Then—the words appeared.
MANDATE DIRECTIVE: SURVIVAL CONDITIONS
"Seize Victory in a War That Cannot Be Won."
Ren’s breath hitched.
His vision blurred as more text burned into his consciousness.
Conditions of Completion:
- Lead the army to victory.
- Crush the abyssal horde.
- Defeat the Abyssal Warlord.
Failure Condition: Death.
Ren’s fingers trembled as he stared at the glowing text in his mind. The battlefield around him raged on—soldiers dying, screams cutting through the smoke-choked air, monstrous figures ripping through armored men like paper.
Victory in a war that cannot be won?
How the hell was he supposed to do that?!
He had no troops, no strategy, no damn idea what the war was even about.
The Abyssal Horde stretched far beyond the horizon, an endless sea of darkness. Their leader—the Abyssal Warlord—stood at the center, a hulking figure of shifting void, exuding a presence that made the air itself tremble.
Ren’s jaw clenched.
This wasn’t just difficult. This was impossible.
"Oi! What the hell are you standing around for?!" The commander from before grabbed him by the shoulder and snarled, his one eye blazing with fury. "Move your ass or get trampled, recruit!"
Ren reeled, trying to process everything.
If he didn’t do something—he was going to die here.
His Mandate had given him an impossible task.
But if there was one thing Ren had learned in his hell of a life, it was this—
Impossible wasn’t the same as unwinnable.
And if fate was going to throw him into this war—
Then he was damn well going to cheat his way to victory.
Ren sprinted forward, his boots crushing dead grass and trampled earth. The battlefield around him was pure chaos—screams, steel clashing, and the roars of abyssal creatures drowning out all reason. The air stank of blood, smoke, and something else—something rotten, eldritch.
A soldier beside him was cleaved in half, his body flung into the air like a ragdoll. The abyssal warrior responsible—a hulking, faceless thing with obsidian armor and blade-like limbs—let out a guttural hiss and turned toward Ren.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Shit!
Ren ducked just in time as a scythe-like arm whistled past his head, slicing through the air where his skull had been. He rolled to the side, snatching a fallen sword from a corpse.
He needed information.
Fighting blindly wouldn’t get him out of this. He had no idea who these soldiers were, how long the war had been going, or what resources were at his disposal. All he knew was that his Mandate had set a victory condition—lead the army to win.
How the hell was he supposed to do that when he wasn’t even in command?!
The abyssal soldier lunged again. Ren gritted his teeth and dodged, slashing upwards with a quick strike. The blade scraped against its armor, barely leaving a mark.
It’s too strong. I can’t waste time here.
Ren’s eyes flickered across the battlefield, absorbing everything.
Observing. Calculating.
The soldiers around him were unorganized, panicked. They fought bravely, but the abyssal forces were coordinated—like a pack of starving wolves tearing through helpless prey.
"Fall back! Regroup!" A voice barked through the chaos.
Ren’s eyes snapped toward the source—a captain, bloodied but standing, trying desperately to rally his men.
A plan clicked into place.
If he wanted to win this war, he needed two things:
- Authority. No one would listen to a random recruit.
- Time. He had to understand the battlefield before making a move.
Ren turned and ran—not away from the battle, but toward the dying captain.
He had a war to win.
And if the world thought it was impossible—he was going to prove it wrong.
Ren sprinted forward, his boots crushing dead grass and trampled earth. The battlefield around him was pure chaos—screams, steel clashing, and the roars of abyssal creatures drowning out all reason. The air stank of blood, smoke, and something else—something rotten, eldritch.
A soldier beside him was cleaved in half, his body flung into the air like a ragdoll. The abyssal warrior responsible—a hulking, faceless thing with obsidian armor and blade-like limbs—let out a guttural hiss and turned toward Ren.
Shit!
Ren ducked just in time as a scythe-like arm whistled past his head, slicing through the air where his skull had been. He rolled to the side, snatching a fallen sword from a corpse.
He needed information.
Fighting blindly wouldn’t get him out of this. He had no idea who these soldiers were, how long the war had been going, or what resources were at his disposal. All he knew was that his Mandate had set a victory condition—lead the army to win.
How the hell was he supposed to do that when he wasn’t even in command?!
The abyssal soldier lunged again. Ren gritted his teeth and dodged, slashing upwards with a quick strike. The blade scraped against its armor, barely leaving a mark.
It’s too strong. I can’t waste time here.
Ren’s eyes flickered across the battlefield, absorbing everything.
Observing. Calculating.
The soldiers around him were unorganized, panicked. They fought bravely, but the abyssal forces were coordinated—like a pack of starving wolves tearing through helpless prey.
"Fall back! Regroup!" A voice barked through the chaos.
Ren’s eyes snapped toward the source—a captain, bloodied but standing, trying desperately to rally his men.
A plan clicked into place.
If he wanted to win this war, he needed two things:
- Authority. No one would listen to a random recruit.
- Time. He had to understand the battlefield before making a move.
Ren turned and ran—not away from the battle, but toward the dying captain.
He had a war to win.
And if the world thought it was impossible—he was going to prove it wrong.