G Remove this ad spacePlease welcome Summertime Madness to the SpaceBattles staff! His Weekly Trending Stories thread now also tracks Original Fiction, updating every Friday.
We have have added a new feature allowing users to associate multiple emails for their SpaceBattles account! This makes it easier to update your email, or recover your account.
At long last, thread creators can finally delete their own polls! You no longer need to ask the staff to do this for you.
If you are interested in interactive stories, check out our Quests section! With Quests, readers get to vote on what happens next after most chapters.
We have have added a new feature allowing users to associate multiple emails for their SpaceBattles account! This makes it easier to update your email, or recover your account.
At long last, thread creators can finally delete their own polls! You no longer need to ask the staff to do this for you.
123Creative Works Creative Writing Behold, A Man! [Berserk SI] Thread starterCommissar Cletus Start dateMay 22, 2025 Tags berserk medieval fantasy self insert griffith (berserk) canon what canon mercenaries warfare discussion makes the author happyCreatedMay 22, 2025StatusOngoingWatchers300Recent readers660Threadmarks41When a man awakens in the body of a mercenary commander in the brutal world of Berserk, he finds himself armed with memories not his own—and the horrifying knowledge of what the future holds. Now at the head of a company, he must navigate war-torn politics, ancient horrors, and the machinery of fate itself. Can one man's foreknowledge be enough to throw things off-script, or is he destined to be merely another actor in an unfolding cosmic-level Greek tragedy?ThreadmarksStatistics (4 threadmarks, 24k words)ThreadmarksHide awards Reader mode RSS NewChapter 1Words 6.9kMay 22, 2025NewChapter 2Words 4.1kMay 22, 2025NewChapter 31Words 7.7kMay 22, 2025NewChapter 4Words 5.4kTuesday at 7:25 PM1 of 2Next LastJump to newIgnoreWatchThread toolsThreadmarksReader mode Remove this ad spaceThreadmarks Chapter 1 New Threadmarks Commissar CletusThat one commie with the autismo supremoAward RecipientHe/HimMay 22, 2025NewAdd bookmark#1Behold, A Man!
I woke to the stench of iron and leather. My skull throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pounding that seemed to echo through the canvas walls surrounding me. This wasn't my bed. This wasn't my room. The military cot beneath me creaked as I forced myself upright, my body responding with unfamiliar weight and balance. Something was wrong—profoundly, terrifyingly wrong.
Sunlight filtered through the worn canvas above, casting everything in a muted, amber glow. My vision swam, then settled. A commander's tent—austere but functional. A heavy wooden desk dominated the space, its surface covered with maps and diagrams. Battle plans. Troop formations. Supply routes through territories I somehow recognized without ever having seen them.
"Midland," I whispered, the word escaping before I could process why I knew it.
I swung my legs over the edge of the cot, bare feet meeting cold earth. Every movement revealed new incongruities—muscles that weren't mine responding to commands I hadn't fully formed yet. My hands came into view, and I froze. These weren't my hands. Broader, calloused, crisscrossed with scars that told stories of blades and battles I had no memory of fighting.
But that wasn't entirely true. The memories were there, waiting to resurface. And when they did, they crashed through the barrier of consciousness all at once—not as mere experiences I'd lived but as knowledge implanted with terrifying clarity.
Griffith, Guts, The Band of the Hawk, The Eclipse, The God Hand… the concepts struck me one after another like blows from a heavyweight boxer.
"No," I gasped, the implications washing over me in a cold wave. "Not here. Not this world."
Of all the fictional hellworlds to wake up in, the universe of Berserk stood among the most brutal. A medieval nightmare populated by demons, eldritch creatures and cosmic horrors that treated human suffering as currency. A hopelessly doomed world where humanity was destined to reap what it sowed as all the evil ever commited manifested itself in the material world.
My hands began to tremble. I could name every finger that shook—index, middle, ring, pinky—but they weren't mine. I pressed them against the rough fabric of a set of linen hosen, trying to still their motion. My breathing shortened to quick, shallow pulls that barely filled my lungs.
Against one wall stood a suit of armor on a wooden stand—polished steel plate with no ornamentation, functional rather than a fashion statement. Beside it hung weapons: a longsword, its hilt wrapped in well-worn leather; a dagger with a blade that caught the light with deadly promise; a war hammer that looked capable of crushing skulls and crumpling helmets like they were made of tinfoil.
I forced myself to stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The tent seemed to tilt and sway as I staggered toward a small basin of water resting on a side table. I needed to see, to confirm what I already knew in my bones. Leaning over the still surface, I found a stranger's reflection staring back.
A weathered face framed by a thick, braided beard. Deep-set eyes that held too much knowledge of violence. The beginning of a receding hairline where locks of brown hair had once grown long.
The face of a military commander, a hardened mercenary—a ruthless killer.
Cold sweat broke across my brow, trickling down my temples. I gripped the edge of the table to stay upright as the weight of understanding threatened to drive me to my knees.
"I'm in Berserk," I whispered to my reflection. "I'm in fucking Berserk."
My gaze drifted back to the maps on the desk. With shaking hands, I traced the outline of Midland, mind filling in details about the ongoing war with Tudor, about the political machinations of the nobility, about the rise of the Band of the Hawk under Griffith's leadership.
Griffith. The White Hawk. The one who would sacrifice everything and everyone for his ambition to be king.
The Eclipse loomed in my thoughts like a blood-red moon. I knew what would happen—the betrayal, the demons, the rape, the slaughter. A horror show designed by uncaring gods for their own amusement.
My stomach heaved. I barely made it to a bucket in the corner before emptying its contents—bile mixed with whatever food this body had consumed.
As I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and the burning sensation remained in my throat, a terrible sense of clarity settled over me.
This wasn't a dream.
This was all so terrifyingly real.
Somehow, I had been transported into one of the most unforgiving fictional worlds ever created, inhabited a stranger's body, all while having knowledge of events that would destroy countless lives.
Including, potentially, my own.
I slumped back against the central tent pole, my new body sliding down until I sat on the packed earth floor.
My new body contained muscle memory I could feel but hadn't earned—the knowledge of countless sword drills, horseback riding, battlefield commands.
But it also contained pain: heartaches, regrets, trauma... this man had lived a life that one could hardly call virtuous. He had killed plenty of people for coin, certainly, but many of his deeds went beyond regular mercenary work.
He had burned entire villages to the ground while out on campaigns. Looted and pillaged to his heart's content. Engaged in plenty of drunken revelry and debauchery. Treated any brothel he visited like it was a second home... on and on the list went.
The fractured memories slotted themselves into my consciousness like puzzle pieces, forming a mosaic of the mercenary's life that I now inhabited.
Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
I had to force my mind to work methodically, to push past the intense feelings threatening to overwhelm me. I had to think things through, rationally.
If I had been given this second life, these skills, and knowledge, there had to be a purpose, right? Even if that purpose was simply to rage against the dying of the light fruitlessly?
The stakes could not be higher. Right now, foresight was the biggest advantage I possessed. That, and the terrible understanding of just how bad things could get if I failed. I couldn't afford to waste it by remaining idle and paralyzed by fear.
"Okay, enough of this fucking pity-party bullshit." I said aloud, steadying my voice with effort. I pushed myself back to my feet, willing my borrowed body to obey.
I may not have had the answers to all the questions yet, but I could always figure those out as I went.
Right now my mind was telling me that it was best to do something rather than nothing.
Control. I needed control.
One step, then another.
Breathe. Think. Survive.
I knew that if I was going to achieve my goals—if I was going to change anything in this godforsaken world—I needed information, and it was easy to see that it could be found all around me in this very tent.
Each object, each document, each sound from outside was a piece to the ever-growing puzzle. My eyes swept the space with renewed purpose, cataloging everything that might tell me who I was supposed to be here, and what resources I had at my command.
The commander's tent was larger than it first appeared, extending back into a separate sleeping area I hadn't initially noticed. The furnishings weren't lavish, but they spoke of resources beyond what common soldiers would possess.
The solid oak desk that held the maps I had looked at earlier dominated the center of the space. A chair with actual upholstery, worn at the arms where hands had rested during long planning sessions sat next to it. In the corner, a chest bound in iron at the foot of the cot contained clothing of good quality—not nobility's silks, but well-made woolens and linens that would withstand hard use while maintaining an air of authority.
"Professional mercenary," I murmured, running my fingers along the edge of the desk. "Not noble-born, but successful enough financially to afford quality craftsmanship." This matched the memories floating at the edges of my consciousness—an earned position, not an inherited one.
The maps spread across the desk pulled my attention like magnets once more. I leaned over them, eyes tracing the familiar coastline of Midland. Colored pins marked troop positions, supply lines, and potential targets. Red pins for enemies, blue for allies, black for neutral forces. In the corner of the largest map, a simple insignia was stamped in dark ink: a sword embedded in ash, with embers glowing at its base. Something in my borrowed memory recognized it immediately.
"The Ashen Pact," I whispered, the name feeling right on my tongue.
Smaller tactical maps showed specific battlefields, with troop formations sketched in precise detail. The hand that had drawn them—my hand, I realized—showed both artistic skill and strategic understanding. One formation particularly caught my eye: a defensive square with what appeared to be firearms at the corners, protected by pikemen. Not a standard medieval formation by any means. Innovation. Adaptation. These were the marks of whoever I had become.
The clamor outside the tent had a rhythm to it, a structured chaos that told its own story. The ringing of hammer on anvil suggested active smithing—maintenance of weapons and armor, perhaps new production. Voices called out drill commands, followed by the synchronized stomping of boots. Horses neighed from what must be a stable area. The sounds of a professional military camp, not a ragtag band of cutthroats.
I moved to the armor stand, examining the steel plate more carefully. No heraldic symbols adorned it, only functional craftsmanship meant to protect rather than impress. My fingers found a small sigil etched into the collar piece—the same sword-in-ash symbol from the maps. At the shoulder, three small notches had been cut into the metal, arranged in a triangle. Commander's insignia, my borrowed memory supplied. Not just any fighter, but the leader.
A leather document case sat on a side table, its contents partially spilled out as if recently consulted. I opened it fully, spreading the parchments across the surface. Letters of marque bearing noble seals. Contracts for military service, some completed with payment notes, others still pending. And there, at the bottom of the stack, a formal charter with a dozen signatures at the bottom.
"We, the undersigned, do hereby establish ourselves as The Ashen Pact, a company of free swords bound by mutual need and professional respect..."
My eyes skipped to the largest signature at the bottom: "Volk, Commander and Founding Member."
Volk. The name resonated in my mind like a struck bell. Not my original name, but the one that belonged to this body, this life.
"Commander Volk of the Ashen Pact," I said aloud, testing how it felt. Not comfortable yet, but not entirely foreign either.
Another document caught my attention—thicker than the others, bound with twine and marked with the company insignia.
This had to be the company roster.
I untied it carefully, spreading the sheets before me. What I saw confirmed the impressions formed by the sounds outside and the battle plans on the maps.
The Ashen Pact was no ordinary mercenary company. Page after page listed specialized units that would make any medieval commander salivate.
Two hundred pikemen formed the backbone of our defensive lines. One hundred musketeers—actual firearms in a place that had cannons, yes, but most battles were still fought with swords, arrows and siege engines.
Volk's memories told me that the firearms in question were a mixture of matchlock and wheellock muskets, something that would be primitive by modern standards but revolutionary here.
Alongside those the company had an additional twenty-five two-handed swordsmen, eighty halberdiers, twenty heavy cavalry, fifteen engineers specialized in siege craft. Ten scholars and clerks who managed logistics and intelligence.
But it was the specialized units that truly set the company apart. The Vamberg Musketeers, sixty veteran sharpshooters who could hit targets at distances that would seem insane to most. A dozen master assassins from something called the "Red Death," serving as both elite bodyguards and covert operatives. And most disturbing of all, a necromancer named Dunhilda with five apprentices, capable of raising and controlling the dead.
Six necromancers.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, not sure what to think. The memories in my head showed me they were primarily used for intelligence gathering—being able to talk with corpses and use undead birds as scouts was surprisingly useful. We couldn't exactly afford to have them openly raise additional troops from among the dead to avoid having the company be branded as heretics by the Holy See. All their actual experiments with corpses had to be done under the wraps and on the hush-hush.
I sank into the chair, my mind racing through the implications. This wasn't just any mercenary band. This was a highly specialized, disciplined fighting force with capabilities far beyond the typical medieval army. Innovations that shouldn't yet exist in this time period. Specialists whose abilities bordered on the supernatural.
And I commanded them all.
The weight of this realization pressed down on me like a physical force. I wasn't just some random soldier. I was the leader of what appeared to be one of the most formidable military forces in Midland, a power that would rival even the legendary Band of the Hawk. Even if we were currently only around five-hundred strong.
A leather-bound journal sat at the corner of the desk, its pages filled with the same handwriting that had marked the maps. I flipped through it, finding more personal notes on troops, supply needs, potential contracts, and assessments of rival companies—including detailed observations of the Band of the Hawk's recent victories.
With the way that Volk wrote about them, it almost seemed like he was obsessed with these guys, Griffith especially. A lot of the entries were about how he was annoyed at being passed on a lucrative job because Griffith outplayed him in contract negotiations, even if his company never went in the red financially or had to make use of the services of moneylenders like many less fortunate companies had to to stay in business.
I closed the journal, my borrowed hands steady now despite the enormity of what I'd learned. The initial panic had receded, replaced by a cold, clear purpose. I now knew I had command of a force capable of making a difference.
For the first time since waking in this world, I felt something like hope. Dangerous, perhaps, but preferable to despair. Perhaps everything that at first seemed inflexible and inevitable might not be so after all.
I sat hunched over the table, late at night, staring at the map spread before me as if glaring at it would grant me some sort of grand revalation, but the map remained silent, for it was but an inanimate object.
At some point when people had noted my absensence, due to me not having stepped a foot out of the tent the entire time I had been awake, one of the men had brought me a bowl of some kind of vegetable stew and a pint of beer, which I gratefully accepted.
The bowl now sat empty besides me on the table as did the pint.
My fingers continued tracing the coastline of Midland idly for what felt like the hundreth time as I pondered. The parchment felt rough beneath my touch, worn at the creases from frequent consultation.
Beyond these tent walls lay an entire living breathing world, populated by actors playing their parts who had no idea they were characters in a greek tragedy.
My index finger paused over a small woodland area that appeared insignificant on the map—just another patch of green within Midland's borders. Yet I knew what would happen there: the Band of the Hawk's final battle before Griffith's capture and torture by the King of Midland. One of many domino pieces in a sequence leading to the Eclipse.
I marked it with a pin.
Next, my finger moved to another location—the Tower of Rebirth. The place where Griffith would be imprisoned and broken beyond recognition through prolonged torture. Then to a clearing that otherwise held no significance to anyone now, but would eventually become the site of the Eclipse. The ritual ground where Griffith would sacrifice his entire company to become Femto of the God Hand.
I marked that as well just in case.
I leaned back in my chair, the wood creaking under my weight. The moral implications from earlier still pressed down on me like a constant physical force.
If I knew the future, did I have an obligation to change it? By altering events, would I be playing god in the same way the actual God Hand manipulated causality? And even if I tried, could any mortal truly stand against the tide of fate in this world?
The questions circled like vultures, each one leading to another without resolution. I stood abruptly, needing to clear my head through physical action. My body—Volk's body—responded with fluid ease, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought faltered.
I approached the sword rack, selecting the longsword with practiced familiarity. The weight and balance felt right in my hand as I moved to a part of the tent that had enough open space for me to move around in. I settled into a guard position—middle guard, Mittelhut—with the sword raised to chest height.
I moved through the sword form with deliberate precision, feeling my body respond to commands I hadn't consciously learned. The blade whistled through the air as I transitioned from middle guard to a perfect Zornhau—a diagonal strike that would cleave through armor at the right angle. My muscles knew what to do even if my mind still struggled to reconcile two sets of memories. The sword felt more natural in my hand than it had any right to.
My borrowed body flowed through the sequence—cut, parry, thrust, recover—with a fluidity born of thousands of hours of practice. I executed a Zwerchhau, a horizontal strike designed to intercept an opponent's blade, followed by a swift Krumphau that would hook an enemy's guard and create an opening. The canvas walls of the tent contained my movements, but in my mind, I was on an open battlefield, surrounded by the chaos of war.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I completed the sequence. My breathing remained controlled, my heart rate elevated but steady. This wasn't just academic knowledge of Historical European Martial Arts that had somehow carried over—this was practical, battle-tested skill etched into muscle and sinew.
"The body remembers what the mind forgets," I murmured, executing one final thrust before lowering the blade.
The weight of the sword, the balance of my stance, the calluses on my palms—all spoke of a lifetime spent in violence that I had inherited rather than lived. I tested the edge of the blade with my thumb. Sharp enough to split a hair, maintained with the care of someone who understood that in battle, such details separated the living from the dead.
I returned to the desk, setting the sword aside but keeping it within reach—a habit I hadn't formed but now possessed. Taking up a quill, I dipped it in ink and began sketching on a fresh sheet of parchment. The formations took shape under my hand: infantry squares with integrated firepower, inspired by the local equivalent of English longbowmen but adapted for the musketeers of the Ashen Pact.
My mind raced ahead of my hand. Pikemen forming a protective wall, while musketeers fired in coordinated volleys from protected positions. Mobile cavalry units to exploit weaknesses and pursue retreating enemies. Engineers to overcome castle defenses that would otherwise cost hundreds of lives to storm.
Combined arms warfare of this sophistication shouldn't exist yet in this medieval world. I had knowledge out of time and place—knowledge that could give the Ashen Pact great advantage on the battlefield. Not insurmountable, for any tactic could be countered by a foe that knew how to adapt to changing circumstances, but it was an advantage nonetheless.
I sketched another diagram, this one showing staggered musketeer formations that would allow continuous fire rather than synchronized volleys. Notes about improved powder mixtures, more accurate rifled barrels, faster loading mechanisms—innovations within reach of local technology but beyond current thinking.
The quill paused above the parchment as a darker thought intruded. Knowledge was power, but power invited danger. In this world, standing out meant becoming a target—not just for human enemies but for apostles and demons drawn to concentrations of influence and ambition. The God Hand themselves manipulated causality to ensure their chosen outcomes.
Was I merely another thread in their grand design? A counter-piece they'd already accounted for?
Would they try to turn me into another Griffith if their plans with Griffith failed?
I set down the quill and stared at the map again, my thoughts turning to Griffith and the Band of the Hawk once more.
"If I kill Griffith now," I said to the empty tent, "I save his company from the Eclipse. But I condemn however many others would have been saved by their actions before then."
That is if I could or should try to kill him in the first place, many tried, all of them failed. Simply because fate itself was on his side.
Perhaps it was best to leave murder as the last and very much desperate option.
I rose from the desk and paced the length of the tent, the planked floor creaking beneath my boots. Three steps forward, turn, three steps back. A cage of indecision.
No—not indecision. Careful consideration. There was a difference. One eventually led somewhere, the other did not.
I returned to the desk and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward me. At the top, I wrote a single name: "Griffith." Below it, I began listing what I knew of him, the paths he chose, his strengths, his vulnerabilities. The White Hawk was brilliant but not infallible. His ambition was both his greatest strength and his critical weakness.
The Ashen Pact would need to position itself as a rival force—not just another mercenary company but a legitimate alternative for contracts and political favor. We needed to intercept missions meant for the Hawks, outperform them when possible, undercut them when necessary. Not to destroy them, but to create ripples that would disrupt the weave of fate enough that the doomed future would not come to pass.
Oh yeah, and while doing so, never-fucking-ever carry a beherit on my person. And while I'm at it, figure out how to destroy or at least neuter any that I fucking find.
I sketched a timeline of known events leading to Griffith's downfall, the dominos that would fall one after another unless something—or someone—intervened. Beside each, I noted potential intervention points, costs, and consequences.
The picture that emerged was complex but not hopeless. The path was narrow, the margin for error slim, but a chance existed. A chance to change the course that would inevitably lead this world down a path to apocalypse.
I leaned back in my chair, suddenly aware of how tightly I'd been gripping the quill. Ink had spattered across my knuckles like tiny black stars. I wiped them absently on a cloth as I considered the enormity of what I was contemplating.
This wasn't a just a story anymore. These were lives—thousands of them—hanging in the balance. My decisions would have consequences that rippled beyond what I could see or predict. The responsibility should have been crushing, but instead, I felt a strange clarity.
"One change at a time," I whispered. "One small nudge to start."
I reached for the company roster again, studying the names and capabilities of the force I commanded. These were men and women who had placed their trust in Volk—in me. I would be using them as chess pieces in a cosmic game against the God Hand.
I'd have to be careful not to go down a path so dark I couldn't find my way back.
I woke up with a startle the next morning to a gruff woman's voice addressing me from outside the tent. I recognized her immediately from Volk's memories: my sergeant, my right hand, the woman who translated my orders into action and kept the rank and file in line.
Johana.
She stood three paces inside the entrance, her weathered face set in its usual stern expression, red hair tied back with a leather cord. She hadn't bothered to knock—a privilege earned through years of service rather than something taken through presumption.
"Commander, camp report," she announced, standing at attention but with the familiar ease of a trusted subordinate. A pronounced limp marked her stride as she approached the desk—a recent wound that had not fully healed yet. Volk's memories told me it came from a Tudor pike at the Battle of Danaberry Ridge.
I straightened in my chair, grateful that I at least had enough time that I'd managed to dress and compose myself before her arrival. The slightest hesitation now could spark questions I wasn't prepared to answer.
"Proceed, Sergeant," I said, the formality feeling both foreign and natural on my tongue.
Johana's eyes narrowed slightly at my tone—perhaps more formal than Volk typically used with her—but she continued without comment. "Provisions are holding steady, sir. We've got three weeks of hard rations, fresh supplies coming in from the nearby villages. They're eager to trade after we cleared those bandits from the eastern road."
I nodded, mentally filing away this information. The villages' gratitude meant support beyond what our contracts provided—a strategic advantage in a region of the world roiled in constant warfare.
"Troop status?" I asked.
"The Vambergers finished their drills of their current batch of regulars. Still hitting targets at two hundred paces." Pride crept into her voice. "Varaq wants more powder. Says he can push them to two-fifty with the right mixture."
The name triggered a cascade of knowledge in my mind—Varaq, the part-man, part-magical construct sharpshooter. My weapons master. A man I had never met but whose capabilities and loyalty I somehow knew as intimately as everyone else's in my company.
"Tell him he'll have it," I said. "But I want a demonstration of the improved capabilities before we commit to acquisition of larger quantities."
Johana made a note on a small piece of parchment she carried. "Fair enough, sir. The pikemen rotated through shield wall drills yesterday. Halberdiers worked on formation transitions. Heavy cavalry exercised their mounts but conserved energy for tomorrow's planned maneuvers."
She paused, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. "The necromancers kept to themselves, as usual. Dunhilda requested more alchemical supplies. I told her to provide a list before we gave them anything."
I leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "How everyone's spirit in general?"
"Solid. Pay was distributed on time last week. The victory in the latest battle gave them something to crow about in the taverns." A rare half-smile crossed her face. "Some of the younger ones have started calling us 'The Arisen' instead of the Ashen Pact. Say it sounds more fearsome."
"The Arisen." I tested the name. "Has a certain weight to it, the dead coming back to bother the living."
"Shall I discourage it?"
I considered for a moment. "No, no. Let them take pride in it if they wish. Names have power after all."
"Speaking of names with power," Johana continued, her expression darkening, "Word came down the grapevine that the Hawks took another contract from the King."
"What's the contract?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
"Taking a strategic fortress from Tudor forces. High risk, high reward." She shook her head. "The kind of mission that builds legends if it succeeds."
I mulled on her words a bit, and she took my silence as a sign to continue.
"However, they weren't alone in this. We also received a similar offer recently as did many other companies." She said, waving the piece of parchment in her hand. "It seems like they're calling in every notable mercenary in the region to compete in taking the fortress given its significance."
I rose from my chair, moving to the map spread across the table. "Show me where."
Johana pointed to a location at the foot of the mountain-range that ran across south-western border between Midland and Tudor. I recognized why it was significant immediately—it was located at a critical junction, controlling both the main land and sea trade routes in that region. Whoever held it effectively held the control of movements of both men and supplies across either side of the natural mountain border between the two countries.
"How much are they offering for the job?" I asked, and in response she unfurled the scroll onto the table.
The contract laid out terms that were both enticing and concerning. The royal seal at the bottom gleamed with fresh wax, still sharp at the edges.
Johana's fingers traced the lines of the contract. "A bounty of one hundred and fifty thousand gold, with an additional bonus promised to the company that plants their standard first on the inner keep."
"And the others?"
"Nothing. Payment is for victory, not effort. The King's made it a race."
"And the bonus?" I asked, scanning the last line.
Johana tapped the parchment. "Not gold," she said. "The King offers full rights of control to whichever company takes the keep. Fort, land, and title—so long as we fly the crown's banner."
"Weird that they'd just give something like that away to a mercenary company of all things."
Johana's laugh was brief and dry. "They're not 'giving it away,' Commander. The fort's been occupied by Tudor forces since the war begun. Not once have they been dislodged from it. It's just a clever way for the King to outsource the bloody work without risking his own troops. Whoever takes it will have to hold it against Tudor counterattacks afterward."
"Huh, makes sense I suppose. It acts as both a reward and a leash."
I traced the outline of the fortress on the map, noting its position relative to supply lines and reinforcement routes. My borrowed memories filled in tactical details—steep approaches on three sides, a single main gate, walls thick enough to withstand primitive cannon fire. A death trap for attackers, but a prize worth risking lives for.
"I can see why the Hawks would go for it," I said, more to myself than to Johana. "Griffith can't resist the prestige such a conquest would grant him."
"Aye. And the other companies?" Her weathered face creased with skepticism. "Most will send token forces to appear loyal to the crown while preserving their strength. None want to be the ones who throw their best men against those walls first."
I studied the map more closely, seeing possibilities where others might see only obstacles. This wasn't just a military contract—it was an opportunity. A chance to establish the Ashen Pact as a reliable company the local rulers could count on.
"Tell the scribes to write out a response telling them we accept the contract, I'll put my signature on it once it's ready."
Johana raised an eyebrow. "Just like that? I think the men were expecting you to deliberate on this one a bit longer, given the fortress's reputation."
I straightened, feeling the weight of command settling more naturally on my shoulders. "The Hawks aren't the only ones who can recognize opportunity, Sergeant. While other companies send token forces, we'll commit properly. And make no mistake, we will win."
"With respect, Commander, that fortress has broken armies bigger than ours before." Johana shifted her weight off her bad leg. "They call it 'Unconquerable' and the 'Widow-maker' for good reason."
"We won't approach it the same way as everyone else." I moved to the map, my mind already calculating possibilities. "The Hawks will go for glory—the stuff that makes for good stories. We'll go for what works, even if we have to chip away at the thing piecemeal."
Johana's expression remained skeptical, but I saw curiosity kindling behind her eyes. "What's your thinking?"
"Have the engineers report to me later. And Varaq as well." I tapped the map at a point where a small stream ran near the fortress's eastern wall. "The Tudor forces expect conventional tactics. That's exactly what they won't get from us."
"And Dunhilda?" Johana asked, her voice dropping a tad in pitch.
"Especially Dunhilda."
I adjusted the commander's attire with careful precision, each buckle and clasp a small decision that felt weightier than it should. The ornate breastplate that marked me as Volk, Commander of the Ashen Pact, gleamed with a dull sheen that spoke of function over vanity. Outside, hundreds of soldiers waited in formation—men and women who had pledged their lives to a leader they thought they knew. A leader I was still learning to become.
"They're assembled, Commander," Johana announced from the tent entrance, her voice betraying no hint that anything had changed. To her, I was still the same Volk who had led these troops through countless battles. "Waiting on your word."
I nodded, swallowing the knot of anxiety that threatened to close my throat. "And our specialists?"
"Front row, as requested."
With a final adjustment to the sword belt at my hip, I took a deep breath and stepped past the canvas flap into the morning light. The world outside my tent opened up like a military tableau, hundreds of eyes shifting in unison to track my emergence. The silence was immediate and absolute—a discipline that spoke volumes about the force I now commanded.
The Ashen Pact stood arrayed before me in precise formations, each unit positioned according to function and rank. The morning sun caught on spear tips and polished musket barrels, creating pinpoints of light across the assembly. No cheers greeted me, no raucous shouts—just the collective focus of professional soldiers waiting for direction.
I let my gaze sweep across them deliberately, using the moment to absorb details that could mean life or death in the coming weeks. The camp itself spread out beyond the troops—a model of military efficiency. Unlike the haphazard arrangements of common mercenary bands, our camp followed clear organizational principles. Supply wagons clustered near the eastern perimeter, guarded by rotating sentries. Cook fires burned at measured distances from the main sleeping quarters. Latrines had been dug downwind and downstream. Every element spoke of an established routine that minimized disease and maximized readiness.
The troops themselves stood in unit formations that revealed their specializations at a glance. Two hundred pikemen formed the largest block, their sixteen-foot poles of wood and steel creating a forest of deadly points that could repel any cavalry charge. Their armor was uniform—breastplates over padded gambesons, open-faced helmets that allowed peripheral vision without sacrificing protection. Not the patchwork equipment of conscripts, but the standardized gear of professionals.
To their right, the hundred musketeers stood in loose formation, their matchlock firearms cradled with practiced ease. Each carried not only their primary weapon but also a short sword for close combat when reloading wasn't possible. Their powder horns gleamed with brass fittings, and leather bandoliers crossed their chests, holding measured charges for quick reloading.
The heavy cavalry sat astride massive warhorses at the assembly's edge, their mounts shifting restlessly beneath them. Twenty riders in full plate, each worth ten infantry in the right circumstances. Their armor caught the morning light with a dull gleam, showing quality metalwork without unnecessary ornamentation.
Near the back, partially shadowed by a stand of ash trees, stood the necromancers. Dunhilda's pale face was unmistakable even at this distance, her five apprentices clustering behind her like obedient shadows. Their dark robes contrasted sharply with the military uniforms around them, marking them as separate yet essential—a reminder that the Ashen Pact employed advantages other companies wouldn't or couldn't.
At the front of the assembly stood my specialists—Varaq's partially mechanical form immediately recognizable by the telescopic brass device replacing his right eye. Each represented capability beyond the ordinary, skills that gave the Pact its edge in a world where edges meant survival.
I moved to the wooden platform erected at the center of the parade ground, each step measured to project the confidence I didn't entirely feel. The weathered planks creaked slightly beneath my boots as I turned to face my company. For a heartbeat, I felt the crushing weight of their expectations—hundreds of lives now depending on decisions I would make, battles I would direct, orders I would give.
My voice, when it came, surprised me with its steadiness.
"The King of Midland has offered a contract," I began, projecting to reach the farthest ranks. "The fortress of Marburg—currently held by Tudor forces—needs to be claimed. The price is one-hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces and ongoing control of the fortress itself."
A ripple of interest moved through the ranks, but no one spoke. They waited, knowing there would be more.
"It's a prize worthy of our attention," I continued, "but the King hasn't come to us alone. Many others have been offered the same contract."
Now a low murmur broke the silence, quickly stilled as I raised a hand.
"Some would view this as an unnecessary competition against an already formidable opponent. And it is. However, it is also a competition that I intend for us to win." I let my gaze move across their faces, meeting eyes that looked to me for direction. "Many of our competitors will go for glory in this fight, their deeds will be the ones they'll write songs about. Many will also come with only a token force, intending to opportunistically let everyone else bleed first."
I paused, letting the implication sink in.
"We on the other hand, will accept nothing less than full victory."
I began to pace the length of the platform, finding rhythm in the words that felt both foreign and natural on my tongue.
"We are not knights with noble blood in our veins or men chosen by destiny. We have not trained our entire lives for this very moment. What we are however, is men who are professionals at their chosen line of work. Men who forge their own fate through discipline and ruthless dedication to our craft. Men who cut their own damn roads through the wilderness of existence where others merely blindly follow the paths laid out for them!"
The wind picked up, sending the company banner snapping above us—the sword in ash, embers glowing at its base. A fitting symbol for what we were: risen from destruction, hardened by fire, undaunted by death.
"We shall march for Marburg. The engineers and specialists will receive special instructions. The rest of you, prepare as you've been trained. Check your equipment. Rest well. We move at dawn."
I finished with a sharp nod, and as one, the entire company raised their right fists to their hearts—a salute that spoke of discipline and purpose rather than blind adoration. No cheering, no battle cries, just the united gesture of professionals acknowledging orders received.
"Dismissed!" I called, and the formations began to dissolve, each unit moving toward their assigned duties without chaos or delay.
As the troops dispersed, I remained briefly on the platform, watching them with a strange mixture of pride and unease. And as I descended, I felt the weight of history itself pressing on my shoulders.
However, that weight was also why I could not afford to stumble, lest I be crushed as that weight fell upon me.
A/N:
A while ago I got interested in Berserk and had the idea that I wanted to do something with the setting. Then I remembered that I also had a build for a certain "Mercenary Captain CYOA" (The original CYOA which you can find here) that I hadn't used for anything yet and figured "eh, why not." Thus this story was born.
I do not by any means claim to be fully knowledgeable about Berserk's world. A lot will be drawn from my existing knowledge of medieval and pre-modern history since, as far as I know, Berserk's world is essentially an alternate version of Earth during the medieval period with names changed around and fantastical elements added on top. It also has some of Plato's philosophical musings as part of its worldbuilding from what I understand? Like there being this sort of "world of ideas" where man's ideas manifest into real things that's separate from the material world and that's where things like demons and other monstrosities come from.
Feedback is what continues to motivate me since, besides watchers, it is the best metric I have for how popular a story is. Anyway, I'll see ya in the next one. Peace.
Spoiler: Post Scriptum