchant friend. It’s been a while; let’s have a drink…!”

Poodle brightened upon seeing me.

This wasn’t good.

I didn’t ignore that drinking sessions were part of networking among rough mercenaries.

The problem was with my body.

With just the Basic Stamina trait barely acquired, my stamina was still far below the mercenary average.

Guzzling alcohol during consecutive operations was practically suicide…

“I’m sorry, but….”

“Oh! Isn’t that our big bro! Let’s go with me!”

“Brol, brother?”

“Ah, our captain’s weak with alcohol. If that guy gets drunk, it’s just us platoon leaders who suffer. Oh, that’s black beer? My favorite!”

…Brol, nice.

Pretending to welcome with open arms, he distracted Poodle and aptly intercepted the beer keg.

He winked at me secretly before vanishing into the back alley in an instant.

I could ask what the two talked about later.

Pushing aside the receding chatter of the two old men, I entered the lodging.

“Captain!”

I handed Karen the vouchers to distribute to the crew.

“Sir Olif.”

“All clear.”

I briefly heard the unit’s status from Olif.

Until dinner, I spent time wandering the lodging.

The crew gathered in threes and fives, chatting, checking gear, playing dice for laundry duty, and giggling while mimicking the neighboring mercenary captain’s voice.

It was a routine I had grown familiar with after repetitions.

Efficient mission execution.

Followed by a bit of rest and mission prep.

In the process, camaraderie built up that couldn’t be gained from combat training alone.

If we were once a combat group fighting together, now we were becoming a family sharing the same pot.

Well, literally, since we cooked rice in one pot with supplied ingredients, it wasn’t wrong.

As I ate dinner and pondered contentedly, Karen sidled up.

“Captain.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t… have any worries, do you?”

Suddenly?

What was my expression like?

“That’s not it… No, good night!”

“Wait.”

I stopped her as she smiled brightly and headed to her room.

Karen was the one among the unit’s commanders I talked to the least.

Brol and Olif were acquaintances from the Burken Fortress defense days.

Anyway, conversation was important among family sharing the same pot.

Camaraderie wasn’t only forged in blood-spattered battlefields.

Perhaps the battlefield was where camaraderie was proven, not formed.

Trivial stories shared by the campfire became memories aiding choices in critical moments.

That was why I had to create such conversation spaces, even forcibly.

“You said it’s your first expedition? Any discomforts?”

“Camping is a bit tough, but it’s much better now with a base.”

“If you operated inland, you probably joined territorial wars. Fighting other races okay?”

“I encountered many as a ranger. Undead too. Beastkin as well.”

Hm.

This wasn’t it.

The conversation flow felt awkward, so I paused.

That choice was correct.

“So many stars.”

Karen said with a light sigh.

“Cricket sounds. Cute. Can you hear them, Captain?”

I shook my head.

The rooftop of the two-story lodging was deathly quiet.

From this, I learned one thing about Karen.

She was introverted.

Dividing a person’s sociability into extrovert and introvert was arbitrary.

If I had to set a criterion, it was the preference between lively atmospheres and quiet stillness.

It was rare to see Karen noisily mingling with the crew privately.

Unlike Brol.

She led boisterous vibes well among many, but that was more skill than preference.

I was similar.

I didn’t talk much except when necessary.

From my buried college days, the trendy personality tests pegged me as slightly more introverted.

People were surprised when I shared results.

How could I be introverted?

Didn’t I play well with people?

“I’m actually an elf mixed-blood.”

“I see.”

I knew.

Her slightly longer ear tips, and a subtly sharp jawline contrasting her soft face were clues.

Abnormal vision and hearing were decisive evidence.

“One-eighth? They said that much is mixed. My father’s maternal grandfather was an elf. My great-grandfather to me.”

“Then your mother’s side is from the northern grand duchy.”

“Huh? How did you know? Are you a fortune-teller….”

“You said it last time. Came down from the north.”

I prevented another odd misunderstanding.

The Empire didn’t view fortune-tellers favorably.

“Right. You’re close with the priestess. How’s it going with that girl?”

“That girl?”

“The apprentice priestess. Twenty? Totally a kid.”

Weren’t they around the same age?

They looked nearly peers.

Come to think of it, elves had lifespans in millennia.

Even diluted over three generations, the lifespan extension was significant.

Wait.

How old was she then?

“Brol needs to cut back on drinking. Liking alcohol so much from young will cause trouble later.”

“…Didn’t you call him old man to his face?”

“He acts like one, doesn’t he?”

“….”

Raised in a Confucian culture from young, I couldn’t relate.

It was a moment realizing cultural gaps between nations—or species.

We talked for quite a while on the rooftop with the crackling campfire.

Until Brol’s humming rose from below after half a keg.

As we wrapped up for tomorrow, Karen suddenly asked.

“Ah, by the way….”

“…?”

“You really have nothing going on, right?”

“Nothing. Go sleep.”

She tilted her head, then smiled brightly and returned to her room.

Was it the elf blood?

As always, that girl had sharp intuition.

I hadn’t been sleeping well lately anyway.

Buzzzzz—

Every night.

The statue’s vibration at midnight was getting longer each day.

Not some mis-set phone alarm at midnight.

Damn it.

***

The fifth mission was a two-and-a-half-day one-way reconnaissance.

Five days round trip.

This time, there were companions.

The command judged one mercenary band insufficient for a five-day reconnaissance.

Why over a hundred weren’t enough was baffling.

Anyway, as search areas expanded, more hands weren’t bad—I thought until knowing the companions’ affiliation.

These people.

Were the Imperial Church’s holy knights.

“Ha, the mercenary band we’re with, no way it’s you….”

The holy knight paled, stammering.

“H-Heretic, inquis…!”

His two lackeys behind glared.

“Eek…!”

Why so shocked like seeing a monster?

I was shocked too.

Regrettably, we were acquainted.

The interrupting holy knight who once barged in during my secret meetings with Alina at the abandoned farmhouse near the church.

So his name was….

“Tember… no, Tem… ber.”

He corrected his trailing words after my slight glare.

Many eyes were watching.

I’d cover his rank for now.

Anyway, the problem wasn’t that stalker holy knight.

“You seem acquainted with Sir Tember.”

The issue was the other holy knights joining this mission with him.

“We had a brief chance encounter.”

“Hoho…. Saying ‘brief’ sounds like there was friction in that short time.”

The most senior-looking holy knight in ornate armor approached.

Obviously.

It was like asking if I was the one who hit our kid.

Once again, the Empire’s three great powers were steel, magic, and faith.

Clashing with church personnel brought no benefits.

Especially since we’d be on missions together for days, I needed to handle the first meeting wisely.

[Deploying Lord’s Unyielding Mind.]

Show a amicable attitude to avoid escalating conflict.

But as representing a mercenary group, don’t bend too much.

Like dealing with the Archduke or Baron.

Choose atmosphere and words fitting the opponent and situation.

It was the moment I opened my mouth, neither too hasty nor too late.

“Hahaha! Our Sir Tember does have a personality that invites fists!”

“…?”

“He seemed a bit more docile lately! On behalf of the church, I thank you. I’m Andarin!”

……Huh?