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Chapter 35: Valkyrie and Brandon
Brandon glanced at Freya, who remained silent. He understood that she might be struggling to grasp the intricacies of their situation—a common reaction for a country girl unaccustomed to the tangled web of noble scheming. Yet, when stripped down to its essence, it was all rather simple: a matter of interests.
Deciding to cut straight to the heart of things, he spoke plainly. “I know this is difficult to hear, but the truth is, we are merely pawns in the hands of the nobility. They care only whether these pieces serve their purpose—not whether they live or die.”
Freya’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock as she stared at him.
Marden, however, furrowed his brow and sighed deeply. What Brandon said confirmed what he had suspected over the past few days. The nobles spoke fervently of rewarding them once the war ended, but beneath their honeyed words lay ulterior motives. What would they truly gain? Perhaps promotions for one or two individuals, meager rewards, or even just hollow honors.
Yet Marden’s repeated pleas regarding the displaced villagers of Buchi had fallen on deaf ears.
“Freya,” Brandon turned to her now, meeting her light brown eyes. “If your plan to protect the people of Buchi hinges solely on naive hopes of receiving accolades after the war ends—thinking you’ll return home to peaceful lives—you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”
“Brandon?” Her voice wavered.
“If you rely entirely on others, you’ll become nothing more than a discarded pawn once the nobles have used you.” He cut her off before she could speak further.
Had Brandon spoken like this earlier, Freya would never have believed him. But after witnessing so much along the way, she couldn’t deny the truth behind his words. The long-ponytailed girl hesitated, then asked, “But what should I do, Brandon?”
“The answer is clear: grow stronger until you can shield others.” His tone carried conviction.
“I understand, but I…” Freya began earnestly, her frustration evident. She thought of herself as nothing more than a humble militia captain. How could she possibly rise to stand alongside the lofty nobles? No matter how hard she tried to imagine it, the prospect seemed impossible.
“You doubt yourself?” Brandon asked gently.
Freya nodded.
“There’s no need to rush. Opportunities will come soon enough. Trust me. Do you remember what I told you?” A faint smile played on his lips.
Freya blinked, momentarily taken aback.
What Brandon didn’t reveal was his true intention: he wanted the young woman with the flowing ponytail to enter the Royal Cavalry Academy. There, she would receive a formal education in the kingdom’s most orthodox command strategies and tactical doctrines.
On one hand, he wished to preserve the path of the future Valkyrie; on the other, he needed someone trustworthy within the upper echelons of power. Roma showed no interest in such ambitions, leaving Freya as his sole viable candidate.
As for safety, there was little cause for concern. The Royal Academy, located in Vilan to the south of Anlek, was part of the royal family’s private holdings—one of the first territories secured by Princess Grifine during the December uprising. It was secure ground.
Moreover, attending the academy would benefit Freya immensely. Though Eruin’s classical military doctrines were far from outdated—its history rich with brilliant commanders and innovative tactics—the rot within its ruling class had stifled their potential. During the era of resurgence, Eruin had produced remarkable young officers. Brandon was certain that Freya, with her diligence, would absorb knowledge like a sponge. When the time came for her to shine, she would inevitably catch the eye of the princess, just as history foretold.
He recalled that in the coming June, during the sixty-fourth annual lance tournament at the Royal Cavalry Academy, Freya would meet the Crown Princess of Eruin. Perhaps some details might shift, but the butterfly effect hadn’t yet rippled through time. Thus, he doubted significant deviations would occur.
More importantly, Brandon desperately wanted Freya to help him understand the mind of the sixteen-year-old future regent, Princess Grifine Colcova Manophir. Did their goals align, or did core conflicts exist between them? While both sought to revive the kingdom, Brandon feared the half-elf princess might ultimately prioritize noble interests over genuine reform.
For Brandon, however, the stakes were personal. He still clung to the dream inherited from his days as a player—a vision shared by countless comrades who fought beside him. Could he bear to watch Eruin descend into flames again? He remembered the day Münsterlos fell, the capital engulfed in fire, the sky choked with smoke. As they retreated northward under orders, many players wept while gazing back at their lost homeland.
Time had been too short then, leaving them powerless to change fate.
Could he endure watching Freya perish in the crimson valleys of Dalar? That day, every last man and woman had fought valiantly. Brandon alone lost seven levels, and countless others suffered similarly. Yet, what had it achieved?
Now, looking at Freya—who still resembled an ordinary village girl—Brandon saw instead the image of the Valkyrie clad in silver sunflower armor, bearing the black pine emblem flag. She had stood firm until her final breath, fulfilling her vow to bleed for the land.
But alas, Eruin was weak, stagnant. Three legions stalled, Cruze’s reinforcements stood idle. On the decisive day, aside from Freya’s own forces and the players, no one else came. Thirty-six thousand players, sworn to die if necessary, amounted to little more than pebbles against Madara’s tide.
And what of Princess Grifine, the jewel of Colcova and star of Eruin? Forced into marriage with Lord Anlek, she lived unhappily, eventually falling victim to Ouroboros Society’s machinations. In that world, only the players remained loyal to Eruin’s spirit.
His former guild leader, senior members, and mentors—all gathered years later, reminiscing about battles fought. Silence reigned, tears welled up. Eruin’s soul was gone.
Looking at Freya, Roma, and the aged Marden, could Brandon allow everything to repeat itself? Shaking his head, perhaps if ignorance shielded him, he might choose solitude, crafting a legend based on his knowledge. But fate brought him here—to the dawn of the First Black Rose War, introducing him to Roma, Freya, and everyone entangled in this historical tapestry. Brandon realized the weight of his mission.
Altering history meant challenging deeply entrenched powers. Those who stood in his way would fall, one by one. Yet a voice whispered within: Brandon, opposing Eruin’s nobility—even figures like the five dukes or the proud regent princess—is no small feat. And beyond Eruin lay Madara, rising to its zenith under the command of brilliant minds: the Black Lord Enstallone, the One-Eyed General Targus, the Immortal Viland, the Pride of the Black Rose August, the Sword of the Empire Greta, and the emperor who wielded the legendary Mercury Staff.
How could a mere peasant-born Valkyrie defy destiny? Even with Brandon’s aid, what hope remained?
In the north, Cruzean watched indifferently. The Eagle Empire was no longer the cradle of humanity’s ancient civilization nor was it a symbol of the Highlanders' pride. Under the eleventh son of Emperor Grantodi, reforms forged in iron and blood advanced relentlessly. With the Earth Stone Tablet’s emergence, the Third Holy War loomed.
By then, Madara, Cruze, and Buga’s northern realms would be mere pawns in a grander game, fighting for survival.
Was Brandon ready to face this? Choosing to stand against history meant confronting nearly the entire world.
Shaking off these grim thoughts, Brandon resolved himself. He’d considered this while leading refugees out of Ridenburg. Facing the world wasn’t arrogance—it stemmed from pride in being a former player, embodying countless others who challenged the system.
Perhaps it was hubris. But Brandon believed action mattered more than success. At least, it was a chance to amend regrets.
Thus, this wasn’t just Freya’s choice—it was his too.
Time pressed upon him. Before the December uprising following the Black Rose War, he needed power and influence. Advancement through corrupt systems was unreliable. Only securing territory and troops offered swift leverage.
And indeed, he had a plan——one tied to the forgotten kingdom buried in the west.
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