"What's This?"

The light that caught Vulcan's eye quickly vanished amid the other lights. But Vulcan was certain it wasn't his imagination or an optical illusion. With a subtle smile, he scanned his surroundings.

"All units, form up!!"

The arena was like a field dungeon, almost an instance dungeon in practice. You could join over the walls, but they did strict headcounts from the start, then formed squads for missions and battles, making outside interference practically impossible. If you got caught trying, no fame or status would save you from harsh punishment under military law.

"Full roster again? Quite the crowd."

So, checking out his squadmates and their abilities was crucial before the battle kicked off. Veterans like these could build teamwork with minimal practice, but it was a fierce game of chicken—who gives orders, who takes the risky spots, how to split loot. The side that settled it fastest outdid the others. Named players or guilds made it easy, but most here were strangers without top specs, so even after General Dorian's command, chaos reigned with bickering and shuffling.

"Squad, form up."

But Vulcan's situation was different. He just glanced over his squad, then barked orders casually, no polite bullshit.

"Form up!!"

And his squad obeyed with crisp precision. Only one reason: every single one was an NPC. An elite squad of nothing but knights, no grunts. A camp mage or priest would've been ideal, but those were rare resources here—grabbing them would've messed up Vulcan's plans.

"From now on, we're running an independent mission."

"Yes, sir!"

That independent mission was key. The arena mixed skirmishes and full battles, all under General Dorian's command, limiting player freedom. But Vulcan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had clearance to operate solo.

Not from his honorary baron's title or quartermaster ties. His mission's uniqueness got the nod.

"You know the mission?"

"Support duty, sir!"

Support squad. Built purely on Vulcan's crafting rep. All knights for a small unit? They were his escorts. Also boosted mobility.

"Right. Judge situations independently—support other units, resupply, repairs."

He'd proven it in prep time: top-tier skill and speed, handling multiple smiths' workloads solo. That's how he scored this privilege.

"We'll hang back at the rear for now."

Also to hunt clues on those "lizardman-exclusive weapons" he'd promised. He could fight upfront, but this let him observe safely.

"Don't be disappointed. Follow my lead, and we'll rack up more merits than anyone."

"……?"

The knights, itching for glory, might chafe at it—like missing their shot at the arena. But no sour faces showed. Credit the new swords they'd gotten: longswords engraved with telekinesis spells.

Vulcan had negotiated exactly ten knights wielding those from the quartermaster.

"We'll drill here till ready, then hit the front."

Of course, he wasn't wasting them. In a duel, none here could touch him—not in a melee scrum maybe, but one-on-one? No contest. He requested them for a scheme.

But first, practice. Training to trigger telekinesis on cue, his way.

Master that, and it'd yield bigger merits than casual fighting. Vulcan was sure.

"So, kill each other now."

"……Sir?!"

"Fight like you mean to kill! Short-term crash course? Nothing beats live fire. I won't let you die, so go wild!"

Issue: could newbies wield telekinesis at his level? Vulcan knew the fix from experience—real combat.

'They'll learn quick if they don't wanna die.'

He taught basics: dodge by nudging attacks aside, unbalance foes, redirect your strikes, shove arms to amp speed. Then sparring started.

"Full advance!"

Meanwhile, General Dorian's army marched. No rush—their mobility sucked with that mass. Plus, Vulcan had Dragon Eye.

'Perfect spot to scout the field.'

Ultimate goal: clear the main scenario quest. Watch for souls spawning and fading—human or lizardman. Spot weirdness, fake support and investigate. Rear position was ideal for overview.

'Alright, first……'

Plenty of time till then. Prep work aplenty.

"Hey, you fuck! Stab like that and kill anyone? Get your head straight, or want me to demo?"

He drilled knights harder, opened inventory for his own setup. Couldn't resupply barehanded—stockpiled goods.

Problem: his "supplies" weren't standard issue.

"Flank left and right! Don't get surrounded!"

"Watch your feet—ambush pros!!"

The arena was brutal. Players flocked for quick combat XP—pure slaughterhouse. Lizardmen ignored honor, unlike orcs.

"Argh! My eyes!!"

"Sand-throwing cowards?!"

Victory and kills. That's all they cared for—"cowardly" was praise. Victory was their medal; anything went.

"Got…… Gahk!"

"No slacking after kills! Tough bastards!!"

Personal and group wins mattered, so meat shields for lethal hits? Common.

Chaos reigned. NPC soldiers handled them fine, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but players, not sticking around long, panicked at the ferocity, lines crumbling fast.

"Damn! Already?!"

Massing fully cut ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠risks, but lizardmen dodged pitched battles. Final clash sure, but till then: ambushes, raids, guerrilla hits gnawing forces.

Same here—coordinated player strike teams hit or encircled routinely.

"Huh? What's that……!"

One encircled group glanced skyward. Black dots plummeting.

"Potions……?"

Crash!Sizzle—

Thick green potion bottles rained like hail.

"Urk?!"

"Poison!!"

Bottles shattering was natural. Contents? Not. Poison—potent stuff—saturating ground, spewing toxic fog everywhere.

"Kyaaah!!!"

Lizardmen reacted worst. Their regen—from fast bloodflow and cell growth—backfired. Poison rode the torrent, spreading lightning-quick. Five-second DoT hit every second. Some resistant, but not these. Agony wracked them; screams and thrashing.

"Detox, someone!!"

"This ain't joke! Antidote herbs failing!!"

But players, at the poison's heart from the encirclement, got dosed too. Mid-tier toxin ignored herbs. Consumables barely chipped damage; priests panicked—low mana, long CDs, no clue who first.

"Good aim!"

"Wider! Spread it wide!"

"Curl the ends! Focus!!"

Shouts, then sky darkened again. Giant nets this time.

"Wh-what?!"

"Dodge…… Wait, not us?"

Cast nets snared lizardmen exclusively. Poison-weakened, they flopped helplessly.

"Keep 'em clumped!"

"Pinpoint shots!"

"……NPCs?"

Another voice—NPC knights. Something dropped toward them too.

Crash!

"Wh-what?"

"Detoxed!! Antidote!!"

Antidotes, targeted precisely. Cleared poison, granted temp immunity.

Revealed allies, but players froze. Mystery aid, plus whistling arrows zipping past—fear of friendly fire.

"Stay put. Move and you're fair game?"

Twang—Boom!

Vulcan, cranking a steel bow with monstrous strength. Arrows didn't just pierce netted lizardmen heads—they exploded them.

No ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need for +9 Blessed Sun Sword; his all-in strength topped level 100s. Add fire?

Whoosh!

Holy flames nullified regen, chain-devoured them, flooding Vulcan with EXP.

"Wh-who?"

"Support squad. Not too late, right?"

Vulcan emerged from the fog, strolling casually—antidote downed—loosing arrows like it was nothing. Players gawked, speechless.

'Heh! Strictly support mission. Nothing says support can't be preemptive. System bought both—win-win.'

Players, stunned by Vulcan's proactive strike, forgot protests and just scooped EXP.