They moved swiftly, racing against time. Another village—another target of the relentless undead. Rolan and his warriors advanced across the wild terrain, pushing their weary bodies forward. The battle they had just endured clung to their muscles like lead, but rest would have to wait. Lives still hung in the balance.
They arrived at the top of a grassy hill that overlooked the next village. The breeze blew steadily against them, cool but thick with the foul scent of rot and death. The winds carried the distant, haunting wails of the dying—soft, ghostly echoes that mixed with the rustling of the tall grass below. It was a grim chorus of suffering.
Rolan's army, panting from fatigue, collapsed onto the field to catch their breath. They downed stamina potions, feeling the familiar warmth spread through their limbs as energy returned. But even so, their minds were not yet ready. They were still shaken, still drained. This was their second major battle of the day, and the exhaustion was catching up.
But something was off.
The tribal masters stood, their instincts honed by countless battles, suddenly alert. They felt it too—a strange pressure in the air. Without hesitation, Rolan summoned the wings of the Screeching Bats and soared into the sky. His crimson wings flapped once, twice, and he was aloft, scanning the horizon.
His heart sank.
Below, he saw them—yet another horde of undead, possibly another three hundred strong, marching with unsettling purpose. They were already on the move, their grotesque forms converging on the helpless village nestled below the hills.
Rolan's face hardened.
They couldn't wait. There would be no time to rest.
Using his telepathic link, Rolan sent out a mental command to all his warriors.
"Everyone, the undead are approaching fast. We must intercept them before they reach the village."
"Of course, Master!" Reynald shouted, already back on his feet.
Without hesitation, the army surged downhill. Their bodies protested, but their hearts burned with resolve. Even with depleted stamina, they charged with blades drawn and war cries echoing.
They struck the enemy line head-on, their roars cutting through the groans of the dead. The impact was fierce and chaotic. Despite their fatigue, Rolan's army met the enemy with a furious storm of steel and blood.
Reynald, ever the juggernaut, cleaved a swath through the horde. His greatsword split enemies in half at the waist, leaving crawling torsos in his wake.
Kuro moved like a phantom, his blade flickering with blinding speed. With each slash, heads rolled, bodies collapsed, and silence claimed the slain.
Ella spun into the fray, her twin blades flowing like a dance of death. Blood sprayed in every direction as she sliced through undead necks with relentless efficiency. The more she fought, the stronger she seemed to become, feeding off the energy of the battle.
Braun, ever the unstoppable force, hacked and bashed with raw fury. His warhammer crushed bone, turned skulls to paste, and left the earth soaked in gore. Every swing was a brutal end for those in his path.
Bane cracked skulls with his bare fists, his raw power turning heads into pulp. Some enemies exploded on contact, their brittle forms no match for his monstrous strength.
Then, Rolan descended like a crimson meteor.
His wings vanished as he landed in the thick of the horde. In an instant, he shifted into his mimic form—his mouth growing wide with jagged teeth. He devoured the undead whole, tearing them apart with vicious speed. And then, using the duplicate skill of slimes, he created clones of himself—each one a writhing, acidic monster that melted the undead into nothingness.
The slimes feasted. Every dissolved zombie added to their strength, and the battlefield became a macabre feeding ground. The tides of undead, which once looked overwhelming, began to falter under the overwhelming force of Rolan's assault.
The army, bloodied but unbroken, pushed forward. Though exhaustion gnawed at their limbs, they fought harder than ever. The armor Rolan had given them held strong, absorbing damage and keeping them alive. His craftsmanship had proven vital once again.
Still, Rolan knew it wasn't enough. They needed enchantments—soon. Regeneration of stamina, mana, even health would change everything. These armors were just the foundation. The next generation of warriors would need more—stronger enhancements, better weapons. Thankfully, his slimes had already started the process.
Finally, after what felt like hours of non-stop combat, the last of the undead collapsed. The field went silent.
The villagers were saved.
As Rolan approached the village, an elder met him with trembling legs and tear-filled eyes. The man dropped to his knees and bowed deeply.
"My Lord! Thank you for saving us. We would be honored to serve under you. Please—accept our loyalty. Let us be part of your realm."
"Yes. Of course." Rolan replied firmly.
A system prompt echoed in his mind:
[Would you like to transfer the Mage Tribe Village into your Soul Realm?]
"Yes."
With that single word, the entire village vanished from the map—absorbed into the Soul Realm. Rolan placed them beside the Tribal Warrior village, creating a new district entirely for the Mage tribe.
[Soul Realm expanded to 3-kilometer radius.]
Rolan immediately visited Anna's family. As they saw him, they dropped to their knees.
"We will serve you, Master," her father said solemnly.
Rolan nodded.
He raised his hand and activated his skill.
[Evolve]
A brilliant light enveloped each member of Anna's family.
[Rein Evolved to Conjurer]
[Klein Evolved to Elementalist]
[Jeanne Evolved to Healer]
[Anna Evolved to Teleporting Mage]
[Mary Evolved to Telekinetic Mage]
[Sam Evolved to Support Mage]
[Elle Evolved to Enchanter Mage]
[Gifts granted to Underlings]
[Exclusive Loyalty Skill Assigned]
[Mana Depleted—Entering Hibernation State]
They all erupted in joy.
"Yes! We evolved!"
"We can finally help Master!"
"This is majestic!"
They knelt once again before Rolan, tears in their eyes and hope in their hearts. That night, the entire Soul Realm celebrated. Fires were lit, food was shared, songs were sung. A festival was born to welcome the newest additions to their growing family.
Rolan gave a toast at the center of the gathering. "Welcome, Mage Tribe. You are now part of something greater. Together, we will change this world."
Cheers erupted.
Eventually, fatigue caught up to him. Rolan excused himself and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.
By dawn, construction began. The Mage District expanded rapidly next to the Warrior village. Training grounds were erected. Libraries of arcane knowledge were drawn up. New recruits were enlisted and began practicing their craft with excitement.
Magic would become one of their main forces of offense and defense. Research began on new forms of spellcasting, bottomless mana regeneration, and arcane warfare.
The task ahead was monumental. But to Rolan, it was exhilarating.
The Soul Realm was no longer just a sanctuary.
It was becoming a kingdom.