"Logistics? We are appointed as mere Logistics Officers? We are Knights, for God's sake!"
Theo slammed his fist onto the heavy wooden table. His glare followed the retreating back of the Templar messenger who had just delivered their reassignment for the next crusade.
Hiro's third boss, Theo—who looked like a gritty, middle-aged Western version of Naruto with his shock of blonde hair and piercing blue eyes—had been complaining non-stop since the briefing ended.
I feel you, Narut—Theo, Hiro thought, nodding solemnly.
Hiro understood the man's temperament perfectly. A Royal Knight being demoted to a low-rank grunt in a God-forsaken war zone? It was the equivalent of a Regional Director being transferred to a dying branch office and told to manage the toner levels for the communal printer.
"They must have a structural reason for the placement," John, playing the role of the weary human resources peacemaker, tried to assure him.
"They better have a damn good one," Theo spat, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the stone floor.
He stormed out of the room. As if on cue, the rest of the unit followed him in a silent, brooding line, leaving Hiro alone with John and the heavy silence of the room.
John sighed, finally finding a moment of serenity in the clouds drifting past the narrow window. Hiro followed his gaze. The morning sky was a crisp, familiar blue—no second sun or bleeding moon to justify his theory that this was literal Hell.
Indeed, this was a medieval fantasy world. Or at least, a very dark "Expansion Pack" of one.
Fantasy.
Hiro couldn't find a better word for it.
Black Templar. Abomination. Chaosborn.
His mediocre knowledge of history could only help so much before another "new content" appeared again. He needed to be prepared, the same way he used to prep for an auditor's surprise visit.
He flexed his right fingers. The numbness from the flintlock's recoil was gone, replaced by a lingering, sterile sting. The Clergy had made quick work of it—a few muttered incantations and a splash of some high-potency "Divine Oil" that smelled like industrial bleach. It was the most aggressive physical therapy Hiro had ever experienced, but at least he was back to full operational capacity.
He needed intel before the next crusade "clocked in." Theo's sudden meltdown had actually done him a favor, clearing the room and leaving him with the perfect opportunity. He had the best possible resource sitting right across from him.
Time for some corporate networking.
"John," Hiro said, leaning in. He flashed his most practiced smile.
John broke his gaze, his chestnut hair fluttering in the draft from the window.
"Yes, Einar?" He returned the smile, his teeth a blinding, heroic white.
Ugh, dazzling. I'm sorry, John, but I have to do this, Hiro thought, his eyes squinting against the sheer "Main Character" radiance.
"I think... I might have lost some of my memory in the blast yesterday," Hiro said. The practiced smile was replaced by a sharp wince as he cradled his head in his hands.
"What!?" John surged to his feet so abruptly his chair clattered backward onto the stone floor.
He lunged forward, grabbing Hiro's head between his hands to inspect it. "I saw no open wounds, It might be a fracture inside the skull! We need to get you back to the Chapel immediately!"
"N-No, it's nothing that serious!" Panic flared in Hiro's chest—the last thing he needed was the Clergy peering into his skull. "Honestly, I don't feel any pain, but…"
Hiro dialed up his most pathetic, clueless look. "My memories are in shambles, John."
John's hands dropped. He retrieved his fallen chair and sat directly in front of Hiro, pointing a thumb at his own chest with a look of pure confusion.
"It's not that bad. I remember you. And Na—Theo," Hiro stated, nearly slipping on the name. "It's just... fragmented. Even now, I'm trying to bridge the gaps.
Hiro wasn't a natural-born liar. But he was a veteran in handling outrageous demands of thousands of angry customers. He had spent years selling "Value Meals" to people who didn't need them; he could even sell ice to an eskimo.
"That's bad enough, Einar!" John's face scrunched with genuine worry.
"Relax, John. Now wasn't the time for this. You know that right?" Hiro bluffed.
John's face softened. The tension left his shoulders as he leaned onto the table and exhaled a heavy breath. He had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.
"You're right, Einar. We have to avenge the Commander," John said, his voice dropping into a hollow tone. "You've already done your best, enduring the shame and deceiving us all with that act of yours. Rest assured, Einar. We will avenge your brother."
Eh? Brother? Einar has a brother? Hiro racked his mind, searching for Einar's memories.
He laid out the pieces on his mental table.
Einar Vane. Royal Knight. Failed Duty. Penance. Vengeance. Commander. Einar's brother.
He tried to snap the pieces together.
Crack.
"Ugh!" Hiro clutched his head. The headache had returned.
The hammer-strike slammed against his skull. A flash of strobe-light memories stormed his brain:
A man on his knees, shackled. He wore golden armor smeared with glistening crimson. The same black hair, his face an older, more weathered version of Einar.
An executioner stood beside him, a long blade catching the light.
The man in the gold armor turned his head, his gaze piercing through the memory.
'Never forget your origin, Einar. A Vane never escapes their responsibility.'
The image flickered.
'This is the last gift I could give you. I'm sorry I haven't been a good brother to you."
A peaceful, resigned smile.
'I'm proud of you, Einar.'
SNAP.
"Einar! Einar!" John was shouting, his hands pinning Hiro's shoulders to the table to stop his thrashing.
The pain vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
Still clutching his head, Hiro slowly forced his eyes open. John was leaning in, his face inches away.
"Are you okay!? Einar, talk to me. We're going to the Chapel. Now!"
Hiro felt hollow. A strange, phantom weight was tugging at his heartstrings—a grief that didn't belong to him, yet felt heavy enough to crush his ribs.
He shifted his gaze to John.
John recoiled as if he'd been struck. He stepped back so hard his chair clattered to the stone floor again, his expression contorting into a mask of pure dismay.
"I….I will overlook your tears for today," John whispered, his voice trembling. "I know how much you loved Godfrey."
What is he talking about? Hiro's consciousness began to seep back in, confused.
Drop.
A bead of moisture trailed down his face and splashed onto the cold stone floor. Hiro touched his cheek. Wet.
Einar Vane was crying.
Is this how the 'Immortal Einar' grieves? Hiro wondered.
The mind was silent, but the body was mourning. The heart was yearning, but the mouth refused to utter a single word of weakness.
Godfrey Vane. Commander of the Royal Knights. Condemned for failing to protect the Third Prince. A loyal knight who had taken the fall to quell the ravenous nobles. He had carried the weight of the world's failure alone.
Hiro had been fishing for the world's knowledge to help him survive. Instead, he'd found a tragedy. Hiro finally understood the source of the resentment. He saw why John and Theo had been so disgusted by his "pathetic" behavior before.
A single jigsaw piece labeled Godfrey Vane was beginning to reveal the true picture of Einar Vane: the youngest Royal Knight in history. A man who recklessly charged into the jaws of death alone, regardless of the odds, and somehow always crawled back out. A man who had earned the title "Immortal Einar" through sheer, bloody-minded refusal to die.
But that's all he got.
He needed more. He needed to trigger another migraine, to force the "System" to dump more data. He needed to unfold every hidden layer of this life.
He needed to return home.
Thanks for the assist, Einar, Hiro thought. Between the lingering migraine and the involuntary tears, his "Grieving Brother" performance was now hauntingly convincing. I'll make it up to you later.
Hiro wiped the moisture from his face with the back of his gauntlet. He straightened his posture, shifting back into the rigid frame of a knight. He opened his mouth to press John for more—
"We'd better get moving," John said, abruptly righting his chair. He turned to Hiro, his expression hardening. "We need to familiarize ourselves with the new station as soon as possible."
His gaze was sharp, burning with the same vengeance he'd been preaching earlier. The mourning period was over; the shift was starting.
Fine, I can pester him later. Hiro thought, falling into step.
They exited the room, stepping into a wall of blinding sunlight.
The West Gate Tower was one of the highest buildings in the fortress, and the descent was long. Hiro had spent a cramped, restless night in the guardroom with his fellow ex-Royal Knights. Now, they were all being "reassigned" to the Logistics Squadron. The previous team had been completely wiped out in the last deployment—a 100% turnover rate that would have horrified any HR department.
"Doesn't this bother you?" Hiro asked as they navigated the spiral stairs.
He was curious. Could this ever-smiling gentlemen of the late royal knight actually feel rage, or was his professional mask permanent?
"Bothered?" John chuckled, glancing at Theo's retreating back in the far distance. "Of course I was mad. But we can't all be like Theo. Someone has to be the anchor, or this unit will lose control."
John looked up at the sky, offering one last piece of senior wisdom.
"And we shouldn't judge the Black Templars too quickly. They've received us well enough—except for the shackled. I'm sure this Logistics placement has a silver lining. For one, our original team is still together."
Hiro nodded in silence. John was right. At the very least, they'd have some operational flexibility without Sir Reinhardt barking at them 24/7.
Hiro looked at John in a new light. They were remarkably similar: the "Corporate" smile, the calm judgment, the infinite patience. In Hiro's old world, John would have been a legendary Floor Manager. Here, he was just a knight trying to keep his comrades alive.