Generic betrayal isekai story (full title in first post, too long for here for some reason)

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You know the drill, brainrot incoming.

I been playing too much AoE3 these days, so the battles in this story will be on a much smaller scale.
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"We did it! We have finally done it!" The genuine excitement from Rostov's voice was undeniable, even if a bit out of place as the last climatic battle of the war had already passed from the action to the picking up of the pieces. But then again, the process of the mind is a fickle thing.

The smoke of powder had long since dissipated, revealing in the dying light of the day a sight all too common in the past few years: Of broken men and beasts lying as far as the eyes could see, the din of combat giving way to the cries for help. Help that would arrive too late, if at all.

Alex smiled a smile without warmth as he looked at the younger man, who looked far more like a hero than he himself ever will be, and in a world where perception is reality, that matters far more than it appears on the surface. "So it may seem." He mumbled. The faint memories of another life, figuratively and literally, danced in the back of his mind like wisps of ghosts.

They faintly screamed of the coming horrors. He brushed them aside. It is not that he does not believe them, for he does. It is that they offer no solutions. No solutions that they are willing to take. The chains of norms of a more civilized world. Actually civilized. A place where high trust and basic dignity of man could be found.

But it is not of this world, where the facade and the subsistence are themselves worlds apart. A fact is well known to everyone-

"... and once we get back to the capital the king will recognize our efforts and we'll be rewarded with the riches promised!" The excitement from Rostov is akin to that of a child, which in a way he is, for fate had robbed him of his childhood just like it did to countless others…

… and soon that same fate will rob him of his life, and many other things though not anything the dead would care about.

"Maybe so." Alex said with a deliberate air of reservation, not that the other man would notice such an undercurrent. "But do you think it's rather strange that every other previous hero and their party ended up falling to evil and had to be executed?"

"But we are clearly not evil!" Rostov proclaimed, shocked that anyone would even suggest such a thing, much less the architect and main reason of their victory.

"No. No you're not." Alex shook his head, making sure to emphasize the word you're. "Maybe this time will be different." He lied, knowing already that it will not be different. The him of another world coming to that conclusion from the brainrot of too many gutter picture books, and the him of this world from reading between the lines of the great tales of the past.

Perhaps he of this world is in one of those gutter picture books, but damn if he's going to die from death.

No. He'll die on his own terms, when the time comes.

"Sire. Are you alright?" Rostov asked, concerned at the sudden intense look on the older man's face.

"No. Not really." Alex said truthfully. "In fact, I'm feeling dreadfully weary. You should go ahead first. Bring the good news to the king promptly." The sudden turn towards the melodrama would have fooled no one at normal times, but the current time is hardly normal.

"Of course! I shall do so at once!" Rostov said as he all but jumped at once to fulfill the last step of their successful mission, in his zeal completely failed to notice the tinge of sorrow in Alex's eyes.

As he watched the younger man gallop away on his steed Alex sighed to himself. He's about to send his only friend in this world, perhaps the last bit of pure moral virtue in any land of this world, to a certain and unjust death. The cruelest fate awaits Rostov at the other end, and he sends him there with a smile.

He's about to prove the worst fears of the kingdom right. Whether they're prepared to be vindicated is another matter entirely.

As far as weather goes, the day couldn't have been better. The sun bright and shiny high up in the sky, with nary a cloud in sight. It's as if the gods themselves have blessed this day to see justice being dispensed.

As is tradition.

Well, the weird bastard's right after all. Petryaev thought to himself as he, and the massive crowd around him, watched the drawn out execution of the latest hero turned traitor of the kingdom. Who, in a shocking twist, had planned on betraying the kingdom before being caught in the knick of time by the king's guards.

Which is a complete crock of shit to anyone who had known Rostov: nevermind any question on his moral character, he wasn't even the actual hero who had defeated the demonic hordes…

… but then, that sly bastard had foreseen all of that. He had to have. There's no other reason for him to have dismissed the entire company at the peak of their victories, paying them each a pretty handsome sum of coins. Everyone thought at the time that he was just paying them off so that he himself could reap the entirety of the king's reward, but the money at hand was good enough that they were mostly satisfied.

And now as he remembered, all the while tuning out the screams of the soon to be dead, he realized that Alex was trying to save them all from death and disgrace.

Speaking of that man, no one had any idea where he had gone, it was as if he had simply walked off the pages of the world…

A sudden shout snapped Petryaev out of his melancholy musing. He looked around, not really seeing anything past the crowds immediately next to him, but even they looked rather agitated, or distressed, or something else entirely.

Then he heard it. More shouts. "Lies!", "Injustice!" and a lot of other less than polite words & phrases thrown about. Some of those voices were even familiar- With a start he realized that they were his battle comrades. The same men who were there, who had seen the unvarnished truth.

And then he started moving forward, driven by a force he could not put a finger on. The people around him are also moving, as if driven by the same force. Belatedly he realized that said force is rage: rage at the revealing of the truth. The truth they had always known, but until now blinded by the suffocating bind of how things should be as told by those above.

For when the reward for the highest of moral virtues is death and disgrace, then there's nothing more to lose by being evil. And the mob, seemingly motivated by a newly found instinct, surged forth towards the execution platform.

Countless were promptly cut down by the guards present, but the weight of the enraged mob still spewed forth like a torrent, soon drowning the hapless guards, whose armor and arms overwhelmed by the mass of bodies. More guards and city watch poured out from all directions, and soon they were joined by the royal knights on their mighty steeds.

The last of which was decisive: trampling all those in their way like mud under their hooves. Blood & guts sprayed wherever they went, bones and souls broken by the might of those whose strength has only ever been used on the defenseless and in the back.

The spontaneous rage of the mob quickly dissipated, replaced by fear. Fear that quickly manifested into reality as their bodies were crushed and their souls condemned into the next world.

All the while as the sun smiles on, seemingly obliviously… or perhaps sadistically. For what gods are they, who forsake only the defenseless and the downtrodden?

Petryaev knew when to run, and the sight before him was more than enough reason. Whatever drive that had propelled him before was long gone. It was a somewhat difficult task, as he was far from the only one with that idea. But as time went on and more died the crowds began to thin out, the going got easier for those who remained.

As he ducked into a narrow alleyway he saw that he was far from the first one to have that particular idea, for there were already a half a dozen others in various states of injury. A couple of faces he recognized, the rest he presumed also from the company. Ironic that the very people who have incited the mob that led to the death of many (and even more in the coming days: Petryaev knew as well as anyone that the royal court is in no mood for leniency after such a display of revolt) are the ones who have mostly escape the carnage.

But they have little time to dwell on their latest mistakes, for the sounds of rage still thundered forth, even above the sounds of pain and death. Not a word needed to be spoken between them, for the common task is simple enough: get out of there.


It has been a rough few days since then. The day when the veil dropped and the blood flowed, and as it turned out that the truth was far worse than any lie. A wagon lurched on a muddy road, alone, yet unmolested. A stench of barely restrained violence emanating from it deterring all the nearby would be bandits.

The men inside, hardened as they are, pondered on their next steps. They have escaped, yes, and probably not even being chased after. Yet life is no longer the same, they can all feel it. It's as if the very essence of the world has changed, and there's no going back to what once was.

But what is the forward? That they knew not.

As they passed the crest of yet another hill they saw it: the walls of Vorkuta-on-Kek, a nominally unremarkable city on the border regions, which in happier times being festered with excitable would be adventurers, heroes to be, and the merchants who fleece them for all they're worth.

This time however, there is something different. A different flag flies proudly on its battlements. Moreover, a flag that they're very familiar with, having fought under it… was it that a long time ago?

Sprawled on that flag is the image of a crudely drawn image of a cock and balls, painted in a hideous green, underneath it scrawled the words: bend over, none shall be spared. Once a simple joke of their status, now a cruel commentary on the lives of all. Yet for all that the sight of which brought the thinnest of smiles on their faces, for it could only mean one thing.

And that thing was confirmed as they neared the main gate of the city walls, as a single man, simply dressed, sitting on a wicker chair, and snacking on a bag of candies probably worth the life wages of a dozen farmers.

"Well fancy that." Alex said as the wagon stopped and the men within got out.

"Are you-?" Petryaev asked, daring to hope for the first time in a while.

"Reforming the Free Company of the Green Weenie?" Alex smiled as he got up from the chair. "Of course. Welcome back." He said as he gave Petryaev a hug. "It's gonna be rough going forward though."

"We're ready to die for you." Petryaev declared. Alex waved him off.

"Dying? I need y'all to be living. Those guys, the guys we're fighting against. They can do the dying." He smirked, though they can all see the determination, tempered with more than a tinge of hatred, in his eyes. He paused for a moment to compose himself before speaking again. "Y'all do know the costs right? What we're doing here is treason."

"Rostov was loyal, and he was rewarded with death." Petryaev replied. "What's the difference?"

"Well, since you guys don't see a difference, then neither do I." Alex said smoothly, letting out a sigh that he didn't know he was holding. "Well then, come on in. We have a war to win."

Yes, this is a worthless chapter mainly covering game mechanics that no one actually cares about, as is tradition.

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"And why, would any of us trust an usurper like you?" Lev Reznik, master of the merchant's guild, said to Alex from across the conference table as he narrowed his already beady eyes into what looked like silts. "Especially on the matter of keeping a promise on something this unprecedented?"

Despite the recent upheavals, the room was still rather well furnished, if still looking more than a little disheveled. The rest of the building for that matter as well, though the same could not be said for its late and unlamented inhabitants…

"Well then, don't." Alex replied deadpanned. "What you gonna do, hand me over to the king on a silver platter?" He narrowed his eyes in return. "But you already know the reward for loyalty over there do you?" News of the execution of Rostov had made the rounds already, as expected of such events worthy of gossip.

He hoped the merchant master didn't realize his naked bluff, for narratively speaking slimy scumbags like those of the merchant's guild are basically guaranteed to live and prosper, and as silly as believing in some barely remembered superstitious shit like that so far things seemed to have played out about in that direction.

After all, for all that being a treacherous shtibag, he himself is doing rather well. At least he wasn't hung by a thin wire, swinging around, trousers falling down in a last humiliation. He shoved the R18G thoughts aside. Dwelling on those things is not going to be productive. He has to focus, to hope.

To dare to hope.

"Humph." Lev snorted. "You do have a point. Still-" he continued, his eyes still narrowed in suspicion, "- what is that you're after?"

"What do you mean?" Alex asked back.

"I'm not seeing what you have to gain from dealing with us." Lev said. "Handing over power to someone else, and so quickly?"

"That's the point." Alex replied. "I'm not here to replace the parts of the system, but the system itself."

"Wha-" Lev uttered in confusion before Alex cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Trust has to start somewhere, and I chose here and now." He simply said with a cheesy dramatic flourish as he got up from the table.

Ironic, as he hasn't been completely forthcoming with all the details of his mind. They wouldn't understand, or worse, they would, and nip that in the bud before it could get off the ground. He could only trust them to be predictable, nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

Hammering out a new government, or what passes for one, was not exactly simple. The same rage that gripped the mob at the capitol had found more success here, though with similarly grisly results: He had thought he was used to heinous atrocities, but the sight and smells of hundreds of corpses strung up around the town square. Not just the local aristocracy, but their families, servants, casual acquaintances, anybody and anything that can be remotely linked. Not even the pets were spared.

And the sounds too, for the crows and the vultures have been eating good, and proclaiming their good fortunes for all around. As always, the only unambiguous winners of any wars, anywhere, anytime.

Grim displays of revenge aside, the mass killings of the entirety of the local ruling class and their support has led to some practical difficulties, namely how to fund a war effort. The peasants in the outlying villages are doing just fine: for their only dealings with the local lord was during the looting that is called taxation and the rape of their maidens when the lord asserts prima nocta. The city dwellers are doing fine too, being mostly in the same lot as their rural counterparts.

The problem comes with supplying an army and a war effort: That still requires a bureaucratic institution of some sort.

Thus this devil of a deal to elevate the merchant's guild into some sort of government, a compromise for them as well for they would have to contribute in an earnest fashion if they don't fancy being strung up by somebody or another.

Like those previous luckless fools.

"Ah, captain. It's good to see you in good health." An oddly familiar voice greeted Alex as he stepped outside of the door of the conference room.

"Oh- um Minaev, same to you too." Alex slurred out the greeting in return, trying to hide his almost forgetting of the old quartermaster's name. "Caught me in the middle of some thinking."

"Reading over your tarot cards again?" Minaev asked nonchalantly. Alex shook his head.

"No, but now that you mentioned it…" He said as he swirled his right in a pattern, having long since stopped bothering to explain what those shipment cards actually are. "Although I don't see-" He suddenly stopped in mid sentence as the ghostly images manifested themselves in front of him.

It's a different deck, in fact it's a very different deck than the one he had previously. A lot more aggressive, of a "hail mary" vibe. A lot more close up and to the knife.

If he hadn't lost his faith a long time ago he might even have believed it to be a sign to hurry up. That time's running out. But time had already run out a long time ago, yet here they are still.

Alive. Defiant. A pain in the arse of the natural order of things.

God is not watching, just beings higher up on the power scale order. Scumbags they all are too, for how could they be anything else and tolerate a hellish world such as this?

"Ahem, are you not feeling well?" Minaev asked, a look of concern on his face. Alex shook his head.

"I'm fine enough." He muttered, before returning to his normal tone of voice. "Well, I think you can already guess it, but I'm bringing you back on, this time as my chief logistician."

"I assume that's a promotion from quartermaster." Minaev said dryly, as if fishing for something else instead.

"Yeah, something like that." Alex confirmed. "More things to handle and deal with. We're not just a rabble of murder hobos this time around. At least not if we want to have a chance of staying alive."

"Then I believe I do have good news for you, if you'll follow me." Minaev said with a chuckle as he gestured to the other man to follow him.

"Well, I'm grateful for anything, but unless it's some deus ex machina I don't think-" Alex began before Minaev cut him off.

"It's a big thing alright." He assured him cryptically before seemingly abruptly changing the topic. "Do you remember the times you wondered about where all the taxes from the peasantry were going?"

"Yeah, and?" Alex shrugged, as they descended into the first of the underground level of the massive building. From the looks of it, it was some kind of root cellar, the contents of which had been looted clean. Completely unsurprising of course, though it would still be completely inadequate to deal with the famine levels of starvation that's the natural state of the peasantry.

"And you are about to have your answer to that." Minaev simply said as he opened a rather large trapdoor from an otherwise nondescript section of the floor, revealing another subterranean level of storage.

A much larger floor, if the echoes of sounds made it rather obvious. Visually it's hard to tell however as everything is filled with wooden crates as far as the eyes could see.

"What am I looking at?" Alex asked as he narrowed his eyes. Clearly the answer should be obvious as Minaev wasn't the type to be coy about matters.

Minaev took a deep breath before he spoke again. "Storage of foodstuff and other materials in a magically induced state of stasis. Now you know where all those centuries of oppressive taxes have gone to."

"Oh." Was all Alex could respond as his mind pondered on. "Why?" He then asked aimlessly, to no one in particular. The fundamental question has not been answered.

"That I do not know." Minaev shrugged. "But that aside, there's enough stuff stored here to fund the war effort, and much more. It's basically a cornucopia down here, and probably in all the rest of those places too." He said the last part in a much lower voice, in an almost whisper.

"Well then," Alex sighed in relief, as if a massive weight had been taken off his shoulders, "that settles it. Мы выходим на рассвете."

"Да. Minaev nodded in acknowledgement. "Будет сделано."

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It's a bright and sunny day, the sun casting its rays on a picturesque land vibrant with color and bloom. Gently rolling hills, whose spring grass waved with the wind. Freshly plowed fields with only the tiniest of bud peeking out from the soil. Only the barest hint of chills being a reminder of the latest winter past.

The contrast between the appearance of the world and the lives of those who reside within couldn't be more… and that's on a good day, which were few and far in between.

And bad days are coming, if the small group of soldiers making their way to the nearby village have a say in the matter. Though calling them soldiers might be a stretch: while most held pikes or some sort quite a few were holding farming implements and other such nonsense, more akin to slightly better fed peasants than warriors.

It's a sight that Alex has grown to loathe over the years, for as if the gods themselves are making a mockery of the existence of those who live in this world. A world as beautiful as it is miserable…

… but it is all of their own doing isn't it? The problems of man, created by his fellow men. To rail against the heavens for their own depravity is an abdication of responsibility.

And he will not do that. He will take accountability for the inhumanity of his fellow man. Even if it means to commit more of that inhumanity.

After all, for what else is this little group of pikemen, this hastily raised rabble, but to burn down defenseless buildings and destroy properties? It is war, specifically small war, fighting dirty and dishonorably.

Setting things ablaze. They're really good at it. It's said that the child who grew up cast out by the community will burn down the town to feel its warmth… and there were many such castouts. Traditional fodder for the sports of kings, or examples to keep the rest of society in line.

And now they're here to burn it all down.

As they continued treading through the fields they were spotted by the odd peasant here and there, yet none of them sounded the alarm, or reacted much at all. Just occasionally stare at them with listless eyes before going back to their work, work whose fruits of it will go up in smoke soon. Whether their indifference being their faith in the might of their lords or despair at their incoming suffering it matters not. For it's all death and damnation anyways.

Soon they came upon their target, a smattering of hovels huddled around akin to a pack of hobos, only missing the collection of gnats and other flying buzzards due to being too early in the season. In a world of vibrant colors they somehow stood out in particular in how drab and colorless they are: awash in hues of browns and grays, clumps of dirt and twigs too useless for any life to cling on them. Husks ready to be burnt.

Quickly the touches were brought out along with other riffraffs, and soon they were lit and thrown at the hovels. The fires, though, took their time to spread, as if itself too mired in the misery around it to lighten up. It was enough time for those within them to flee: the old, the infirm, the younglings too little to walk yet carried by their mothers. Occasionally cries of anguish and pain pierced through even the crackling of the growing flames, but not that many: there's not much left for an already broken people.

They gave no chase, as agreed upon in the days before. It was not out of charity or compassion, but rather out of cruelty: for in this world the living long envy the dead, and so they, now deprived of what little worldly possessions they had, will suffer greatly. Even though it will be by their own lord who will mete out savage punishments to those peasants does not mean they [these soldiers… raiders?] themselves are absolved of their guilt. After all, they knew the consequences of their actions… if anything Alex was betting on such consequences.

And still they continued their grim task, fueled by their hatred and discontent, once directionless, now directed at the targets at hand. It took a while, but finally the hovels were alight, the flames greedily licking the alright fragile structures.

And the warmth, it's comforting, if in its own sickening way. The warmth fueled by the suffering of others, of those who themselves were more victims than perpetrators of the miseries of this world.

But lighting things ablaze was not the end, in fact it was merely the opening move. With the inhabitants flushed out, the looting began. Not that there's much to be looted: after all, the peasantry wasn't even worth the dirt they're farming. But nevertheless they continued, picking up and pocketing worthless knick knacks only valuable in comparison to the lives of peasants. For the troops it's a familiar action, giving them the comfort that they're doing something normal, and not treachery of the highest order.

As the fires continued to burn and the pickings were finished they waited at a short distance, the crackling of flames periodically punctured by the screaming of the peasants as they were cut down by the local lord and his retinue, who seemed to have finally noticed the interlopers making a mess of his domains.

Such is the way of the world.

As the sounds of the final bleating of the hapless became louder Alex quickly herded the soldiers into a formation, all the while summoning a card that gives them additional vision with the xp that they have gathered from their pillaging. Soon they saw them: armored knights on their massive steeds, finally galloping towards them after getting bored of slaughtering their own.

The little band of pikemen braced themselves-

-and they were promptly obliterated, the knights plowing through them like a hot knife through butter. Soon they're all dead, the mangled bodies strewn around like discarded ragdolls. Alex himself was knocked off of his feet, and as he gathered his wits about again he noticed the point of a lance at his neck. He didn't even bother to look up at who's holding the lance.

"Any last words, you filthy traitor?" The lord of the local manor asked. "Ready to plead for your worthless life?" Not that he would even contemplate doing so, although surely the king would want the traitor alive for a public execution, just like with all the previous traitors…

Alex finally tilted his head up a bit. "No." He replied. "Look behind you." He managed to crack a smile without warmth.

"As if I'd be fooled by-" The lord began before one of the knights tapped his shoulder and motioned him to look. As he turned his face quickly contorted into a visage of shock as he saw the billowing smoke from the location of his manor house.

"It happens." Alex muttered as he summoned another card, finally having the xp from the havoc that the other group of troops were doing as they ransacked and lit ablaze the manor house and its surroundings. He immediately felt some of his strength returning as the card activated its effects.

Still not enough to beat the knights in front of him… but enough to buy even more time. And time, is what he needs.

Even as he got his arse kicked for the second time in as many hours.


By the time the other group of soldiers got back to the smoldering ruins of the former village they managed to find Alex alive- if barely. Though that's hardly surprising: He got his ass kicked plenty of times when fighting the demon hordes back then as well. What matters is that he always gets back up, in the same old fashion.

As he got back up for the second time that day Alex noticed a new figure among that group of pikemen: a tall-ish person shrouded in a dark red hood, wearing a yellow plague mask.

"And you are the man of the hour?" The newcomer asked dismissively in an eerie voice as he made some weird hand gestures. Yet for all that Alex could feel his health returning rapidly.

"What did you just do- wait, who are you again?" Alex finally asked as he got his bearings back. The stranger made some inhuman sounds that might pass for a snort in another time and place.

"The great witch hunter winged doom Омич, at your service." The figure said in that same eerie voice.

"Oh right, that vision card also summons one of your freaks." Alex shook his head, before realizing something else about that card. "Wait a minute, that's a team card. How many of you freaks are running around?" Омич stared at him in mild confusion, while the others simply shrugged, being far more used to their leader's antics. "Never mind." He muttered as he shook his head.

"Well not that you seemed to have possessed your marbles again, do you wish to confess your sins?" Омич asked nonchalantly. Alex stared at him in disbelief at the sudden turn of the conversation, which Омич didn't completely catch on. "After all, confession is good for the soul."

"Oh right, your kind technically do that kind of service too." Alex muttered as he waved off the thought of doing that. "Save that for when I'm hanging from a rope." He joked, though the words came out without a shred of humor attached.

"I'll keep that in mind." Омич said in an equally humorless tone.

"Well, now that we got what we came for," Alex said as he straightened out his tunic and looked at the rest of the assembled crowd, "we should make haste out of this place."

The men nodded in agreement, and the motley little group of newly slightly enriched war criminals soon left what used to be a village, but now a smoldering grave filled with the bodies of innocents.

Small war indeed.

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Yes that's a reference to the Omsk bird.