Reincarnated as a Cursed Commander in a War Game

After waking, she'd checked her gear. Two one-handed axes, their designs exquisitely worked into the likeness of ice dragons; at a glance, they seemed heavy—the kind of thing her past self couldn't have lifted even in her wildest fantasies. Upon touching them, an icy halo enveloped the blades, and the gems inlaid within flared with a sickly light. It was proof this world was deeply magical, and that she truly was stepping into the role of a Knight of the Eternal Vow. The same had happened with her armor; it reacted to her presence, the etched patterns shimmering with that same sickly, dancing light, tinged with shadows as dark as the void.

She donned the armor almost involuntarily, as if her body demanded it. The breastplate was blackened steel, adorned with allegories of the thousand-faced God of Death—sturdy and rigid, padded inside perhaps to protect the skin… though she suspected the fur covering her made that unnecessary. It encased her entire torso from neck to waist; she was relieved that at least this world's logic held, and female armor was… practical.

Her abdomen was covered by the chainmail she'd put on earlier, overlaid with plates of dyed leather—likely for mobility, she thought. The trousers, made of black-dyed leather and mail, were reinforced with metal plates extending from the belt down to her knees. A special slit accommodated her fluffy tail; only moments ago had she become aware of this extra appendage, let alone its involuntary twitching. She'd realized the thing attached to her rear end had a mind of its own, moving whenever she felt excitement or rage, just like her dog's tail back in the real world.

Her feet weren't quite feet either. As an anthropomorphic being, she had large, wolf-like paws complete with claws. The plates meant for these limbs seemed to cover only up to near the ankles, secured by straps—which felt normal, as she'd already noticed the ground told her a great deal about her surroundings. The pads of her paws relayed the terrain's immediate condition, the number of nearby people, even their gaits. Combined with her heightened sense of smell, she'd become an infallible tracking machine.

The pauldrons were a thing of beauty—ostentatious, at least to her, though others seemed to find them utterly commonplace—and heavy. No ordinary person could shoulder them, let alone move; they were the largest part of the set. Covering from her neck down to her biceps, they made lifting her arms difficult without practice.

The vambraces ran from her elbows to mid-hand, segmented at the wrists for flexibility. From middle finger to wrist, inscriptions coiled around a violet gem—probably magical.

From the heavy, gem-encrusted belt buckle hung a flap of purple-dyed leather, covering her groin.

It struck her that this set bore a strong resemblance to her character's in-game gear. Yet, there were other things… necklaces, rings, gems… all part of the game's equipment, but never rendered visibly. Here, in this strange dream, she could appreciate the necklaces' beauty, feel the weight of rings on her fingers, and see how odd she looked with various magical charms dangling from her belt.

As far as she knew, these items had specific uses or effects in the game. What purpose they served in this mad dream, she couldn't fathom. Especially since the game strictly limited them—three rings, one charm, one necklace, rarely gems—nothing like this free-for-all where she could layer everything without numerical restrictions.

The valuables were stored In chests secured by heavy locks, keys nowhere to be found. Her surprise was genuine when the locks clicked open at her touch. She wondered if it was some kind of personalized enchantment.

Jewels, necklaces, weapons, gold… an immense fortune lay within. One chest alone overflowed with gold coins. It was strange; she'd assumed members of the undead horde would never use such resources, yet she quickly realized everyone here possessed such things.

Throughout the halls of Zhal Obryn, allegories to death and torture were disturbingly commonplace. Anyone unaware of how Knights of the Eternal Vow like herself sustained their existence might mistake the skull-patterned floors and heaps of bones piled near the forges as mere artificial décor… but in truth, the floors were paved with real humanoid skulls. Of course, the game never explained such details—deliberately ignoring them to stay family-friendly. But here, in this mad dream, Knights of the Eternal Vow fed on souls.

Souls fueled the necropolis, keeping it afloat. They powered siege engines. Above all, they were the sustenance that granted her kind the strength to move.

Animal souls, human souls, demihuman souls—they were the foundation of her existence. All she had to do was kill something, and her energy would instantly replenish.

The souls and bones of living beings drove everything around her. They opened portals, forged weapons, fueled combat, and even healed wounds. Runic magic was merely a supplement to the intrinsic power gained from consuming another life.

Naturally, the necessity to kill others again jarred her. She'd lived nearly forty years in peaceful tranquility in the real world, and this dream was unbearably violent. Telling herself this isn't real helped… yet the act of killing still sickened her. It dragged up memories of her time in the air force—the bombings. The war.

But everything here was different… Unreal… She even rationalized that back in her own reality, she killed animals to eat. Indirectly, yes, but she understood her life depended on others' deaths—just like this place.

This dream, spun from that brutally realistic game, was merciless. The world she'd suddenly found herself in was drowning in war—ravaged by zombies, minions of a mad god bent on annihilation, and corrupt entities that drove all they touched to insanity. She wondered if the actual game was truly as violent as this vivid rendition.

Politically, as she recalled, human kingdoms and their allies stood firmly united, save for some extremist religious dissenters and mercenaries. Conversely, the Free Tribes were enemies to them and to other humanoid kingdoms that hadn't joined either major coalition.

Before regaining their autonomy, the Obsidian Banner Knights had fought every faction—both great blocs and small independent or neutral realms. That history echoed in Zhal Obryn's motley crew: dwarves from every tribe, sun-walking elves and moon elves, humans, lycanthropes, serpentfolk (Salessians), orcs, dragons, minotaurs, bearkin (Tushi), and even small rabbit-folk.

Every soul aboard Zhal Obryn had been soldiers in life… and in non-death. They'd fallen defending their kingdoms, only to return and slaughter those they'd sworn to protect. Now they stood to bring peace to the very people they'd betrayed.

True, they could excuse themselves—and be excused—with the simple phrase: "I was being controlled." But she knew better: deep down, beneath the madness the God of Death inflicted, they'd been aware of their actions. These were wounds that wouldn't heal easily—burdens of guilt that made them feel like utter shit.

The memories of the wolf-woman who'd inhabited this body before her awakening flooded in. She felt it all: the rage, the fear, the self-loathing… It mirrored her own life on Earth before meeting her husband, before therapy. She recognized every emotion, every ache—but above all, she recognized the crushing depression and bitterness. That other her, the lycanthrope, seethed with helpless fury at having been controlled.

The presence still lingering In her mind—the true owner of these memories—craved only vengeance against whoever forced her to raise arms against her kin. That all-consuming rage, the very thing that shaped her wolf-form, now constantly flooded her chest. The old woman within found it… understandable.

Uncertain how to process these foreign yet intimate emotions, she simply accepted them as her own—as another will, somehow now part of her essence. And that was why she struggled to return to her human form.

As a lycanthrope woman, she'd discovered could shift between human and wolf… but the fury refused to let her human shape hold for long. Besides, her armor wouldn't fit if she changed. So she chose to remain in this fierce, furred guise—even knowing it might terrify any surviving humans (if any still existed after years of undead scourge) who hadn't fought in the war.

Transitioning to her life as a Knight of the Eternal Vow, she was a squadron commander. A rather impressive feat, considering members of the Obsidian Banner were an elite corps—something akin to Navy SEALs from her world, only vastly superior since they couldn't truly die and wielded extraordinary powers even within this magical realm.

Having lost her mind after the events at Runamor City, Silas Calcinor had granted her leave from her duties as commander of Zhal Obryn's Fourth Land Squadron for a few days, purely as a precaution. That gave her time to reconcile herself with the memories of the other woman who'd inhabited this body.

After donning her armor and struggling to recall the necropolis' layout, her first move was to head for the training hall.

The hall occupied the second floor, surrounded by magical forges. High on its walls, stone dragons stood sentinel; occasionally, the living statues stretched their wings while their glowing red eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

The entire second floor was dedicated to troop training, resurrection, smiting, and ballistic research. It wasn't uncommon to see someone approach the forges and seize a freshly made sword to replace their own ruined blade. Most smiths were humanoids with heavily muscled physiques—except for one particularly rotted specimen who looked too frail to lift a mace yet somehow wielded enough strength to hammer hardened metal and bone.

At the center lay the training circle—literally a massive ring the size of a football stadium. Within it, chained abominations nearly ten feet tall served as training dummies.

These abominations were nothing more than people of various races stitched together, reanimated through necromantic magic via blood crystals. Their stench and appearance were revolting: festering wounds, clotted blood, rotting flesh—but above all, the knowledge that they'd once been intelligent living beings. Shame washed over her as remembered that part of herself now was responsible for creating these horrors. Worse, she held the power to craft more such aberrations and even raise the dead as mindless slaves. Disgusted, she swore never to use such power, even if this was just a dream.

Standing before an abomination, staring into its disfigured, rotting face as it strained against the magical chains binding its ankles, a tear traced a path down her furry left cheek. She couldn't divorce from her real-world self here; this wasn't as simple as following a script.

Over years of dreaming and gaming, she'd played heroes and killers, children and adults. She'd fought zombies, faced beings with strange powers—but this was the first time it hurt to realize the virtual world where she'd found adventure and overcome part of her depression was, for its inhabitants, an apocalyptic hellscape.

Suddenly, the creature raised a clawed hand and lunged, trying to crush her. It seemed furious, terrifyingly mad with rage. She felt that rage was the lingering wrath of the people murdered to create it—that she and the Knights of the Eternal Vow deserved its hatred. Yet still, she blocked the abomination's strike with one of her one-handed axes, freezing it solid.

The impact of claw against weapon rang out like heavy stone hitting the floor. A vortex of ice and mist erupted around them, scoring the monster with countless tiny cuts. Cold so intense no living thing could easily endure it filled the room, drawing the attention of every Zhal Obryn soldier training there. It wasn't every day they witnessed an Obsidian Banner commander spar.

Enraged further, the abomination used its frozen claw like a club, sweeping at the lycanthrope's feet. She shuddered as her body moved on its own to evade. It was as if something—a voice within—screamed she couldn't afford injury; there was still something she had to do.

"No. No punishment until you finish the story..." A voice whispered so realistically she could feel soft breath against her fur.

"Why?!" she demanded inwardly. "I was just supposed to die!"

She'd resigned to that hospital bed as cancer devoured her health and spirit, as her husband held her, whispering everything would be alright, as she savored the last good moments. She'd regretted so much—things done and left undone… She'd wanted more life: to see the highest mountains, densest forests, deepest seas… all beside the person who'd shown her life's beauty.

"Because you have work here," the calm, soft voice replied. "This world's story isn't written yet."

This unbearably long, vivid, horrific dream—where her hands were stained anew with blood—was her punishment. Was that it? If God or some equivalent existed, was this how she paid for her sins? Forced to live the despair of a game she'd once enjoyed? Was this the true Hell, not the expected fire and agony?

"Not punishment… an opportunity…"

She couldn't change this world. She was just a TAV—a being who'd gone from hero to villain, hated and feared. Not just her, but everyone aboard this necropolis, including her subordinates. She could do nothing but live the story until her real-world death came.

"This is the real world."

"No!" The moment she screamed denial, the abomination lunging at her exploded. Rotten chunks of the monstrous body rained down fifteen feet around the epicenter, leaving a greenish, near-purple smear. Staring at her furry claws, she realized what she'd done.

Murmurs rose from soldiers: "Expected!", "Elite are on another level!", "Knew the Commander was fierce, but this is madness!" Most soon returned calmly to training in pairs or trios against other abominations. To them, their commander remained an exemplar.

The voice kept whispering. Standing there, her lupine predator's gaze fixed on the abomination's remains, it insisted this wasn't a dream. It was REAL.

"More than real… it's your life now."

The blood, the smells, the sounds, the people, the feel of bones used as catalysts for portals, the hunger for souls… it had all been so tangible because this was her reality—a different universe, a terrible place she'd been thrown into as some entity's cruel joke, tormenting her by shattering the fantasy that this was just a dream.

"You must remain."

Images of life with her husband, of all she'd lost—the crushing weight of those words—surged through her mind like chaotic whirlwind. What had happened? Where was her family?

Anguish flared, then faded into relief that she was alone here… replaced by rage.

"This is pure bullshit," she thought. "Bullshit squared! What the hell did I do to get sent here?!" She remembered her harsh past—her violent childhood, the guilt and rage over things she hadn't done, the sorrows, the deaths she'd witnessed, the things she'd done to survive war… In the end, she'd been granted an undeserved, beautiful love story. She knew it. Knew her reckless, stupid youthful acts demanded payment. She'd naively thought cancer was currency enough. How stupid! The universe wouldn't be satisfied with that after all the people she'd hurt, all the lives destroyed on mere orders.

"You must remain." Ironic that in this world, she also inhabited the body of someone like her. Someone whose dreams were ripped away too soon, who'd been tortured, chained, and turned into the very thing she'd sworn to destroy. She'd taken hundreds of lives with these claws. Was this some form of atonement?

Was she crying? The fur beneath her eyes felt damp, but the intense cold she radiated froze everything, leaving only the image of a lycanthrope lost in contemplation of her deeds.

A small, whitish cleaning creature with bluish patches and a hunched back occupying half its body—Putrick—approached timidly. Seeing the she-wolf lost in inner chaos, he assumed she was furious. Whatever the reason, little Putrick had to clean this mess and request a replacement abomination. Despite the commander's freezing aura and the frost spreading beneath her, he had to ask her to train elsewhere.

Putrick's trembling, squeaky voice snapped the she-wolf from her shock. She realized the voice hadn't lied. This was some sick god's ridiculous mockery—one she had to accept. How could she die in this immortal body? Not even the Supreme God's Light harmed her now.

"L-L-Lady Commander?"

"Lord."

"Huh?" Putrick startled. The she-wolf commander was known for being surly, but she'd never demanded to be called 'Lord' over 'Lady'. Besides, refusing any name like others aboard Zhal Obryn made it impossible to address her otherwise.

"From now on, I am Lord Commander Astarothe Merryck." A masculine name—she recalled it from the body's memories. Merryck was the girl's father.

She felt unworthy to bear the surname of the family robbed of reunion. Yet knowing the girl herself had likely killed her father made it worse. The woman within felt undeserving of any name; even when controlled by the Zephyr Aterior, she'd refused to claim one. She'd simply allowed 'Commander,' 'She-Wolf,' or 'Lady Wolf.'

This was her first step—to discover why she'd been sent here. Why that insistent voice wouldn't let her harm herself, her body moving unconsciously to ensure survival. Not that she knew how to commit suicide in this form anyway. It was also an apology to her other self and those the wolf-girl had loved before becoming something monstrous.

Merryck… The fragmented memories showed a cheerful, mature red-haired man. She'd have liked to meet him. To meet the she-wolf's sisters, her green-eyed, freckled mother who sometimes appeared in flashes. Probably all dead now.

They were as far behind her as the old woman's life on Earth, dead from cancer.

She couldn't help but smile at the irony: she'd died twice already and remained dead even now.

Her smile looked more like a threat, making Putrick tremble.

"U-understood, Lord Commander Merryck!" Nervously, he tried to stand as straight as his massive hunch allowed. Putrick's eyes—and those of several soldiers who'd overheard—widened in astonishment. In all their time knowing her, she'd never taken a name. Perhaps, they thought, the Zephyr Aterior's madness no longer tainted her mind. Perhaps, like others, it was her way of declaring she remembered now—and would protect, not destroy. Even if the Obsidian Banner's methods weren't exactly gentle.

"Thank you for your work," she rumbled in her thick wolf-voice to Putrick.