Starting from Ainz Ooal Gown, simultaneously traveling through time

"Commander, I would like to request leave to go home. Please grant my request."

"Granted. Be careful on the road, Greg."

On a country road, Centurion Greg, who had taken leave from Lapis Lazuli Fortress to return home, was traveling alone.

Sunlight fell on his face, which was etched with wrinkles and a shallow scar by the wind and sand of the border region, highlighting his resolute features.

His name is Greg.

He was once an ordinary soldier in the kingdom's army.

Based on his military achievements and loyalty, he rose step by step to become an officer commanding a hundred men.

Later, he fell in a fierce battle, thinking that his life was over.

However, a miracle occurred.

He was pulled back from the brink of death by Prince Leylin using the legendary resurrection magic.

Not only that, His Highness Leylin also bestowed upon him an unparalleled divine weapon—a sword of unparalleled sharpness, capable of cutting through iron like mud.

Greg's hand unconsciously went to his waist.

There lay the sword bestowed upon him by His Highness, its touch cool and solid, giving him boundless peace of mind and strength.

His Highness said that these swords are collectively known as Valyrian steel swords.

But Greg felt that such an extraordinary weapon deserved a name of its own.

He named it privately—

"[Sacred Flame]".

He murmured the name with deep respect.

In his heart, Prince Leylin was like a messenger who controlled fire.

And this sword is the "sacred flame" that His Highness bestowed upon these loyal soldiers to defend their homeland.

He was convinced of it.

"I really had a scare a few days ago..." Greg recalled the near miss not long ago.

One night after shift change, he couldn't find the "Holy Flame" for a while. He was so anxious that he almost turned the barracks upside down.

Fortunately, it was eventually found in the shadows at the foot of the city wall.

That short time sent a chill down his spine.

If he were to lose the precious sword bestowed upon him by His Highness, he would be utterly ashamed to face his comrades and even more so to His Highness.

Because of this experience, before taking leave this time, he specifically sought out the team leader, Kabu, and solemnly requested: "Team leader, could you please keep the [Holy Flame] safe while I am away from the team? I will retrieve it when I return."

Seeing his nervous expression, Captain Kabu simply smiled and did not take the sword: "Greg, this is a weapon personally bestowed upon you by His Highness. It is your honor and responsibility. How can I take care of it for you? That would be against the rules."

Greg hurriedly explained, "Commander, I'm not trying to shirk responsibility, I'm just worried about the long journey and what if something goes wrong..."

"Afraid of losing it?" Captain Kabu patted him on the shoulder, his eyes shining.

"Then treat it as more important than your own life, hold it tight at all times, watch over it carefully. If you leave it with me, is there no possibility of it being lost? Trust sometimes also includes trusting yourself to protect what belongs to you."

The commander's words woke him up.

Yes, it's better to be vigilant yourself at all times than to rely on someone else to keep it safe.

So at this moment, as Greg was on his way, his hand almost never really left the hilt of his sword; that heavy touch was both a responsibility and a reminder.

Putting aside his thoughts about the sword, what he felt most urgently was the desire to go home.

The reason I took this leave was simply to see my family whom I hadn't seen for three years.

I have been guarding the frontier for three whole years.

For the past three years, I have only corresponded with my family through letters. How can words completely replace real voices and smiles?

Is your elderly mother in good health? Does she have a good appetite? Is she still worried about her son who lives far away?

Is his wife doing well, managing the household chores all by herself? His young child must have grown quite a bit taller by now. Does he still recognize his father?

Longing surged like a tide, urging him onward.

He couldn't wait to fly home immediately and see for himself if everything was alright.

Just as his emotions were churning, the vigilance honed by his years of military service suddenly tightened.

There seemed to be a very slight, unnatural rustling in the grass by the roadside.

Something's up!

Greg instantly composed himself, slowed his steps, and sharply scanned his surroundings. His right hand gripped the hilt of the [Holy Flame] sword tightly, and his body turned slightly to the side, entering a state of combat readiness.

He held his breath and waited for a moment.

However, apart from the rustling sound of the wind blowing through the grass, there was nothing unusual.

"Is it just a peculiar commotion, or am I being too nervous?" he wondered to himself, but he didn't completely let his guard down.

He deliberately quickened his pace and walked forward a short distance, pretending not to notice anything amiss.

Then, using the roadside slopes and trees for cover, they quietly circled around and approached the area they had previously considered suspicious from the side and rear.

Shortly after he left, a dozen or so people emerged from the dense grass.

Their clothes were disheveled, their eyes were fierce, and they carried various weapons; it was clear at a glance that they were no good people.

"Brother, why didn't you make a move just now? He was all alone, carrying a bundle. It looks like he might be worth some money," a skinny bandit asked in a low voice.

The bandit leader, known as "Big Brother," was a burly man with a scar on his face.

He squinted at the direction Greg had disappeared in, and spat, "You know nothing! Didn't you see the way that guy walked? Straight back, eyes like an eagle, hands with frighteningly thick calluses, definitely a tough nut to crack!"

"And that sword at his waist, it looks extraordinary. Robbing him? Even if we could take him down, several of our brothers would fall. It's not worth it!"

"Big Brother is right," another bandit chimed in. "This kind of guy looks like he's not to be messed with. It's better to let him go."

This group of people were mountain bandits who had taken up residence in this area and specialized in murder and robbery.

They weren't very knowledgeable, but years of living on the edge had given them a good eye for people.

Greg's seasoned experience and superior equipment made them instinctively choose to avoid the situation.

However, the fact that the bandits did not intend to provoke Greg did not mean that Greg would let them go.

"As expected, my intuition hasn't deteriorated. They were just a bunch of cowardly rats hiding in the shadows."

A calm yet cold voice rang out from behind them without warning.

All the bandits froze, turning their heads in horror.

The burly officer, who should have left long ago, had somehow silently circled around behind them and was now standing there steadily, his hand on his sword hilt, his eyes as cold as ice.

"You! How could you..." The bandit leader was both shocked and furious.

"Big brother, this guy's got bad intentions!" the skinny bandit screamed.

"Nonsense! Grab your weapons! Shoot him down!" Knowing there was no way to resolve this peacefully, the bandit leader immediately revealed his ferocious nature, drawing a chipped broadsword from his waist and roaring fiercely.

The bandits all raised their weapons—

There were several decent spears, axes, and broadswords.

But more often they had harpoons, flails, and even hoes—a motley collection that looked incongruous.

Greg's gaze swept over these "weapons," a knowing yet slightly strange look flashing across his lips.

"Judging by your equipment... are you fishermen or farmers from around here who can't make a living and have come here to do this risky business? If so, put down your weapons now, go home, and I might spare your lives."

These words struck a nerve with the bandit leader, who blushed with shame and anger.

They certainly wanted better weapons, but having fallen on hard times, they had to make do with whatever they had.

"Don't you dare look down on us!" the bandit leader roared, his voice laced with bravado but his heart filled with fear.

"There are fifteen of us! You're just one! Fifteen against one, the advantage is on our side! Brothers, cut him down!"

These words incited the ferocity of some of the bandits.

"Yes! He's all alone!"

"Fuck him!"

"Kill them!"

The mob, shouting and clamoring, brandished a variety of weapons and charged at Greg.

As Greg watched the haphazardly charging bandits, the last trace of hesitation vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, resolute determination.

He sighed softly, "I already gave you a way out..."

Before the words were even finished, the sword was already drawn!

"【Martial Skill: Whirlwind Slash】!"

The sacred flame transformed into a silver halo in his hand, tearing through the air with a sharp sound as it met the onrushing bandits.

There are no fancy moves, only highly efficient killing techniques honed over many years, combined with the indestructible sharpness of the Valyrian steel sword.

In an instant, the sounds of metal clashing, screams, and the dull thuds of blunt instruments striking flesh mingled together.

The bandits at the forefront had their crude weapons snapped in two, and they staggered and fell amidst the flashing swords.

The battle, or rather, the one-sided crushing defeat, almost predetermined its outcome from the very beginning.

"My hand! My arm!"

"Spare me! Hero, spare me! I surrender!"

"Don't kill me! I still have... at home."

Cries and pleas for mercy instantly replaced the previous shouts of killing.

The bandits were horrified to discover that their numerical advantage was utterly ineffective against the enemy's superb martial arts skills and that terrifying longsword.

In terms of rank, the bandits are generally between level 3 and level 5, and it is estimated that farmers and fishermen, who are engaged in other professions, make up the majority of the ranks.

This was no match for Greg, who was already level 15 or higher and equipped with a level 20 weapon.

Seeing the situation was dire, the bandit leader, disregarding all pride, threw down his knife and shouted, "We surrender! We surrender! Mercy!"

However, his pleas for mercy came to an abrupt halt.

A swift sword light swept past, ending his words and his life.

Greg's movements did not pause for a moment.

He knew all too well that to be merciful to such bandits who robbed and killed on the road was to be cruel to the innocent people who had been and might be harmed in the future.

Three years on the frontier, the life-or-death struggles with the orcs had already taught him one lesson: from the moment the other side draws their weapon and harbors murderous intent, only one side can leave alive.

The battle ended quickly.

Of the fifteen bandits, none survived.

Greg stood there, slightly out of breath.

He took out a clean, soft cloth that he always carried with him and carefully, slowly wiped the bloodstains off the [Holy Fire] sword.

Only when the sword was once again as smooth as a mirror, reflecting his calm and composed face, did he solemnly return it to its sheath.

He glanced at the corpses lying haphazardly in the pool of blood, his eyes showing no joy of victory, only a deep indifference.

The bandits' dying pleas for mercy reminded him of the equally ruthless orcs who, when defeat was inevitable, tried to escape or surrender.

He spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but clearly echoing in the suddenly silent country road: "Kill when you want to kill, beg for mercy when you want to live... There's no such thing as a free lunch in this world."

It was as if it were being spoken to those on the ground who could no longer hear it, or as if it were a creed within one's own heart.