"Damn all those false stories about successful transmigrated heroes!"
His curse was not merely because he recognized the potions in front of him, but because he understood the bitter truth behind them—these potions were not just rare treasures; they were the very reason he had taken over his current body.
It was the Essence of Life Potion, one of the most carefully guarded secrets of the aristocracy.
To explain further, in this world filled with supernatural powers, Arthur had learned from his memories that ordinary people could hardly compete with those who possessed such abilities.
Even a Knight Apprentice like Arthur could easily defeat more than three elite but non-extraordinary soldiers.
As for an Iron Knight, they stood on an entirely different level. Though both a Knight Apprentice and an Iron Knight were considered uncommon, the latter could easily overwhelm the former—not just due to superior physical strength but also because of the awakening of the Seed of Life, which granted them extraordinary abilities.
Although Arthur did not fully understand what the Seed of Life truly was, he had learned through his family studies that an Iron Knight who had awakened it experienced a fundamental improvement in their physical attributes.
The most tangible effect was an enhanced self-repair mechanism—after every intense training session, the Seed of Life would release energy to repair any internal damage in the body.
In contrast, Knight Apprentices suffered greatly. Without the aid of the Seed of Life, they would accumulate numerous hidden injuries from daily training alone, let alone from stepping onto the battlefield.
Iron Knights who lived long lives were common, whereas a Knight Apprentice surviving into old age was extremely rare, usually not exceeding fifty years of age.
Their short lifespan naturally limited their ability to improve their strength, making it incredibly difficult for them to progress further.
Because of this, an Iron Knight advancing through regular training alone was nearly impossible—it could take decades to reach the next stage without external intervention.
Due to the aristocracy's monopoly on resources and their unspoken agreement, it was already difficult for commoners to even become Knight Apprentices, let alone train to become Iron Knights.
The Essence of Life Potion, which provided a safe and effective means of accelerating training, never flowed into the lower classes.
It remained exclusively in the hands of the nobility.
To illustrate the true value of the Essence of Life Potion, one only needed to consider this— the previous owner of this body, the son of a Viscount, risked his life just to drink a semi-failed version of it.
And if one considered the identity of the Wolf Pack, there was a 99% chance that the source of these potions was either illegal or of low quality.
Now, as Arthur gazed at the bottles, he realized that his first plan—to lure the mercenaries into greed by offering them a tempting reward and drawing a grand illusion out of thin air, just as his former boss used to do in his past life—was bound to fail.
The reason was simple—One-Eyed Wolf already had better future plans for his own advancement.
If Marks had obtained these potions through illegal means, then two possibilities existed:
He truly couldn't recognize them. He was still uncertain about their authenticity.
In either case, he would need a noble or an expert to help him identify or verify them. And now, Arthur had walked right into his hands, as if fate had served him the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.
But what if Arthur pretended not to recognize the potions?
Since Marks had already planned to use him to identify the potion's nature, it was highly unlikely that he would believe any denial. Perhaps his initial hesitation and reaction had already been part of their evaluation.
On the other hand, if Arthur admitted the truth, the consequences were clear—the mere knowledge that Marks possessed these potions was far more valuable and dangerous to his life than any rage or revenge the Viscount Werner might feel over the death of his third son, who was soon to be sent off to a deadly war anyway.
Arthur took a deep breath, steadied himself quickly, and decided to take a gamble. With an indifferent tone, he said:
"I don't know what these potions are. They could just be ordinary medical supplies."
A long silence followed his supposed admission.
Then, Marks turned to Samuel and said in a low voice, "I don't think this is the time for questions."
Samuel nodded slowly, then added coldly,"He clearly recognizes them but refuses to answer, which only confirms our suspicions about their value. So, we won't waste our time asking anymore."
With a hardened expression, Marks turned to Arthur and sneered,"You nobles really think we're all idiots, don't you?"
He narrowed his eyes before continuing,
"Then perhaps it's time we use our own methods to test just how strong your so-called noble honor and unbreakable will truly are."
Then, Marks glanced at Samuel with a cold expression, giving him a silent order.
Samuel stepped forward, his movements deliberate and menacing.
It was clear—they had decided to force the truth out of Arthur by any means necessary.
Arthur felt the pressure in the air intensify. He watched their movements carefully, his mind racing, analyzing the situation .
Arthur stood in the room with Marx and Samuel, as tension-filled silence hung heavily between them.
However, Arthur wasn't content with silence; his eyes scanned the room meticulously.
He noticed something he wouldn't have missed:Most of the mercenaries in the room weren't carrying their weapons, and they didn't seem ready to fight at a moment's notice.
But on the other side of the room, weapons and heavy equipment were carefully placed within Marx's reach, as if ensuring they were under his complete control.
"I've always told myself not to follow the idea that I'm the protagonist just because I crossed into another world or have special abilities like the heroes in stories. But deep inside, I had already convinced myself that I might truly be the son of destiny. I looked down upon others and thought that with just a few words and a simple, reckless plan, I could make them follow me. This failure must be a wake-up call for me."
At that moment, he made his decision. He had to activate his backup plan.With a slight gesture, the random summoning card appeared in his hand—the card that had always reassured him internally.Calmly, he issued a command in his mind:"Summon."
In the fraction of a second, the air began to vibrate with mysterious waves, and complex magical circles appeared on the floor and walls, glowing with a dark blue light.
Suddenly, darkness erupted from those circles as if tearing through reality, and from it emerged—trained soldiers, war specters without mercy.
Marx, who had always been in control of the situation, stood frozen for a moment, completely stunned by the scene before him. He couldn't grasp the appearance of these soldiers from thin air...
In truth, unlike what it seemed, Marx was someone who had established several connections with individuals possessing knowledge beyond the knight system he followed, including magic, tools, and magical methods.
So, even though he wasn't 100% confident, he couldn't believe in a spell capable of transporting soldiers to a location, as that would have upset the balance of war and dominant powers long ago. Yet, he still couldn't explain the scene before him.
"Damn... what's happening?!"
The soldiers before him wore shining black armor embedded with steel plates, reflecting the faint light in the room, giving them a terrifying appearance.
Their helmets were covered with metal masks, leaving only their eyes visible—eyes devoid of mercy, gazing at the mercenaries as if they were mere prey.
Each of them carried a long sword with a carefully polished black blade, notched in the middle to reduce weight and increase the speed of their strikes. The sword handles were wrapped in dark leather, adorned with engraved symbols that enhanced their durability and grip, ready for slaughter.
Yes, what is about to happen is not a battle... but a one-sided massacre.
Even before the fight began, it was clear that the difference between the two sides was vast—not only in terms of numbers but also in combat level and equipment.
The soldiers stood in precise formation, their ranks perfectly aligned, their weapons raised slightly, ready for slaughter.
The scene resembled a terrifying painting of bloody discipline—every fighter stood in their position, just as they had trained, as if they were part of a merciless killing machine.
The mercenaries looked like nothing more than a group of aimless armed men, standing stunned, just like their leader, while the trained soldiers were a coordinated force, standing firm, clad in black steel armor, their swords reflecting the dim light in the room.
Despite their combat experience, the mercenaries were not prepared for this kind of event before them, and they didn't even have time to comprehend what was happening.
"Kill them."
As soon as those words left Arthur's lips, the soldiers moved as though they had been freed from invisible restraints.
Marx and Samuel were the first to be attacked by the soldiers due to their proximity to Arthur. Marx was not just an ordinary mercenary.
He was an Iron Knight, carrying years of combat experience, and his sword, which he had held for years, was not just a decoration.
Marx dodged a deadly strike from one of the soldiers and responded with a counterattack. He moved quickly, his sword striking like lightning, cutting through one of the soldiers' shoulders as they charged.
But the other soldier blocked his attack effortlessly, as if it were nothing more than a simple training exercise.
Marx was shocked to find that the soldier's armor was strong enough to stop his strike. And the knight before him was his equal—he too was an Iron Knight.
"Damn!"
At that moment, Marx realized this was not an even battle.
He tried to create space between himself and the soldiers, but they didn't give him any chance. They closed in like wolves hunting a wounded prey.
Samuel, who had been trying to gather his thoughts, only realized too late that one of the soldiers had moved like a ghost behind him.
The soldier's sword pierced his back from below, before slowly pulling out, causing Samuel to drop to his knees.
His eyes widened in terror, his hands trembling as though he was trying to grasp the life slipping from him. Before he collapsed face-first onto the ground, lifeless and still."
The remaining soldiers charged toward the other mercenaries in an instant, turning the room into a bloody hell.
The first to fall was a huge man who tried to raise his axe to face the soldiers, but before he could complete half of his movement, a metal sword pierced his neck, cutting off his voice before he could even scream.
His head rolled on the ground, his eyes still reflecting the shock of the sudden death.
When the decisive moment began, there was no time for screaming or even for fleeing.
"Ha—!"
One of the mercenaries tried to move, to do something... but before he could take another step, his head was severed from his body with a sharp, swift sword strike so fast that he didn't realize he was dead until his head rolled on the ground, while his body remained standing for a moment before collapsing.
Another mercenary, more cautious, raised his arm trying to defend himself, but a sword tore through his arm in the blink of an eye, causing him to scream in pain before his voice was silenced forever when a clean thrust pierced his heart, dropping him dead instantly.
The soldiers moved like killing shadows, silent, without the slightest hesitation, as their swords cut through the air with deadly grace.
Every strike was fatal, every movement calculated, as if they were following an unseen, unheard, bloody melody only present in moments of death.
One mercenary, driven by instinct rather than reason, ran toward the table where his weapons were, but he wasn't fast enough—by the time he reached for the hilt, one of the soldiers had moved like a deadly shadow and raised his sword in a downward strike, splitting the mercenary's back in half before he fell to the ground, futilely kicking while blood splattered in the air like black rain.
Marx took in the horrifying scene around him—trained soldiers mercilessly killing anyone who tried to escape or even resist.
The screams echoed through the deep stone hall as mercenaries fell one by one, as if death had descended upon them with an invisible sword.
The hideout Marx had once believed to be his safe fortress was turning into a bloody trap, and he quickly realized that any attempt to escape would be futile.
This wasn't a fight… there had been no chance from the beginning!
As for Arthur, he stood firm amidst the chaos.
"This is a trick! You deceived me, you damn noble!" Marx shouted, his red eyes blazing with fury. He grabbed his dagger and quickly drew it from its sheath, attempting to carve his way through the chaos.
Arthur smiled calmly and replied coldly,
"A trick? No, this is the price of your wrong choice. From the moment you took that path instead of accepting my demand, I sealed your fate. Now, it's time for you to pay."
Marx charged forward, but before he could land a blow, one of Arthur's soldiers struck him with his sword, leaving a deep wound in his chest.
He staggered back, his eyes wide with shock before he fell to his knees. He placed his trembling hand over the bleeding wound, trying to comprehend the imminent end.
"Damn you...!" he muttered, before his strength completely gave way, and he collapsed, lifeless, onto the ground.