"My name is Sir Roland; the Ash Knight, Emperor Levi, the Fourth; ruler of the seven continents, Zoran Stormbringer; sailor of the Northern seas. Above all—what the majority know me as—the Faceless War God."
Lazarus sighed, his droopy eyes glazing over, old memories flooding his mind.
A nostalgic smile spread across his face. He raised a hand, running his fingers through his grey hair, then suddenly paused.
"Old habits do really die hard," Lazarus chuckled.
He sighed one more time and turned back to his grimoire, picking a quill, dipping it into an inkwell containing his blood, and diving into a world he would soon paint out.
***
It had been ten days since Lazarus became conscious in S'ylvian—in his own body nonetheless.
It was as though he had been yanked from Earth, and thrown into a mediaeval empire with some weird quirks.
This place very clearly appeared like an old, Western empire of Earth, but the existence of some things made it feel… wrong.
"Roland!"
His ears perked up.
Right, the name he was known as was, Roland. He hadn't just been dumped in a random forest or jungle like those webnovels. He actually had a role, a quite important one at that.
Roland scrambled to the forefront of the caravan, his metal boots clanking against the cobblestone.
He arrived before a warhorse, its hoofs stomping the ground fiercely with every step it took.
Roland backed away in the same instant one hoof crashed down. His pupils constricted, and his heart threatened to jump into his mouth with how fast it began to beat.
There was a look of disdain that came from the Knights when they saw that reaction. They ridiculed him internally, wondering why it was that Sir Alaric always brought him along, when they knew it was always going to be a problem.
They had just won a war with the neighbouring empire. It was a time to celebrate, so they ignored him, thinking about the beer and ale they would drown themselves in upon their return.
The Knights threw Roland one more look of disgust, before looking away.
"Pesky little insect," Knight Germain growled under his breath.
Sir Alaric turned his gaze towards Roland, his glowing red eyes behind the visor of his helmet turning into crimson slits as he smiled.
"I see you have been hard at work," Sir Alaric began, his voice as deep as expected of a war veteran.
"How are the prisoners holding up?"
Roland paled when he heard that question, gritting his teeth and taking a quick peek behind.
The line of carriages being pulled along the cobblestone path was staggering. Hundreds of war horses dragging along metal-ardoned wooden carriages with lowered heads, and warriors double that number moving on horses, or on foot.
Clad in bloodstained iron armor, sitting atop a horse with jet-black fur and red eyes just as piercing as its rider, Sir Alaric chuckled, his deep rumbling voice sending a tremor through the air.
Roland didn't feel any better with that laughter. He couldn't seem to understand why his reactions always amused his master.
He frowned tightly, "What's funny?"
Sir Alaric's laughter doubled over, and Roland had to grab his head, panicking as he trudged on.
"This old man wouldn't be the end of me," he said through gritted teeth.
A moment later, Sir Alaric composed himself, his dreadful aura waning a bit as he sighted the city gate ahead.
"You've worked well, Roland," Sir Alaric said, taking his helmet off. "More than any of my Knights."
As expected, the Knights on horses around Sir Alaric tensed. Those words were usually a sign of terrible days ahead.
They had done something wrong and didn't know what, but they were going to suffer anyway. It definitely wasn't because of them bullying Roland—they knew that much. But whatever it was, they wanted to know.
"At long last!"
The draw bridge was lowered, letting the voices of the commoners flood out.
The warriors lining the walls banged their fists on the right side of their abdomen with their left fists, saluting the return of the war general and his army.
Sir Alaric took his helmet off as Meadow, his dark steed, trotted through the gates. His long, ghostly, bone-white hair danced in the cool breeze, the ponytail swaying behind him as he gave a small polite smile.
His gaze was calm and peaceful, his presence tranquil, yet commanding. Those who beheld his visage were compelled to get on their knees and bow their heads—though they didn't.
"Roland," Sir Alaric called out, his gaze still surveying the people standing by the roadside, throwing flowers and chanting the names of the General and his Knights.
"Remember this feeling… Remember why we fight."
Roland turned his gaze to the distant castle, a reddish glow emanating from his irises and his pupils thinning into serpentine slits.
His vision's range multiplied by a factor of ten, and he spotted a grizzly old man staring right at him.
"We fight for the people… Not the Emperor," Sir Alaric said, his voice grim.
"It is the people who make up any Kingdom or Empire, not its ruler."
Roland gave a curt bow and looked away, returning his focus to the people around.
"If I die, leave the empire and seek refuge elsewhere. Do not avenge me."
Roland's eyes almost watered.
'As much as I still don't have a clear picture of what's happening in this world, I can't deny the fact that Sir Alaric is a good man, and father figure.'
Being a Squire and following Knights of such strength to war was a boon, but following Sir Alaric for the past ten days was worth more than he could've ever imagined.
Comparing this world to Earth, he found no difference. He was returning from a war he didn't know how had begun.
What made the two worlds distinct were the use of Sorcery and the use of Technology.
Neither had both, but they excelled in one.
'But I have the knowledge of both,' Roland gave a wry smile. 'Just a little, unfortunately.'
Lazarus was a student at the tertiary level of education, studying in his room on a cool afternoon when he was suddenly superpositioned, finding himself pushing a cart of supplies.
And just like that, Lazarus had become Roland, a squire under the tutelage of Sir Alaric, the Dragon General of the S'ylvian Empire.