Reborn As Noble

The battlefield was silent. The only sounds were the crackling of fires, the distant wails of the dying, and the rustling of scavengers picking through the remnants of the fallen.

And then—

The Secret Unit arrived.

They moved like shadows, slipping into the bloodied field with disciplined efficiency. Each carried bundles of tattered Armand-adorned clothing—worn, dirt-stained tunics that made them resemble a ragtag force of impoverished peasants.

At the head of the unit, their commander saluted Lord Garius, awaiting orders.

Garius sat atop Giddie, his golden Pekko eerily still, eyes surveying the aftermath.

His lips curled into a smirk.

"Change all the enemy soldiers' armor. Strip them of their weapons and gear—replace everything with these." He gestured toward the worn-out clothing. "Let the next wave think they fought a ragged militia, not a standing army."

The secret unit immediately got to work.

Enemy knights were stripped of their polished armor, left in nothing but tattered remnants of fake Armand uniforms. Their enchanted swords and well-crafted lances were all confiscated.

Rusty, chipped swords replaced them.

By the time the work was done, the field no longer resembled a massacre of well-armed soldiers. Instead, it looked like the slaughter of a weak and desperate force—beggars wielding dull weapons, crushed effortlessly by the noble armies.

It was all a carefully orchestrated lie.

A deception meant to lure the next wave of enemies into underestimating Armand once more.

"And Rasdingen?" Garius's voice carried over the field.

The burly dwarf, still adjusting his battered helmet, looked up. "Aye, m'lord?"

Garius's smirk deepened. "Keep the enemy banners and flags at the walls."

Rasdingen barked a laugh. "Aye! That'll keep 'em thinkin' they still hold the place!"

The enemy's own banners would be their downfall. From a distance, it would seem as if their forces still held the Armand front—a false sense of security, a fatal illusion.

Garius turned to Hesbeirn, who stood with his greatsword resting on his shoulder.

"Hesbeirn."

The battle-hardened warrior straightened. "Yes, my lord?"

"Ensure our troops are ready behind the wall. For those who fought in the first and second battles, let them rest at the second defense line."

Hesbeirn nodded firmly. "Understood. Fresh troops will be at the front while the exhausted ones recover and rotate in later."

Garius's gaze shifted to Alf and Erinnete.

The two, still standing despite the brutal battle, awaited his orders.

"And you two—rest."

For the first time, Alf raised an eyebrow. "My lord?"

"We need more energy for the next wave," Garius stated simply.

Erinnete chuckled, stretching her shoulders. "Haaah… if you insist my lord."

Alf smirked. "I doubt we'll be resting for long, my lord." Experience more content on My Virtual Library Empire

Garius said nothing, only giving a small, knowing smile.

Because they all knew—

The battle was not over yet.

Three days had passed since the second attack.

The Armand forces had effortlessly crushed their enemies, yet the noble coalition remained completely unaware of the massacre.

Inside the grand estate of Viscount Klimbert, a heated argument echoed through the lavish halls.

"Why is there NO update from the commander!?"

Viscount Klimbert slammed his goblet onto the table, his face flushed with frustration. Wine splashed across the polished wood, but he didn't care.

The nobles gathered in the chamber exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak.

At the center of the tension, Klimbert's personal butler stood rigidly, hands clasped together in calm professionalism. His expression, however, betrayed his concern.

"My lord… we have already sent several messengers to the temporary war camp near the Armand border. Yet… none have returned."

Klimbert's fingers twitched. "…What do you mean, 'none'?"

The butler swallowed hard. "Exactly that, my lord. No news, no messengers, no updates."

A heavy silence fell over the chamber.

Several nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Finally, Klimbert's rage boiled over.

"NO NEWS!? NO UPDATE!? What kind of incompetence—!!"

He slammed his fist against the table, sending plates and documents scattering. The room flinched.

But the butler remained calm. "We fear something may have happened to the war camp, my lord."

Klimbert's breath hitched. That was impossible. Coalition forces had sent 30,000 troops in the first wave. Another 35,000 followed. Surely, someone would have returned by now. Surely, the commanders would have sent a message.

Yet… nothing.

Not a single report. Not a single soldier returning with battle scars or victorious news.

Nothing but silence.

The air grew colder as an unsettling realization filled the room.

Something was very wrong.

Klimbert's hands trembled with anger.

His patience had run dry.

He turned sharply toward his butler, his voice cutting through the tense silence of the chamber.

"Send the best scout units to the Armand border—NOW!"

The butler immediately bowed. "Yes, my lord." He hurried out of the room, not daring to waste even a second.

Klimbert exhaled sharply, trying to calm his nerves. His heart pounded against his ribs.

"I want answers." His voice was lower now, but no less demanding. "Klimbert territory and Armand territory are NOT that far. Two days—MAX. If we still have no news by then, I want to know what the hell happened!"

But before he could continue his furious rant—

A calm yet authoritative voice interrupted.

"Klimbert."

The entire room fell silent.

Klimbert froze.

The voice belonged to Duke Ibzles.

A man who commanded one of the largest personal armies in the kingdom. A man who governed a vast region.

The King's cousin.

The tension in the room shifted immediately.

Klimbert, who had been venting his frustration seconds ago, suddenly clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze.

Duke Ibzles leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Klimbert like a predator eyeing its prey.

Klimbert's voice was quieter now. "…But sir, our troops… they haven't sent any news."

Duke Ibzles said nothing.

The silence stretched unbearably.

Then—

Marquis Mikele chuckled.

"Hahaha, don't worry, Klimbert." The marquis leaned back in his chair, swirling his goblet of wine. "I'm sure our troops are just busy handling those weaklings."

A few nobles nodded in agreement, their expressions filled with overconfidence.

Marquis Mikele smirked. "Think about it. We've already sent 100,000 troops into the Armand region. hundred thousand. Against a mere count who supposedly has only 7,500 soldiers?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "What can a man like that even do?"

The nobles laughed, sharing smug glances.

They truly believed Count Garius De Armand was nothing more than a minor obstacle.

They believed this war was already won.

But as they raised their goblets in arrogant confidence…

None of them realized—

Their forces had already walked into their graves.

( End of Chapter )