Reincarnated as a Cursed Commander in a War Game

Highlord Silas Calcinor's office —perched atop the floating necropolis— mirrored Zhal Obryn's signature décor: skull-tiled floors, macabre artifacts, the occasional rotting creature scrubbing floors or delivering messages… Upon entering, Merryck registered an unfamiliar presence—a tall, lean solar elf, muscular despite his ashen hair, his youthful eyes contrasting with claw-mark scars raked across his cheekbones.

His armor matched the Obsidian Banner's signature dark style, the sleek shaft of his lone weapon—an elegant spear—protruding over his right shoulder.

She recognized him from the game: Vysserius. Like all Knights of the Eternal Vow, his history was devastation distilled. After taking a martial stance before them, the lycanthrope offered the company's customary salute.

"Endure with Honor, Highlord."

"Endure with Honor, Commander Astarothe Merryck" Calcinor's voice resonated like gravel in a tomb. "You've been summoned as delegate to Amrin, alongside Brother Vysserius. As you know, we need maintain neutrality in the conflict between the Confederation and Free Tribes. After slaughtered both sides in the past… We seek no redemption, only to atone for our sins."

Merryck and the others nodded. Truth from Highlord Silas Calcinor's lips was undeniable.

"I've selected those who once belonged to specific nations in life to expiate their guilt in non-death. Though our primary fronts lie in the Zephyr Aterior's territories, some must stand alongside our new allies. Highlord Tyburn of the Sun Order's paladins has offered escort to the human kingdoms' capital… Perhaps this will soothe living tempers when they learn monsters like us fight beside them."

"No," Astarothe thought. "It won't be that simple."

Merryck saw the truth instantly: she and the others dispatched to these nations were cannon fodder—sacrificial lambs to absorb the common folk's curses and accusations upon arrival. A distraction, so the Eternal Vow Knights' main force could strike north against the Zephyr Aterior unhindered by mortal armies.

"I know you'll face… tension during this journey." Calcinor's hollow gaze settled on them. "Given your restraint and records, no better emissaries exist for humankind. For our new alliance—for our mission—I implore patience. I'll not lie: the living hate us with just cause. Though Highlord Tyburn Liardine's presence may temper their contempt, I trust you'll uphold the Obsidian Banner's honor as its champions. You depart at dawn, four days hence."

"Understood, Highlord." Both Merryck and Vysserius grasped Calcinor's unspoken meaning. He acknowledged better-qualified agents existed, but their pride—or lack thereof—made them ideal. The risk of collateral damage from wounded egos was too great.

It wasn't that Merryck and Vysserius's egos were as dead as their bodies. Rather, they understood their culpability and were harder to provoke. Neither craved contact with the living nor longed to seek those they'd left behind. Fewer illusions of forgiveness meant fewer fractures when reality struck.

After Calcinor's near-monologue, they prepared for the journey. The plan: rendezvous with Sun Order Paladins at their Umbrise stronghold—last human bastion in Ahssan's arid wastes, once Salessian territory. A paladin contingent would await them in Runamor's ruins to escort them into the fortress-city.

Merryck knew the trip would be neither pleasant nor easy. Extra gold might soften hostilities, though she doubted its lasting power. Considering the distance and her ability to soul-portal back to the necropolis, carrying two hundred coins seemed reasonable. She also needed farewells—with Amal, and her squad.

During her days wandering the necropolis—avoiding thoughts of her past life, dodging depression's shadow—she'd grown closer to those her body's memories marked as squadron comrades.

As their commander, distance was expected. Yet she'd discovered bonds closer to brotherhood than chain of command. Of course, by tradition, she'd personally killed most of them. A ritual among the Zephyr Aterior's Eternal Vow Knights: selecting future comrades from worthy foes they'd slain, drawn to their fighting spirit or stubbornness. The dynamic among the Death mad God's high-ranking officers was perverse—and sickening.

Still, the lycanthrope valued them deeply. Only seven souls served under her—different races, clashing personalities, yet cherished by her wolf-self. She wondered if they reciprocated. Wondered if any still harbored resentment for what she'd done.

Then decided to leave them a legacy before departing. They deserved it. Even in those darker times when they'd slaughtered innocents, they'd followed her—just as she'd stood by her squadron in her past life. She gathered high-quality gemstones suitable for weapon enhancement and resolved to gift them. In this world, embedding magical gems into arms was common practice, and warriors like her subordinates would find such upgrades invaluable.

She knew they'd likely be in the training hall at this late hour. Her squad truly consisted of exceptional soldiers. Since the Zephyr Aterior's madness lifted, she'd noticed how desperately some clung to hopes of reuniting with loved ones… though all feared rejection. That's why Highlord Silas Calcinor's orders to prepare for the northern campaign against Maltherion's hordes came as a twisted relief—it let them evade those aching desires.

Many soldiers believed defeating the former Supreme Cardinal might earn them absolution. Others hoped sealing him away would grant them eternal slumber and rest, praying their families remembered them as they were before death. Very few admitted it was merely an excuse to avoid facing those they'd harmed. These were few enough to count on one hand—among them, Vysserius and herself.

As expected, she found most of her people training. Then asked her second-in-command—a Salessian with dulled scales named Enkil—to summon those missing.

Assuming this was a tactical briefing, her seven subordinates formed a crisp line before her. First stood Enkil, her right hand. Beside him, a Tushi woman named Bethany So Deathclaw watched expectantly with orange fur soft and full. Merryck still struggled to reconcile this tender fluffball with the living weapon she was.

Then came Matthew and Clarissa Darkheart, black-haired human siblings whose loyalty are absolute; Clarissa lacked one eye but remained lethally precise with spears and ranged weapons. Little Xian Yue, a pink-furred barsi rabbit-girl who seemed childlike, possessed the ingenuity of her kind and a talent for crafting poisons and soporifics; though no frontline fighter, the intelligence work made her elite. Ezrali, a cold, aloof sun elf whose beauty matched her peerless skill with a light blade. Lastly, Sämariel, a blue-skinned orc with fiery red hair.

"This is my final request as your commander," she spoke in that gravelly wolf-voice. "Use these to crush your enemies. Shield this world with your non-life. May your sacrifice not be in vain."

She gifted each a vibrant, magic-glowing gem—rare and precious artifacts.

"These, my brothers and sisters, are my farewell. It was an honor to meet you… though I wish circumstances had been different."

The thunderous "THANK YOU, COMMANDER!" from her squad warmed her like hot coffee on a rainy day. Satisfied, she silently willed them to find paths toward less terrible afterlives.

*******

Stars and three moons gleamed from the necropolis rooftop. The area typically served as an aerial base, where resurrected dragons circled overhead, mounted by Eternal Vow Knights for security. Amidst the sound of beating wings and crisp autumn wind, Merryck stood with Amal as he fed the stables' sole living resident— a pseudo-dragon hatchling.

The five-year-old frost vermis was practically a newborn. Its pale blue scales deepened in the night, shimmering silver under moonslight. Though flightless and small even at maturity, this ice-spitting draconid already showed first-class potential—its eyes glowed with fluorescent mana, signaling immense magical capacity.

"I'd like to wish you well," Amal rasped, bony fingers stroking Lissë as the hatchling devoured giant bat meat. "But that would be naive… perhaps cruel, knowing they've sent you as sacrificial tribute to the human capital. Nixë and Lissë will miss you." The creature happily flash-froze each morsel before swallowing.

"I… hope to return soon."

Strange, Merryck thought. The part of her born in this world saw them as family. Even her newer self felt this place had become home.

Home. A concept she'd thought lost when awakening in Zhal Obryn—yet one she'd craved since childhood in her original world. Something resigned to memory, buried beneath this strange, violent non-death to avoid crushing melancholy.

She pictured her husband at her own funeral back on Earth. Did he die peacefully? She hoped so. Of them both, only she bore bloodstained hands—even after leaving the military too soon.

"You did what you had to…"

The mysterious voice yanked her from gloom. Neither the wolf-woman nor the old woman—something else.

"Quite, quite…" Amal hummed cheerfully after feeding Lissë the last scrap. "I've something for you. To keep in touch. Never know when you'll need this old skeleton… or when soul-portals might fail."

Pulled from dark thoughts, Merryck followed him to the eighth floor via necropolis lifts—a short descent in the nine-story structure.

His office resembled a library more than a lab: shelves groaned under magical artifacts and tomes. He gestured to rococo-style chairs carved from darkwood—a dead man's nod to earthly elegance. Scented tea sat ready; the undead cherished smells they'd loved in life.

Nixë greeted them with a rumbling purr, a rat-like toy in his jaws—crafted so realistically only Merryck's eyes could tell.

"Hello, dear," Amal crooned to his pet. His voice—the sole indicator of mood—sounded gentle as a mother's, though the spectral echo might unsettle living humans. "We can play later. Our precious friend needs me first."

Merryck watched silently as he lifted the saber-cat away. She longed to stroke him but understood: whatever Amal planned might endanger his companion.

Silence lingered as the lich worked. As always, Amal filled it effortlessly—as if reading her mind.

"Take some tea sachets. Your revival preserved you from decay, so your scent's faint… but these might help regardless."

Merryck considered. Her death-smell was subtle, yet humidity sometimes left her smelling like a wet dog—unpleasant to her lycanthropic nose and potentially offensive to sharp-sensed races. She accepted, tucking two decorative tins into her cloak's hidden pocket.

When Amal returned, skeletal hands held heavy leather pouches. Nixë sniffed the air frantically, forcing the lich to barrier him away.

"Always happens when he senses mana crystals."

Astarothe understood. Growing magical creatures craved them—accelerating development at great risk if their bodies couldn't handle the influx. The saber-cat yowled "Maow! Me want it too!", but his master remained firm.

"What are the mana crystals for?"

"Ah, right—you've never used them. Eternal Vow Knights lack the need, and only living wizards or priests typically require them."

When she nodded, Amal continued:

"While their primary use is channeling energy for spellcasters, they serve other functions like communication and messaging. But given their economic value, few waste them on such purposes—they're hoarded as combat enhancers. It's true, we have hearing orbs, and Barsi or dwarven inventions like Long-Wave Communicators or Electronic Telemantic Devices… but their bulk, installation complexity, and magical/electric resource costs make them impractical for fieldwork."

The lich's bony fingers traced invisible schematics in the air.

"Zhal Obryn relies on runic and soul-based comms, true—but if you're rune-depleted or on the verge of soul-starvation? Hence my work with these curious crystals."

Astarothe's surprise was genuine. Amal had anticipated scenarios where she'd be utterly cut off. This lich was frighteningly thorough.

"Now," he said, settling beside her as pouches thumped onto the table, "let me show you the magical circuits for contacting me without a paired comm-orb."

Merryck mustered all her concentration. She knew this was for emergencies—likely never used if fortune smiled—but she'd learn it fiercely. Not just for survival. For the loyalty humming in this dead man's bones.

****

Returning to Runamor's ruins unsettled her, dragging irrational memories to the surface. Not that she could escape them—but willed those recollections of atrocities committed in the Zephyr Aterior's name to stay buried. Not to evade responsibility, but to spare herself the hollow ache in her gut that made her feel like utter garbage.

Their spectral steeds had been recalled to the Shadow Realm, leaving only Vysserius and her seated on the shattered steps of the city's sacred precinct, awaiting their escorts.

The pre-dawn gloom reminded Merryck of bombed-out buildings from another life. The stench of decay lingered, and she'd swear distant wails echoed—likely feral ghouls stripped of will.

Sunrise licked their pale faces with bruised blues, violets, and tangerine, casting deceptive beauty over the withered, corrupted ruins. As if crumbling structures, blighted plants, poisoned soil, and diseased beasts could be redeemed by dawn's light.

Merryck imagined how breathtaking this place must have been before the dead armies scoured it. "If only we could purify this blighted half-continent," she thought, "rebuild what was lost—"

"But lives can't be restored… you know this." The unwelcome voice echoed in her skull. This time, she agreed.

Her pointed ears twitched at approaching hoofbeats. The rhythm on bloodstained cobbles told her they'd crest the horizon within minutes. Her tail lashed with anxiety as Vysserius noticed her alertness.

"Hostiles?"

"No. Coming from the human city. And those hooves sound… alive."

Of course—though the Eternal Vow Knights were free, other undead legions still served the mad God of the Death's will. Feral ghouls, too, attacked anything that moved, mindless as rot.

The paladins emerged down the main avenue at a measured pace. Most wore silver apprentice plate; only two gleamed white—veterans sworn to an Order. Their sacred metal flashed in the newborn sun. Pristine. Austere. Beautiful. So unlike the God of the Death's knights… Envy pricked her.

Their horses—well-fed, glossy-maned, vibrantly alive—stood in stark contrast to the corruption around them. Clearly, the Supreme God of the Light cherished these people. Just as He'd once cherished her, the wolf-paladin who'd dreamed of following her mother's path.

She summoned her steed before they arrived, avoiding misunderstandings. Purple-green runes flared, and from the Shadow Realm coalesced a nightmare: a corpse-horse with parchment-thin flesh stretched over bone. Its void-black hide seemed withered; legs were skeletal beneath sacred metal barding etched with the Death God's thousand faces. Red foam bubbled from its maw, eyes burning like hell-coals. The black-and-purple saddle accommodated her two-meter lupine frame, crimson reins in clawed grip. Patches of putrid, blood-caked flesh peeked through its armor.

Before leaving Zhal Obryn, she'd replaced the shrunken enemy skulls dangling from her saddle with practical satchels. Vysserius had done the same. The horse alone was nightmare enough.

They mounted as the paladins approached. The living horses shied, but a hissed command stilled their undead counterparts.

Awkward introductions followed, led by a white-armored novice paladin—Sievers—who'd fought at Runamor and now served as mediator. Then they set out for Umbrise Fortress, hours distant.

The ride grew stifling in silence. Only Sievers seemed inclined to speak, yet fumbled for words. The landscape offered no comfort: ruins, strewn corpses, the occasional maddened ghoul dispatched with curt prayers to the God of the Light.

Five hours later, the heavy gates emerged—towers of smoke-streaked stone, siege engines bristling along battlements. The sheer scale and organization struck her. Merryck's ears caught distant shouts as their paladin escort's banners were spotted, orders echoing to open the colossal iron-bound gates. Above, an iridescent dome bathed the city in light, holding back the tainted clouds like a divine shield.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Sievers had finally found his courage—or perhaps the sight awed him too.

"The Supreme God of the Light provides this shield. Trust in Him—He'll grant you passage. You were freed by His grace, brothers. As His faithful, we'll help you discover why He broke your chains."

Merryck swallowed at his fervent words as the gates groaned open. Guards lining the walls watched her and Vysserius with pity, sorrow, and sometimes disgust. These gazes were her new reality. The hatred she could brush off; the pity carved deeper, echoing looks from a life now distant and unreal.

Warm discomfort washed over her upon crossing the threshold. The God of the Light's energy didn't burn—but neither did it comfort her as it had when she'd been a paladin. Her body remembered wielding this power; now it recoiled, a dull ache beneath her fur. Proof, at least, that the Light accepted them as non-hostile beings.

The gates slammed shut behind them. Soldiers stared, incredulous that the Light had spared them. Civilians near the walls clustered, whispering.

"Monsters… They should grovel that the Merciless Supreme God of the Light spared them."

The refrain followed them like a curse.

Despite the hostility, Merryck marveled at the living city: humans from countless lands, Tushi, even neutral dwarf merchants coexisting. Barsi rabbit-folk children—so adorable! A pity her appearance kept them away.

Main streets leading to the clerical headquarters brimmed with life: food stalls (scents she could taste but never digest), tavern songs spilling into alleys, vibrant fruit and flowers hawked for three coppers. The city thrummed—a drunken euphoria of sensations.

Dazed, she barely registered arriving at the clerical compound.

Inside the walls, rain-scented earth, lush greenery, and healthy animals adorned pristine buildings. Stained glass in the bell tower gleamed like new. Everything felt… alien. Fresh. Gleaming. Beautiful. The words looped in her mind.

Dismounting, she unthinkingly banished her steed to the Shadow Realm. Vysserius did the same, startling their escorts. After hasty explanations and murmured "So convenient…" tensions eased.

Their guides led them Inside, recounting the church's founding and the saint who'd sacrificed himself a decade prior to raise the protective dome against the Zephyr Aterior's scourge. Merryck hid her flinch at his name; Sievers spoke with such reverent zeal. Vysserius failed—either his elven face was more expressive, or lupine features hid more. Their guide apologized profusely, even as they reached Highlord Tyburn Liardine.

Tyburn—leader of the Sun Order Paladins—called himself not a saint, but "the greatest sinner."

At fifty, his tireless frame buoyed by holy Light, he smiled perpetually. More scholar than warrior until the mad God of the Death plague struck, he'd forged himself into a fighter. Weather-beaten skin bore late-earned scars; cropped salt-and-pepper hair framed sky-blue eyes that glowed faintly gold—the Supreme God of the Light's mark. His hands, calloused and broad, belonged to an eternal laborer.

"Welcome to Umbrise, brothers." He extended his hand.

Hesitant, Vysserius shook first. Merryck followed. The man radiated the aura of a mythic hero.

And so, after witnessing a living city's breath, after feeling the Light God's grace and clasping hands with His earthly champion, the two Eternal Vow Knights commenced their uncharted path.