They moved fast.
Hank set a pace that would have left most men gasping. Kael matched him stride for stride, weaving through the crowded streets of Rosenburg. Refugees and locals alike scrambled out of their way—something about the Guard Captain's expression made people decide they had urgent business elsewhere.
The city was larger than Kael remembered from the game. Three main districts arranged around a central square, dominated by a clock tower that rose twenty meters into the sky. Stone walls surrounded everything, thick enough to stop a cavalry charge but nowhere near sufficient against a determined siege.
In the original timeline, those walls held for six hours. Then the Corpse Mages brought them down.
"The barracks are in the western quarter," Hank said without slowing. "I've got about two hundred guards on active duty. Another hundred in reserve—retired veterans, mostly. Good men, but rusty."
"What about the city militia?"
"Paper organization. Maybe fifty names on the roster, half of whom have never held a sword." Hank's jaw tightened. "The Duke doesn't believe in military spending. Says it 'disturbs the artistic atmosphere.'"
Duke Doormat strikes again.
"We'll work with what we have," Kael said. "Three hundred trained soldiers can hold walls against ten times their number if they're prepared. The key is—"
He stopped.
They'd reached the barracks—a long, low building of gray stone with a training yard out front. And in that yard, two guards were having a very loud argument.
One was tall, young, handsome in a pampered sort of way. His uniform was immaculate, his sword—an enchanted blade that glowed faintly blue—hung at his hip like a fashion accessory. Everything about him screamed "noble's son playing soldier."
The other was short, stocky, with the weathered look of someone who'd actually seen combat. His uniform was rumpled, his face red with frustration.
"—spreading panic!" the tall one was shouting. "The refugees are already terrified, and you want to make it worse by running around screaming about undead armies?"
"I'm not screaming, I'm reporting!" the short one shot back. "The survivors from Parten said they saw formations. Organized units. That's not a raid, Kloze, that's—"
"That's hearsay from traumatized peasants! You're supposed to maintain order, not—"
"ENOUGH!"
Hank's roar cut through the argument like a thunderclap. Both guards snapped to attention so fast they nearly collided.
"Captain Corrot!" The tall one—Kloze—went pale. "Sir, I was just—"
"I saw what you were doing." Hank's voice could have frozen lava. "I left you in charge of the barracks for two hours, and I come back to find you about to strike a fellow guardsman. Explain."
Kloze's mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes darted to the short guard—Donnie, Kael remembered from the original story—with naked resentment.
"Sir, Donnie was spreading unauthorized intelligence. Claiming there's an undead army approaching. He wanted to take a squad outside the walls to 'investigate.' I was trying to prevent him from causing a panic and violating standing orders."
Hank turned to Donnie. "Is this true?"
Donnie straightened. "Sir, the refugees from Parten described coordinated attacks. Multiple strike teams hitting different targets simultaneously. That's not raider behavior—that's military doctrine. I thought we should verify before—"
"Before what? Before you got yourself and your squad killed?" Kloze interrupted. "There's a chain of command for a reason. You don't get to play hero just because you have a hunch."
"It's not a hunch, it's pattern recognition! If you'd ever actually fought the undead instead of polishing your fancy sword—"
"I said enough."
Hank's voice was quieter this time. Somehow, that made it more terrifying.
Both guards fell silent.
Kael watched the exchange with interest. Kloze was exactly the type he'd expected—a noble's son using military service as a stepping stone to political advancement. All polish, no substance. The kind of officer who got men killed through arrogance and inexperience.
But Donnie... Donnie had seen something. Drawn the right conclusions. And been shut down by someone who outranked him.
In the original timeline, Donnie died in the first wave. Never got the chance to prove himself right.
Hank seemed to reach the same conclusion. He turned to Kael.
"This is Kael. Acting militia captain from Sharl Town." He paused, letting the words sink in. "He's just confirmed everything your 'traumatized peasants' reported. And more."
Kloze's expression flickered—surprise, then skepticism, then something that looked almost like fear.
Donnie's eyes went wide. "Sir? You mean—"
"I mean we have approximately two days before an undead army arrives at our gates." Hank's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Two thousand infantry minimum. Caster support. This isn't a raid. It's an invasion."
Silence.
Kloze recovered first. "Sir, with respect, how can we trust intelligence from a—a village militiaman? He could be mistaken. Or lying. Or—"
"He killed a Bone Warden. Solo." Hank cut him off. "And intercepted a Corpse Mage scouting party. Also solo. His intelligence matches independent reports from multiple sources." His eyes bored into Kloze. "Do you have contradicting information, Lieutenant?"
Kloze's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"No, sir."
"Then I suggest you start treating this situation with the seriousness it deserves." Hank turned away. "Both of you. Follow me. We have work to do."
The command room was sparse—a large table, a detailed map of the region, and not much else. Hank spread the map flat and began marking positions.
"Current defensive posture is standard peacetime deployment. Gate guards, wall patrols, city watch rotations." He drew a circle around Rosenburg. "If what you're saying is accurate, we need to completely restructure within forty-eight hours."
Kael studied the map. "What's your supply situation?"
"Adequate for normal operations. Maybe two weeks of siege rations if we're careful." Hank grimaced. "The Duke cut our emergency stockpile last year. Said it was 'wasteful.'"
Of course he did.
"Ammunition? Oil? Anything we can use against massed infantry?"
"Some. Not enough." Hank's finger traced the wall line. "Our best asset is the walls themselves. Twelve feet high, four feet thick. Arrow slits every twenty paces. If we can keep them off the battlements, we can hold."
"The Corpse Mages will target the walls," Kael said. "Bone Spike volleys, Decay curses—they'll try to create breaches for the infantry to exploit."
Donnie leaned forward. "Sir, if I may—the old siege manual mentions counter-battery tactics. If we can identify and eliminate the casters before they concentrate fire..."
"Good thinking." Kael nodded. "We'll need dedicated hunter teams. Fast, mobile, willing to sortie outside the walls." He glanced at Hank. "Do you have anyone who fits that profile?"
"A few. Mostly scouts and skirmishers." Hank's eyes moved to Donnie. "Guardsman Donnie. You wanted to investigate. Congratulations—you just volunteered for hunter duty."
Donnie's face lit up. "Sir! Yes, sir!"
Kloze shifted uncomfortably. "Captain, surely someone with more experience—"
"Experience is earned, Lieutenant. Not inherited." Hank's tone brooked no argument. "You'll be coordinating wall defense. I trust that's within your capabilities?"
The dismissal was subtle but unmistakable. Kloze's jaw tightened, but he nodded stiffly.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Hank turned back to the map. "Now. Let's talk about evacuation routes..."
They worked through the afternoon.
Kael found himself slipping into a familiar role—not commander, but advisor. Suggesting tactics. Identifying weaknesses. Drawing on twenty years of experience that he couldn't fully explain.
Hank noticed. More than once, Kael caught the older man watching him with an unreadable expression. But he didn't ask questions. Not yet.
He's smart enough to use a resource without fully understanding it. That's what made him a legend.
By evening, they had a plan. Not perfect—nothing was perfect with two days' notice and limited resources—but workable.
Wall reinforcement. Evacuation protocols. Hunter team assignments. Messenger riders dispatched to the capital, though everyone knew help wouldn't arrive in time.
"It's not enough," Hank said quietly, staring at the map. "Even if everything goes perfectly, we're looking at fifty percent casualties. Minimum."
"I know."
"And if the enemy force is larger than your estimate..."
"Then we hold as long as we can and pray the evacuation succeeds."
Hank was silent for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh cigar. Lit it with steady hands.
"You know what the worst part is?" Smoke curled around his words. "I knew something was wrong. Felt it in my gut for weeks. But I convinced myself it was paranoia. Fifteen years of peace... you start to believe it's permanent."
"It's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" Hank's laugh was bitter. "I'm the Guard Captain. It's literally my job to prepare for threats. And I let myself get comfortable."
Kael thought about the original timeline. The fall of Rosenburg. Hank's daughter, dead in the streets. The broken man who'd emerged from the ashes, dedicating his life to a war he could never win.
"Reidlane." The Red Lion. Five coppers for any undead contract—the price of a loaf of bread.
"You're preparing now," Kael said. "That's what matters."
Hank looked at him. Really looked, the way he had back at the gate.
"You're not what you seem, are you? Village militiaman, acting captain—that's not the whole story."
"No."
"Going to tell me the rest?"
Kael considered the question. How much truth could he share? How much would Hank believe?
"Someday," he said finally. "When there's time. When we've survived this."
Hank held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Fair enough." He extended his hand. "Whatever you are, whatever your secrets—you came here to help. That's enough for now."
Kael clasped his hand. The grip was firm, calloused, the hand of a man who'd spent his life holding weapons.
"Two days," Hank said. "Let's make them count."
Outside, the sun was setting over Rosenburg. The clock tower cast a long shadow across the square, its bells silent.
Kael stood on the barracks steps, watching the city prepare for war. Guardsmen hurried past, carrying supplies. Civilians boarded up windows. Children were hustled indoors by worried parents.
In the original timeline, none of this happened. They were caught completely off guard. The undead hit at dawn, and by noon, it was over.
This time would be different.
He didn't know if they could win. The odds were still terrible—three hundred defenders against two thousand attackers, with caster support. Even with preparation, even with his knowledge, victory was far from certain.
But they had a chance.
And that was more than they'd had before.
Kael touched the militia badge on his chest. Captain Marsh's badge, taken from a dead man on a muddy road. A symbol of responsibility he'd never asked for but couldn't refuse.
Two days.
Two days to turn a sleepy garrison into a fortress.
Two days to change history.
He started walking toward the walls. There was work to do.