Reincarnated as a Cursed Commander in a War Game

Sigurd Sievers was born to farmers—simple, good folk with magic in their sowing hands. Only his mother was extraordinary. A beautiful woman with autumn-forest hair, she'd grown up in a paladin family and followed their path.

Her blue eyes, faintly gold-tinged by the Supreme God's blessing, always seemed to smile. She was strength. She was power. She was grace. His heroine.

To him and his father, she was a warrior goddess. He still remembered her smile, her promises when duty called, the gifts from cities she'd visited. The gleam of her polished armor. The weight of the hammer she wielded to protect them—a weapon even his father couldn't lift.

Then the God of the Death's Supreme Cardinal went mad.

The last gift she gave him before leaving to fight the undead horde was her faith pendant—the necklace every paladin wore for prayers. That morning, drowsy and struggling to wake, he saw her blurred form through half-closed eyes. She looked like an angel. Kneeling before his seven-year-old self, she placed the Faith pendant around his neck and kissed his forehead. A kiss he'd treasure for years. A final kiss he'd recall nightly after the hollow news arrived half a year later.

She'd vanished during the assault on the City of Mages. Yet Sigurd clung to faith. He needed to believe she'd survived somehow. That faith led him to the Supreme God of Light's church. That faith made the Light answer.

He'd joined the paladins late, for selfish reasons—but he didn't regret it. So when the Miracle at Runamor occurred, he let himself believe again.

The twenty-three-year-old paladin secretly hoped his mother still walked this world—even under the madness God of the Death's sway. He trusted the Light would bring her back if so. That's why, watching Vysserius and Merryck, he saw her.

His approach was partly childish longing. But they were surprisingly decent, despite being dead. He imagined his mother might be like this.

Of course, the young initiate knew they'd been heroes in life—fallen fighting the Zephyr Aterior. So sympathy came first. Then, day by day, admiration grew.

Now? It was more. He wanted to be like them.

Lord Vysserius and Lady Merryck had endured the mob's screams and filth with stoic silence. They'd called it earned penance.

Moved beyond words, the young paladin wept the entire way to Amrin Castle.

After the chaos, Highlord Tyburn ordered him to assist in guiding the two Knights to wash off the grime—presenting them soiled would insult the King. Sievers, still raw-eyed, wondered why he'd been chosen. Tyburn looked at him with fatherly kindness.

"Because I saw you weep."

The young paladin flushed crimson. Eyes swollen, nose running, he knew he looked pathetic.

"Come now, lad—dry those tears," Tyburn said softly, clasping his shoulder. "We've work yet to do for those two."

Sigurd nodded, wiping his face with a linen cloth from his belt pouch. The clank of his armor muffled his sniffling as he fought for composure.

****

Paul was an old royal butler whose hair had long since gone white. Inexplicably, he retained the physical vigor of a young man. Awake before dawn and retiring long past midnight, he'd always executed his duties flawlessly—but now, thanks to the servants' palpable resentment toward Highlord Tyburn's guests, complications arose.

He understood their reluctance. He himself had lost his wife nearly ten years prior. His beloved Rhaemin had been attending the Crown Princess and Prince as a trusted handmaiden when the undead wave engulfed Til'arien. The only bodies recovered from the retinue were the Princess and two maids turned mindless monsters—identified only by their house emblems.

Many servant families who'd lost kin at Til'arien never had the solace of burial. No corpses to mourn, no graves to weep over. King Iroh had erected a monument to the Supreme Cardinal of Death's victims, but for the bereaved, it wasn't enough.

Now descendants of those shattered families had to serve beings who, in their eyes, were the very monsters that murdered their kin.

Paul understood. Understood too well.

Yet they were royal servants. They must treat all noble guests with dignity, setting aside personal feelings. A cruel demand, but the rules stood.

Considering this, Paul resolved to lead the serving team himself—only his authority could maintain order. His own undead-scarred past might temper their conduct if they followed his example. So Paul, Head Steward of the castle, selected three butlers and two maids known for their composure, gathering them in an antechamber.

Their expressions weren't promising. Faces twisted with contempt. Some muttered under their breath about the stench the Highlord's companions gave off. Expected, yet unbefitting servants of the great King Iroh.

"I share your feelings, dear comrades," he said softly, like a professor addressing favored students. "I, too, hesitated to serve today. But we must heed our King's example and the Supreme God of the Light's decrees."

"We all lost loved ones to creatures like them," he continued fervently. "Even our own Crown Prince… That's why we mustn't betray the King who shielded us from the undead scourge. I… I trust his judgment as I trust Highlord Tyburn's. And that trust compels me to serve—even those who reopen old wounds."

The servants listened, heads bowed. To most, Paul was more than a superior—he was family. A man who'd buried his grief to serve King and country after losing his entire world.

Yet Paul felt a twinge of guilt. Using such sentimental tactics felt… cheap. "Ah, if only someone else could shoulder these burdens", he thought, "this simple, honest man might grow old in peace, free of such complications."

*******

Merryck hadn't expected warm welcomes or kind faces—yet the reality still stung. By now, she'd nearly forgotten the quietude of old age in her former world. Reluctantly, she acknowledged how her elderly self was dissolving: memories bleeding together—the wolf-Commander's war cries, the military pilot's tech-weapons, the atrocities of this borrowed body.

"The same soul lived it all. Why must you cling to these divisions?"

The cursed voice snapped her back to reality as servants led her and Vysserius to a changing room.

Separated only by a flimsy bamboo screen, shame prickled her fur. Covered in fur and scarcely feminine, but still a woman, damn it. Having their naked bodies share a room—divided by something a claw could shred—felt perverse.

"Highlord Tyburn's kindness, arranging this," she said, stripping off her under-armor linens to fill the silence.

"We could hardly meet the King reeking of mob filth," Vysserius replied flatly, peeling off his chainmail. His half-bare torso revealed pale skin mapped with blue-veined tribal patterns.

"True." Were she not fur-covered and undead, she'd be crimson-faced. Instead, her canine ears twitched nervously.

An eternity of awkward silence passed before they stood fully nude, draped only in the thin bathing robes provided.

A gray-haired steward entered, hesitating.

"A thousand pardons, my lady! Since you were addressed as 'Lord,' we assumed… Well. I'll rectify this immediately!"

The voice in Merryck's head wheezed with silent laughter.

Damn my obstinacy. In this world, confusion was inevitable—her armor hid feminine curves, and she'd insisted on Lord. Lady felt like a shackle; Lord was armor. Not about preference, but power.

Here, even female commanders faced different rules—except in Zhal Obryn's brutal, race-mixed ranks where such distinctions shattered.

"It matters not. We must hurry," Vysserius dismissed, spectral voice stripping her dignity. Shame flared anew—she wanted to throttle him, but he was right. Late or unwashed before the King? Unforgivable.

"Besides," she thought, "Vysserius likely prefers men—that tension with Baradhel felt… more than bromance between brothers-in-arms.

The mysterious voice stayed mercifully silent.

"Regardless," she conceded. "Time's short."

They were led to bath chambers resembling Roman thermae from her past life. Steam rose from carved-stone fountains, dampening Merryck's fur as warmth overwhelmed her senses.

Young women in sheer, qipao-like garments entered with soaps and perfumes, guiding them to shower stalls. Each was seated on stone chairs in private alcoves, doused in warm water, then scrubbed with force that would've bruised living flesh.

The maids' faces weren't hostile—just profoundly unhappy. Their delicate features masked resentment, but their brutal scrubbing spoke volumes.

Merryck's ordeal lasted longer; fur trapped grime. They washed her twice despite her pre-bath towel scrub. At least undeath spared her parasites common to furred demihumans.

Post-torture, she joined Vysserius in the vast central pool. He already lounged in steaming water, eyes closed. Fifteen minutes of peace before dressing for court—a small mercy.

Neither removed their bathing robes, even submerged. She silently thanked Vysserius for the courtesy.

"This will be… trying," Vysserius murmured.

"Expected. Still difficult. For them too…" Merryck sank until water lapped her lupine jaw. Vysserius' stern expression softened into a faint smile.

"I hope our comrades fare better."

"Worried for Baradhel?"

"Somewhat. He seemed… unsettled when last we met."

Merryck understood. They'd been inseparable since Baradhel's Eternal Vow knighthood after Valdra's siege.

She moved closer, resting a massive paw on his shoulder—comically large against the elf's frame. Vysserius startled, then offered a fleeting smile.

"You're a good comrade, Lord Astarothe Merryck."

She answered with a grunt that might've been a smile—or a baring of teeth.

******

The antechamber Sievers and another paladin led them to was cavernous—a condensation of the city's finest art: tapixes woven with forgotten battles, paintings bleeding gold leaf.

Sievers, already young for commanding at Umbrise, looked boyish in his current attire. Scant protection beyond a metal breastplate; his cloak shimmered with magical circuitry, but the enchantments felt threadbare—barely sufficient for self-preservation.

Within the castle, full armor seemed forbidden save for elite guards. Merryck and Vysserius had surrendered their gear, now clad in elegant leather-reinforced linens. "Perhaps appearing before King Iroh in martial garb would've been insult itself," Merryck mused.

The ruler would receive them when time allowed—whether in five minutes or five hours.

As they settled into velvet chairs, Sievers gazed around in wonder.

The steward who'd corrected the bath misunderstanding entered with a silver procession. Servants wheeled trolleys bearing iced tea and delicacies—apparently the living's current fashion.

Without a word, refreshments were laid. Sievers vibrated with excitement; Vysserius and Merryck wore strained expressions.

The young paladin reached first—ungloved hand seizing a honey-gold biscuit. Scents taunted Merryck's senses, though she remained stoic. A waste—this feast would rot in undead bellies.

"By the lesser gods and Supreme Light—this is divine!" Sievers' praise burst forth before he flushed at his breach of decorum.

"No offense taken," Vysserius intoned gravely, lifting his iced tea. "Better consumed than wasted on those who can't taste it."

Liquids they could manage—this small courtesy sufficed.

Amid the paladins' indulgence, Merryck caught footsteps in the hall—light, quick. The door cracked open… yet no one entered.

A flash of movement: golden eyes, wheat-gold hair. A child's face pressed to the gap in the double doors—a spy small enough to mistake for a stray kitten.

A human boy.

Merryck pondered his motives. "Curiosity about monsters visiting the king?" Likely.

Unthinking, she offered a sideways smile. The child startled—golden eyes wide—then vanished.

The voice in her head cackled at the failed kindness.

Merryck sighed deeply—avoiding curses at the idiot presence—drawing her companions' notice.

"Something amiss, Lord Astarothe?" Sievers asked.

"Merely imagining King Iroh," she deflected aloud, burying the truth: "I thought children might tolerate me. Then that imbecile voice mocked me."

"King Iroh?" The black-haired paladin beside Sievers leaned forward, beard-shadowed face alight. "He's utterly brilliant." He spilled accolades like sacramental wine—extolling the Iron King's wartime strategy, swordsmanship, and stern-yet-fair command.

*****

The steward who'd served them tea returned at twilight. Distant cathedral bells tolled sixth hour—this world divided days into eight equal parts, each quartered again. Merryck had struggled with the time system initially, though Amal's tutelage helped her adapt.

They were led down a long gallery overlooking the castle gardens—more an arched colonnade connecting wings than a hallway. Midway, Merryck spotted the boy from the antechamber practicing swordsmanship with a dwarf instructor whose black beard spilled like tar.

The child noticed her gaze. His practice stick slipped mid-strike, launching the training dummy into the dwarf. The instructor rubbed his head where wood met skull as the boy apologized—a child's blow, hardly damaging.

Suppressing laughter, Merryck sharpened her hearing. The dwarf lectured on battle awareness… and spoke the boy's name.

Laerin.

Prince Laerin of Alagarth—last surviving heir.

Her eyes narrowed reflexively. "This sweet boy doesn't deserve his fate." She knew the arc: priestly vows severing him from his grandfather, orphaned too young, throne thrust upon him mid-war, joy and innocence crushed.

"Still clinging to that narrative?" The voice needled. "This world lives and dies by its own rules—not human glimpses."

Merryck bit back a retort. Fear lingered: was this the mad God of the Death's trap? A psychological crutch?

"I'm neither! I swear it!"

She walked on, ignoring the voice, hoping its claims were true.

They reached their destination abruptly—colossal silver-white doors ahead, filigreed not with mere decoration but ancient runic wards. Protection magic pulsed in the patterns.

Flanking the doors stood guards in light armor reinforced with gem-stitched circuitry—as formidable as plate. Indigo cloaks draped silver-and-ebony uniforms; their embroidery so fine, they resembled nobles more than soldiers.

The steward whispered to a guard. The door glowed and swung inward without touch. With an elegant gesture, he ushered them through.

The audience chamber held a scribe in the shadows, Highlord Tyburn, and unfamiliar figures clustered below the throne—a golden griffin sculpted into stone.

Upon the dais sat a blond man streaked with silver, brown eyes flint-hard above scar-trenched features. His vibrant blue cloak, gold-embroidered and griffon-shouldered, draped battle-worn plate armor. More warlord than monarch.

Iroh's piercing gaze fixed on the dark knights. "Tyburn's gone mad," he thought. "Sheltering monsters. Treating with the Zhal Obryn—even with the God of the Light's Tribunal's blessing."

As they neared the throne, Merryck and Vysserius knelt—one knee on marble, fist over heartless chests.

"The Obsidian Bastion, Zhal Obryn, pays its respects, Your Excellency." Merryck extended a claw, offering Silas Calcinor's letter.

The missive promised peace and aid to the Confederation… with these two Eternal Vow Knights as living seals upon the pact.

Iroh studied the lycanthrope, uneasy. He'd known one well—a comrade turned dear friend. He'd thought lycanthropes beyond Maltherion's reach.

"How wrong I've been. About so much." Fear of repeating errors stayed his hand. "Tyburn—read it aloud."

The letter was blunt: sign, and the Confederation vowed never to attack Obsidian Bastion forces. Only Silas Calcinor's honor bound the pact.

Tyburn's eyes pleaded.

"My liege, we cannot lightly trust their kind," interjected a leather-armored man with close-cropped hair and faintly gold-green eyes—Roberth, the King's eyes and hands. His intricately embroidered cloak shimmered with near-invisible thread.

"The Light brought them here! If not them, trust its will!" Tyburn implored.

Iroh watched both men. He was no man of faith—gods earned his respect, not belief. Only once had he begged the Light: when the undead tide crushed his son and daughter-in-law, leaving toddler Laerin orphaned.

The day he buried his children and raised a grandson who barely knew his name.

"I respect you, old friend," Iroh descended the dais. "But I don't believe in your gods. If I trust these abominations—these should-be-corpses—it's not for Light or divine will. It's for you."

Roberth muttered "My liege—" but choked on fury at the kneeling knights.

"Yet my trust isn't enough. They'll sign a blood contract. I'll know where they are, what they do, and with whom at all times. Refuse, and return the way you came… or rot in my dungeons for eternity."

Tyburn lowered his gaze. Before he could speak, the knights' voices cut through the tension:

"We shall do so," Vysserius declared, stunning the court. "If that soothes Your Excellency's heart."