Reborn As Noble

The dwarven leader gritted his teeth, eyes still locked on the burning battlefield below.

His soldiers waited for an order, nervous, shaken by what they had just witnessed.

“What should we do, leader!? Are we going to attack them now? Both sides!?” one asked, panic creeping into his voice.

The leader didn’t turn his head. He just stared down at the carnage, at the 20,000 puppet knights still unmoving. At the black-armored commander in the oni mask who hadn’t lifted a single finger to fight, yet had already shattered the will of an army six times his size.

“Are you crazy?” the leader finally said, his tone cold. “Those 120,000 halflings are scrambling just to fight back… and he….he hasn’t even moved his army yet.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“And those things in the sky… that kind of precision? That kind of firepower?”

He shook his head slowly.

“No. We don’t attack. We hold position.”

“But—!”

“I said hold,” the leader snapped. “We don’t know if he’s enemy or ally. But one thing is clear…”

He finally turned to look at his men.

“That man down there… he’s not here to negotiate.”

He paused.

“…He’s here to decide.”

The battlefield was chaos. The once-proud halfling army, 120,000 strong, now scrambled in panic. Shields dropped, weapons cast aside, trying to flee in every direction.

But Javier showed no emotion. He calmly reached into his storage, pulled out the mana speaker, and spoke in a cold, final tone.

“I already warned you,” his voice echoed across the battlefield, carried by magic.

“Once the war starts… there will be no captives. No prisoners of war. I already said—no mercy will be given.”

Then, with a tap of his finger on the control device, a dull hum filled the air.

Above, the ten mana drones glowed ominously.

The mana cannons fired in synchronized bursts. Explosions lit up the battlefield like thunder cracking from the heavens.

The fleeing halfling troops were consumed in waves of searing white-blue mana. Blast after blast rained down with deadly precision. No wasted shots, no hesitation.

Some tried to hide. Some dropped to the ground and begged. Others screamed for their commanders.

But it made no difference.

This wasn’t a battle anymore.

This was judgment.

Javier stood still—face unreadable beneath his oni mask, his hands steady, his voice silent now. He didn’t need to say anything further.

The sky spoke for him.

An hour had passed.

The battlefield was no longer a battlefield…it was a graveyard.

The skies above still echoed with the sharp whirr of drones. The constant pulse of mana cannons hammering the ground gave no room for rest. No warning. No forgiveness.

Each blast illuminated the scorched dirt, shattered shields, and bodies of halfling soldiers reduced to ash.

From atop the stronghold, the dwarven leader stared in silence.

His knuckles were white, gripping the stone rampart so tightly it cracked.

“Leader…” a soldier whispered behind him.

He didn’t reply.

His eyes were locked on the scene below.

Not a single puppet knight had moved. Not one.

Only the sky was fighting. And yet… that alone was enough to annihilate a force that bigger than them.

The halfling army—120,000 strong—was reduced to chaos. Screams were drowned by the roar of magic. There were no ranks, no strategy, no defense left. Just disorganized retreat. Or more accurately… slaughter.

The dwarven leader swallowed hard.

Fight?

Against that?

Impossible.

His soldiers were exhausted, hungry, and their numbers pathetically small in comparison.

We can’t even hold this stronghold properly without collapsing… and he…

He gritted his teeth.

The wind carried the smell of burning mana and dirt. The air was hot—too hot.

“…What are we even doing here?” he muttered. “Are we still fighting a war… or watching the world change without us?”

His second-in-command quietly asked, “Do we prepare the troops to defend?”

The leader didn’t answer at first.

Then with a hollow breath, he said the words none of them wanted to admit.

“…If even the halflings can’t stand against him… what chance do we, starving dwarves, even have?”

Silence followed.

There were no brave speeches.

Only dread.

And the quiet, cold realization…

Surrender may be the only option left.

The leader’s boots echoed on the stone steps as he descended the wall, his shoulders heavy as if burdened by a century of war.

“Leader…”

“Don’t ask…” he murmured, his voice low. “Just rest.”

“But—”

“Just go rest.”

The young soldier halted, unsure, watching the once-proud leader vanish down the stairwell like a shadow.

Step by step, the leader descended, each one heavier than the last. The muffled explosions outside were fading into the background, like distant drums marking the fall of an era.

Inside his mind, doubt gnawed at him.

Surrender?

Fight and die?

Or surrender… and maybe… maybe be spared?

He clenched his fists.

We didn’t fight the man in the mask…

We didn’t attack him.

We didn’t even try to stop him.

And yet… he didn’t ask for our surrender. He didn’t give us any order. He didn’t glance at us even once.

Was it indifference?

Or…

Mercy?

He walked the cold, silent corridor of the stronghold.

He glanced at his reflection in a polished axe blade—his face was pale, tired, lined with fatigue and buried fear.

“If I surrender… will my people be spared?”

That single question echoed in his mind, over and over.

And for once…

He didn’t know the answer.

He slowly walked toward the gate.

His steps were silent, each one deliberate. The sound of distant explosions had quieted, replaced by a haunting silence that hovered above the battlefield like morning fog.

He reached the small gate, the one beside the towering main doors. An entrance only opened for messengers, scouts… or surrender.

A nearby soldier noticed him.

“Leader… what—”

But the words fell away.

The leader didn’t answer. He simply stood there, eyes scanning the courtyard. What he saw made his chest tighten.

Dwarven soldiers… young, old, wounded, most barely standing. Their eyes were hollow. Some sat in corners, leaning on crumbling walls, their armor no longer shining but stained with dust, dried blood, and desperation.

A boy, no older than fifteen, was trying to tighten a bloodied cloth around his father’s arm, fabric torn from his own tunic.

Others sat quietly with their ration bowls, trying to sip at what barely passed as soup.

Clothes were tattered. Feet were bare. Hope, gone.

We’ve already suffered enough…

He gripped the iron handle of the small gate.

I’ve suffered enough.

His other hand clenched tight, nails digging into his palm.

Now… if that man in the mask… if he spares them,

If he gives them even one more day of peace—

I don’t care…

Even if he kills me.

He slowly loosened the latch.

Just… spare them…

Please.

They’ve suffered enough already.

( End Of Chapter )

Sorry for the late update.