Old Thomas did not bring the village priest back with him. In fact, the elderly caretaker had barely made it to the end of the cobblestone corridor before his fragile knees completely gave out beneath him.
He was entirely consumed by a deep mortal dread. In the harsh, unforgiving realm of Eloria, when the dead suddenly sat up and started speaking nonsense, it usually meant a malicious necromancer had cursed the area.
Thomas slowly crawled back toward the wooden door of the master's bedroom, his body shaking so violently that his worn leather shoes rattled against the stone floor.
He peeked his head around the doorframe. His pale face was drenched in cold sweat, and his eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated terror.
He fully expected to see a rotting ghoul feasting on his own flesh.
Instead, he saw Derek, comfortably sitting cross-legged on the lumpy straw bed, intensely staring at empty space with a massive grin on his face.
"Ah, Thomas! You're back!" Derek shouted cheerfully, pointing a finger at the terrified old man.
"I was just about to come looking for you. I need a status report on this village's perimeter defenses."
Derek's attempt to sound authoritative and reassuring completely backfired. The absolute dissonance between the sickly, frail body of fifteen-year-old Arthur and the aggressive, commanding tone of a military general sent a fresh wave of horror straight into Thomas's heart.
"Demon..." Thomas whimpered, pressing his face directly against the dirty stone floor in a posture of total surrender.
"Foul spirit from the Abyssal Wastes, I beg of you! Take my worthless soul, but please leave the young master's body in peace! Do not devour his flesh!"
Derek rolled his eyes. He realized immediately that explaining his transmigration and the existence of a high-tech tactical system to a medieval peasant was a complete waste of time. He decided to take the exact opposite approach of what a kind, benevolent lord would do.
If reassurance wasn't going to work, he would simply embrace the misunderstanding to establish a strict chain of command.
"Listen to me very carefully, old man," Derek said, lowering his voice into a dangerous, gravelly tone that he had practiced while playing competitive multiplayer games.
"I am not a demon. I am a highly advanced tactical operative from another dimension. I am taking command of this pathetic meat-sack, and by extension, I am taking command of you. If you follow my orders, you live. If you run away again, I will personally classify you as a hostile target. Do we have a clear understanding?"
The threat worked perfectly. The mortal dread in Thomas shifted from chaotic panic to an obedient, frozen terror.
"Y-yes, my Lord... I am your humble servant."
"Excellent! Stand up and fetch me some food. This body is running on dangerously low calories," Derek ordered, waving his hand dismissively.
As Thomas scrambled to his feet and rushed out to the kitchens, Derek closed his eyes and immediately returned his focus to the most important thing in his new life: [The Modern Weapons System]
'System, give me the primary briefing,' Derek thought, his heart pounding with excitement.
Instantly, the mental image of the stern, muscular Drill Sergeant materialized in Derek's mind, standing sharply at attention in front of a massive, glowing green interface.
Attention, Commander! the Drill Sergeant's voice boomed in his head. You are currently accessing the Primary Arsenal Interface.
This System functions on a strict merit-based economy. You earn Tactical Points, or TP, by eliminating hostile targets, completing combat objectives, and surviving enemy engagements.
These points can be exchanged for firearms, ammunition, tactical gear, and heavy ordnance from your original world.
Derek looked at the glowing green holographic screen floating in his mind. It was beautifully categorized.
There were sections labeled Pistols, Submachine Guns, Assault Rifles, Sniper Rifles, Explosives, and even a greyed-out tab labeled Armored Vehicles.
'Do I have a starting balance?' Derek asked eagerly. 'Please tell me I don't have to punch a magical dragon to death with my bare hands just to afford a pistol.'
[Negative, Commander!] the Drill Sergeant barked. [As a newly deployed operative in a highly lethal environment, you have been issued a standard Recruit Sign-On Bonus of 1,000 Tactical Points. Spend them wisely. Your life depends entirely on your loadout.]
Derek's mental fingers practically flew across the interface. He immediately opened the Assault Rifles tab. He was a practical gamer. While a sniper rifle was his ultimate dream for duck hunting, he knew that a frail teenager in a monster-infested medieval village needed versatility.
He needed something that could handle both close-quarters combat and mid-range engagements.
He scrolled past the heavy battle rifles and stopped right on a legendary classic.
[The M4A1 Carbine]
The System listed the weapon's specifications explicitly: 5.56x45mm NATO caliber, gas-operated, magazine-fed, selective fire. Exceptional accuracy and moderate recoil. Cost: 600 TP.
'I will take the M4A1,' Derek commanded. 'And I want a holographic red-dot sight attached to the top rail. Add four extra thirty-round steel magazines, fully loaded with standard full metal jacket ammunition.'
[Transaction confirmed! the Drill Sergeant shouted. M4A1 Carbine (600 TP) purchased.]
Holographic Sight (100 TP) purchased.
Four 30-round 5.56mm magazines (200 TP) purchased.
Total expenditure: 900 TP.
Remaining balance: 100 TP.
Weapons have been deposited into your Spatial Armory. You may summon and dismiss them at will with a single thought.
Derek opened his eyes just as Old Thomas returned to the bedroom. The caretaker was carrying a wooden tray with a cracked clay bowl.
He placed it carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands still shaking uncontrollably. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, absolutely terrified to look the "demon" directly in the face.
Derek looked down at the bowl. It contained a lukewarm, grey, watery gruel with a few suspicious lumps of unidentified root vegetables floating in it. I
Derek was used to spicy instant ramen and greasy fast food, so the sight of this medieval peasant slop was incredibly offensive to him.
However, his new body's stomach growled violently, betraying his disgust.
He picked up the wooden spoon and forced the gruel down his throat, grimacing at the completely bland taste.
"Alright, Thomas. While I consume this tactical ration, you are going to give me an intelligence report. Why are you so terrified? And don't say it's just because I woke up from the dead. I can see the bags under your eyes. You are scared of something else entirely."
Thomas swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he finally confessed the grim reality of their situation. The narrative he delivered was entirely bleak, completely devoid of any hope.
"It is the Shadow Wolves, my Lord," Thomas whispered, clutching his coarse tunic. "For three nights, a pack of them has been circling the perimeter of our village. They are massive beasts, the size of warhorses, born from the dark mana of the cursed forest. Their fur absorbs the moonlight, making them practically invisible in the dark."
Derek continued eating his gruel, chewing on a tough piece of root.
"So? Tell the local militia to stab them with spears. Problem solved."
"You do not understand!" Thomas cried out, his mortal dread bleeding heavily into his words.
"Ordinary steel cannot pierce their magical hides! Only a trained Knight with a mana-infused blade or a powerful Mage can harm them! But the local Baron abandoned this village months ago. He took all the guards and the resident Mage with him to the inner cities. We are completely defenseless."
Thomas fell to his knees again, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. "The village chief says the wolves are just testing our defenses. Tonight, when the moon reaches its peak, the entire pack will charge into the village. They will break down the wooden palisades, and they will slaughter every man, woman, and child. We are all going to die tonight, my Lord. The gods have forsaken us."
The old man wept openly, fully resigning himself to a brutal, bloody death. The atmosphere in the stone room was incredibly heavy, suffocating under the weight of inevitable doom.
Derek, however, did not feel an ounce of fear. He did not feel pity or sadness. Instead, a massive, arrogant grin slowly spread across his face.
He placed the empty clay bowl back onto the wooden tray.
A pack of giant, magical wolves that think they are invincible because the locals only have pointy sticks, Derek thought to himself.
This is a target-rich environment. This is free Tactical Points walking right to my front door.
Derek stood up from the bed. He stretched his thin, frail arms, feeling the stiffness of his new body.
"Thomas. Stop crying. It's incredibly annoying. The gods haven't forsaken you. They just sent you better firepower."
Thomas sniffled, looking up with a confused, terrified expression. "F-firepower? Is that a type of forbidden fire magic, my Lord?"
Derek didn't bother explaining. He simply held out his right hand and accessed his Spatial Armory.
With a subtle shimmer of distorted air, a heavy, perfectly machined object suddenly materialized into Derek's grasp. The sudden appearance of the weapon was entirely flawless.
The M4A1 Carbine was a masterpiece of modern engineering. The matte black metallic finish absorbed the sunlight streaming through the window. The polymer stock rested smoothly against Derek's forearm.
The holographic sight sat securely on the top rail, and a curved thirty-round magazine was firmly locked into the magwell.
To Old Thomas, it looked like a terrifying rod of dark, unknown metal. It possessed no glowing magical runes, no sharp edges, and no recognizable hilt.
Yet, the sheer unnatural perfection of its construction radiated an aura of lethal intent that made the old man's breath hitch in his throat.
Derek expertly gripped the weapon. His muscle memory from thousands of hours of virtual gaming translated perfectly into reality.
He raised the rifle, pressed the stock into his shoulder, and peered through the red-dot sight, aiming directly at the stone wall. It felt entirely natural, like an extension of his own body.
He reached forward and pulled back the charging handle, chambering the very first 5.56mm round.
The mechanical sound echoed loudly in the quiet stone room, causing Old Thomas to jump backward in fright.