Alan Velkross stares at the dim glow of his monitor, fingers frozen on the keyboard. Empty cans ring the desk like spent cartridges.
"Work, home, repeat," he mutters. "Maybe dying's the only vacation left."
He cracks a grin at his own joke and boots up Battle Insignia. The loading screen hums to life—artillery, banners, the promise of strategy and chaos.
"This," he says, leaning in, "is the one place that still makes sense."
Thirteen hours and fifty-two minutes later, sense ends. His head dips forward. The last thing he sees is the victory screen flaring white.
Light.
An echoing voice drifts through the void.
"Child, you've suffered far too much."
Alan blinks. An angel stands before him, wings of liquid silver unfurling across a white horizon.
"Finally," he says, rubbing his neck. "Someone who gets it. You got a number, or is this a dream-only thing?"
The angel smiles faintly. "You may choose your next life. Any world, any form."
He doesn't hesitate. "Then make Battle Insignia real—and drop me in. I'll lead that world myself."
"It is a land of endless war," she warns.
"Perfect. Been grinding peace too long. Oh, and uh—maybe make me handsome this time. And give me a few solid teammates. Girls, if you can swing that."
"I can," she says, eyes glinting, "but their devotion will be… unordinary."
He waves a hand. "I'll risk it."
"Then rise, Lieutenant Alan Velkross of the Ironshade Dominion, commander of Platoon 7."
He barely finishes his scream—"Wait, that's the nation that gets wiped fi—!"—before the void swallows him.
Mud. Smoke. Blood.
Alan jerks awake in a trench under a sky glowing with fire. Artillery thunders beyond the ridge.
"Ugh. Straight into the tutorial, huh?"
He wipes grime from his face and catches a reflection in a puddle—silver hair, crimson eyes, sharp jaw.
"Okay, angel," he whistles. "You nailed it."
Shouts erupt behind him. Soldiers scramble through the trench. A flash of motion to the right—enemy flank.
"Hey, right side! Reinforce the sandbags!" he yells.
To his shock, they obey instantly.
"Wait… they listened?" he mutters.
Across his vision, red text flickers:
[SYSTEM ALERT: Tutorial Mission — Survive 10 Minutes]
[Attributes Unlocked: Command • Perception • Combat Instinct]
Alan exhales. "So it really is the game."
Then a shell lands nearby. The air burns. A man screams. The smell of blood hits him—thick and metallic.
"This… isn't a screen."
Instinct takes over. He crouches, scans terrain, calculates angles.
"Two on the ridge—cover fire! Left trench, hold position! Rotate reload, three-count!"
His voice cuts through the chaos. The line holds. Ten minutes later, silence.
Shapes move through the smoke—four women.
The first rests a long rifle on her shoulder, white hair streaked with ash, crimson eyes gleaming.
"Iris Valen, sniper. Commander, permission to engage anyone who breathes wrong?"
The second drags a blood-wet blade behind her, violet eyes bright with mischief.
"Kaela Storm. You point, I break." She flashes a grin that could start wars.
The third vaults over the trench wall, landing soundlessly, twin pistols at the ready.
"Mira Solen. Perimeter clear." Her tone is low, clipped—professional, but her gaze lingers on him a heartbeat too long.
Last comes a woman in a crimson coat, calm amid ruin.
"Elena Croix, tactical coordination. You seem uninjured. Don't make a habit of that recklessness."
Alan looks from one to the other—the angel's subordinates, the Crimson Valkyries.
[UNIT LINK ESTABLISHED — COMMAND SYNC ONLINE]
He straightens. "Iris, ridge overwatch. Kaela, left flank. Mira, secure inner trench. Elena, relay positions."
Four acknowledgments, perfectly timed. The battlefield becomes choreography—rifle thunder, flashing blades, a voice through static giving orders before the thought is even complete.
Minutes later, the enemy line collapses.
[MISSION COMPLETE — +EXP — Command Level 1 Achieved]
Whispers ripple among the surviving troops.
"Who is that officer?"
"Never seen anyone command like that."
Alan flexes his gloved hand; it trembles slightly.
"So this is war," he says softly. "And this time, I play for keeps."
On the horizon, Fort Korrin burns.
[MAIN QUEST: Hold the East Wall of Fort Korrin]
[Estimated Survival Rate: 0.3 Percent]
A slow smile touches his lips.
"Guess we're already famous."
Iris reloads with mechanical grace. "They'll learn to fear your name, Commander."
Kaela steps close, blade resting on her shoulder. "Just don't die before I get bored of you."
Mira checks her pistols, voice a whisper. "No one else gives the orders but you."
Elena's tone stays calm. "Orders, Alan?"
He meets their eyes, one by one. Each holds something different—loyalty, curiosity, something deeper.
"Prepare for the next wave," he says.
Thunder answers. The Crimson Valkyries move to position.
The gamer is gone.
The commander remains.
(End of Chapter 1)