Reborn As Noble

The grand hall of the Klimbert Estate buzzed with boisterous laughter, clinking goblets, and the scent of roasted meats.

Klimbert raised his wine glass high, a smug grin on his face. "Hahaha! Those Armands will be crushed within the week!"

The gathered nobles—Counts, Viscounts, Marquis and Dukes—smirked and nodded in agreement.

"Their first line of defense is nothing against our 30,000 elite troops," the Duke said, swirling his wine with an arrogant gleam in his eyes. "Once we breach their walls, the rest will crumble."

"And if by some miracle they hold, we still have another 70,000 troops ready to march," the Viscount chuckled. "They won't last long."

A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, each noble imagining how they would carve up Armand lands once Garius was dead.

The Count leaned forward, greed flickering in his eyes. "I don't care about land. I just want their gold. Once we take their treasury, my part is done."

The Viscount smirked. "I want their ore. Those mines will be mine, and whoever claims the land must supply me at a discounted price," he said, turning to the Duke.

The Duke of Izbles let out a dark chuckle. "Fine. I'll take the southern lands, where the largest ore deposits are. I have no doubt we'll discover even more once Garius is gone."

Klimbert took another sip of wine, a grin spreading across his face. "Then I'll take the east. The soil is perfect for sugarcane, and with it, I'll claim those 'Magic Sugar Machines' of theirs."

The Marquis rested his chin on his hand, grinning. "I'll take the west. With that land, I can build an army camp near the Beastkin Kingdom's border. Imagine the strategic advantage."

The nobles exchanged glances, each already envisioning their future wealth and power.

Klimbert leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "And what of the Armand bloodline?"

The Duke's eyes gleamed cruelly. "Wiped out."

"None will be left," the Marquis added coldly.

They raised their glasses in a toast, sealing the fate of Armand—at least, in their minds.

Klimbert leaned forward, tapping his finger against the map. "We will split our remaining 70,000 troops into two divisions."

The other nobles nodded, listening intently.

"The first half will reinforce the 30,000 we've already sent, With that, we'll push through whatever resistance remains."

"And the second half?"

Klimbert smirked. "They will follow shortly after, sweeping in to finish off the last defenses and ensure total annihilation."

A low chuckle spread around the room.

"We'll burn everything to the ground." Duke Ibzles traced a path along the map with his finger. "By the time we're done, the entire region will be nothing but ruins."

"And their soldiers?" the Marquis asked.

The Duke waved dismissively. "Slaughter them. Every last one."

A moment of silence passed.

Then a noble raised an eyebrow. "And their civilians?"

Cold, cruel laughter filled the room.

"Why even ask?" Klimbert sneered. "Those who do not submit to the will of the Saint of Three Gods shall perish."

"Kill them all," Another noble grinned. "Men, women, even the children. Purge the land completely."

A few nobles exchanged glances, but no one objected.

"If we need workers, we can bring them from our own lands," the Duke added casually. "There's no need to waste effort keeping those lowborn scum alive."

The Marquis chuckled. "Let them kiss the dirt and die."

They raised their goblets, the flickering candlelight casting dark shadows across their faces.

Convinced of their victory, they toasted to the destruction of Armand.

The morning sun had barely risen when the second wave of 35,000 enemy troops marched toward the Armand border, still far from the main wall. Their banners fluttered proudly, their armor gleamed, and their weapons shone in the golden light.

At the front rode the seasoned commander, his face filled with confidence.

"Heh! I can't wait to crush those weaklings," one soldier laughed, gripping his sword.

"Same here!" another grinned, patting his newly forged blade. "This sword will drink Armand blood today!"

"With the armor provided by our Duke, we're unstoppable!" their squad captain boasted.

The marching soldiers cheered in agreement, laughing as they envisioned the massacre that awaited them.

As they drew closer to the border, one of the scouts riding ahead suddenly pointed toward the horizon. "Commander! Look! The Armand border wall—their flags... they've changed!"

The commander squinted, his sharp eyes catching the distant sight. The once-familiar banners of Armand were gone, replaced by the colors of their Banner, The Saint of three Gods. A thick column of dark smoke rose into the sky, ominous and celebratory.

The scout grinned, arrogance dripping from his voice. "It seems our first wave has already crushed their defenses! Look at that smoke—those weaklings must be burning in their own fortresses!"

The commander chuckled, a deep rumble of satisfaction. "I expected nothing less. Thirty thousand of our finest troops in the first wave, and now another thirty-five thousand to sweep up the remains. Armand doesn't stand a chance." Your next journey awaits at My Virtual Library Empire

"Commander," another soldier chimed in mockingly, "do you think they'll even last a week? At this rate, we'll be feasting in their capital by tomorrow!"

The entire column erupted into laughter, the sound echoing across the open fields. The soldiers marched with a casual swagger, their weapons resting lazily on their shoulders. To them, this was no longer a war—it was a victory parade. The thought of resistance never crossed their minds.

"Look at them," the commander said, gesturing toward the distant smoke with a smirk. "They're probably scrambling like rats, trying to salvage whatever's left of their pathetic kingdom. Let's make this quick, men. The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can return home as heroes."

The soldiers cheered again, their confidence unshakeable. They felt invincible, untouchable—nothing could stand in their way.

As they marched closer, one soldier near the front suddenly pointed toward the ground ahead. "Commander! Look over there!"

The commander turned his gaze, and his lips curled into a smirk. Scattered across the field, not far from their path, were the bodies of fallen soldiers. Their thin, ragged clothes clung to their lifeless forms, and the faint emblem of Armand was barely visible on their chests. Rusty swords lay beside them, their blades dull and chipped.

The entire column erupted into laughter. "Bwahahaha! Are you seeing this?!" one soldier roared, clutching his stomach. "To think the Armand troops only wear thin clothes and use rusty swords! No wonder they're losing!"

Another soldier kicked one of the rusty blades, sending it skittering across the dirt. "This is what they call an army? Pathetic! I've seen farmers with better equipment!"

"Yeah! Commander, I'm sure we can win this easy!" a third soldier chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. "These weaklings couldn't even put up a fight. This isn't a war—it's a massacre waiting to happen!"

The commander chuckled, his voice low and confident. "It seems our first wave did more than just break their defenses. They've shattered their spirit. Look at them—lying there like beggars in a gutter. Armand doesn't deserve to call itself a kingdom."

The soldiers laughed again, their voices echoing across the field. They marched on, their steps light and carefree, as if on a leisurely stroll rather than heading into battle. The sight of the fallen Armand soldiers only fueled their arrogance, convincing them that victory was already in their grasp.

But as they passed the bodies, none of them noticed the faint glint of something hidden in the nearby trees. None of them heard the soft rustle of movement in the shadows. And none of them realized that the thin clothes and rusty swords were merely a ruse—a carefully laid trap waiting to spring.

Then it happened.

Without warning, a thousand magic arrows rained down from the hills and tree lines. The air hummed with deadly energy.

Screams erupted.

Steel clashed, men collapsed, bodies fell.

Before they could even raise their shields—before they even realized they were under attack—hundreds were already dead.

"AMBUSH!!"

The commander's eyes widened in shock. He had expected a glorious battle—not this.

Then, from the mists of the forest, a blur of movement appeared.

Cuquawk!!

A thunderous squawk echoed across the battlefield as the Armand Pekko Cavalry charged.

Fast. Unnatural. Terrifying.

The enemy cavalry barely had time to react before Armand's Pekko riders ripped through their ranks at three times their speed.

Knights, magic crossbowmen, and swordfighters darted among them, cutting down the panicked enemy like wheat before the harvest.

Swords clashed. Blood spilled.

The seasoned commander watched in horror as his carefully trained cavalry—the pride of their army—was shattered in seconds.

This… this isn't how wars are fought!

In this world, battles were won with strength, numbers, and direct charges.

But this… this was something else entirely.

( End of Chapter )