Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

...

Within an hour, Tent 28 was packed with a motley assortment of fresh-faced lieutenants, aspiring officers, a handful of older veterans, and leaders of various mercenary groups. Their equipment was as diverse as their backgrounds: those who followed military regulations wore correctly shaded, practical armor, while some of the rag-tag mercenaries showed up laden with mismatched, half-broken enchanted plates—more for show than for practicality, reminiscent of cosplayers trying to garner attention—a very boneheaded decision.

'I forgot how much I hate sellswords,' Alexander thought grimly. On Earth, he had the joy of working with mercenaries, and it was not the most pleasant of experiences.

Mercenaries on Orbis filled a similar niche to those on Earth: disposable manpower, at least from a political standpoint. Nobles preferred to risk mercenary casualties rather than depleting the ranks of their own house troops, thereby avoiding the political backlash of losing too many official soldiers. Yet these hired fighters brought chaos, from their non-conforming gear to their dismissive attitude toward discipline.

Whether they believed the rules of engagement required condom use with foreign sex workers or thought the bullets they fired could be easily counted by rounding up—a bitter taste still lingered in Alexander's mouth.

Among them stood a giant scaly commander—a lizard furry with silver hair and leaf-patterned armor. Twin scimitars hung at his hips, their enchantments so poorly implemented that Alexander was sure he could disable them with a simple thought.

Further back, a stout, small, and burly scavenger leaned against a wooden column, arms crossed over bronze-plated shoulders that gleamed under the lantern light. Two massive axes, bearing explosion on contact runes, protruded from his back—turning him into a potential walking bomb for any savvy enemy mage.

Perched atop a stack of supply crates was a harpy-like avian, her talons tapping impatiently on the wooden box. Her wings were adorned with enchanted leather armor, and the talons were alloyed with engraved mithril—a great target practice for every archer.

'Welcome to the mess my parents threw me into,' he mused sourly. Most of the reliable Guard Household soldiers had gone to the other front, commanded by Bjoern. Alexander had volunteered to handle the more problematic force, not wanting to burden the less-experienced Bjoern with this chaotic mix.

He'd also assigned Narsiz—his intelligence officer—Markol, the leading scout from the Strip of Hope, and Isabella, the chief medical officer, to Bjoern's camp, ensuring they'd have strong support. Alexander could handle himself with sheer power if everything fell apart, but he wasn't so sure about everyone else.

When Alexander walked through the tent, his strides were long and purposeful, each step broadcasting controlled anger. His posture was rigid as he stopped at the front of the group, gaze sweeping across anxious faces, clenched fists, and expressions veiled in resentment. He sensed the tension like a storm front gathering overhead.

He wore half-plate armor in muted greenish-brown with subdued pink accents—practical, low-reflection plating that concealed its enchantments. He'd dyed his hair and fur black to reduce night-time visibility, a stark contrast to the flamboyant outfits favored by younger nobles like Zaphiro.

Alexander forced a humorless smile. "Thanks for coming," he said quietly, letting the words settle. "I hear some of you have already been discussing strategy with the commanding officer—that's good—communication matters. But I need to clarify one thing: if you keep acting like idiots, you'll die. Possibly in horrifying ways that I might arrange."

He glanced around. In the back, Sarah stood with her arms folded, fury flickering in her gaze. 'They're all so young,' he thought, noting that many had arrived here expecting easy merit, quick fame, or some great pay. Now, they seemed to realize the situation was no game.

"This isn't a game," Alexander continued. "If I issue an order—like wearing properly colored equipment or keeping certain tactics under wraps—you will comply. Our enemy might have bizarre weapons or hidden fortifications; ignoring basic discipline puts everyone in danger."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd—Alexander's voice projected clearly, aided by the faintly pulsing runes on the tent's wooden support poles. These runes amplified sound for all to hear while simultaneously dampening external noise to keep eavesdroppers at bay—yet another safeguard in a world rife with magical espionage.

Seeing the dislike, Alexander inhaled, stepping deeper into the hush. "You'll comply," he repeated, his tone sharpened like steel, "or you'll find yourself bleeding out in the mud because your shiny armor turned you into a perfect target."

A red-and-yellow-skinned High Demon—one horn broken, two stubby tails flicking in agitation—came forward, his thick lips pulling into a mocking grin. "So we all gotta run around in mud-colored rags now? Didn't sign up to be a peasant, y'know."

With barely a blink, Alexander vanished from the spot. He reappeared behind the demon, pressing a hand to the back of the demon's skull. A brief incantation later, the demon collapsed, eyes wide, limbs paralyzed.

Alexander braced a boot on the demon's head. "That's a mild reminder," he said softly, each syllable laced with menace. "If you sabotage this campaign, I'll send you packing—or do worse. My job is to keep my people alive and achieve our objectives. You don't belong here if you can't handle a simple order to camouflage."

He let a wave of killing intent roll out, submerging the tent in silence. Then he lifted his foot and conjured multiple spells—his boot descended toward the demon's head, unleashing a shockwave that cracked the ground around it. The unconscious figure's head sank deeper into the earth, leaving a disconcerting hush.

'So much for doing favors,' Alexander thought. At the front row, he noticed Lucifer Love—an incubus noble around his own age—reaching for his rapier, clearly torn between defending his comrade and obeying Alexander's authority.

Alexander caught the boy's eye and gave a curt nod, acknowledging Lucifer's instinct to protect his subordinate. Still, this was the reality of the battlefield, he reflected.

Months prior, Lucifer had begged Alexander for a place in this campaign. Initially, Alexander refused, but the incubus admitted he needed wartime merits—a requirement in his homeland to gain noble recognition. Moreover, he trusted Alexander more than anyone else not to throw him at a monster's feet as cannon fodder.

The Love household guarded Kratikal in the far north, akin to how Moorgrel or Leonandra governed their respective domains. Ironically, their own family and environment posed more political threats to Lucifer's safety than an actual war. Alexander eventually relented, especially after receiving a formal letter from Lucifer's parents and sister, politely begging for this favor. In noble society, requesting such a favor was akin to bowing down, and Alexander—reluctantly—complied.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Now," Alexander said, his voice still taut, "any other doubts about a camouflage enchantment that might keep arrows out of your chest? Does anyone else want to whine about vanity? Because if so, there's the exit."

No one spoke. The tension was suffocating.

"Good," Alexander said, forcing a clipped smile. "For those who haven't updated their armor, do so by sundown—no excuses."

He paused, gaze flicking toward Sarah, Lorient, and Freya, who stood near the entrance. "As for your personal grievances—come see me privately. We can't afford public shouting matches. Understood?"

They nodded stiffly in acknowledgment, holding back whatever heated words they'd planned to unleash in front of everyone.

"Dismissed," Alexander concluded. "Quartermaster's station has your camouflage spells, updated guidelines, and the strategic dossier. Study them because I will test you before we mobilize fully."

The group filed out, subdued. A few, looking chastened, gave slight bows. Such gestures sometimes mattered on Orbis: raw power garnered respect as much as lineage or titles did.

"Ehm, Headmaster?" Lucifer ventured, lingering while the rest dispersed. He gestured at the demon half-buried in the ground. "How do I… get him out?"

Alexander shrugged, crossing his arms. "I wouldn't bother. If he served me, I'd ship him back in a box—minus a limb or two—for disobedience. Good luck with your subordinate."

Lucifer grimaced as Alexander strode away, but the incubus turned to the unfortunate demon and began trying to pry him out, muttering about roping in a healer or an earth-manipulating mage.

Outside, Alexander took a steadying breath—letting the rain slowly trickle down his face. 'Bjoern must be having a better time.' The campaign plan involved two simultaneous assaults to secure territory on the island. Alexander aimed to capture at least 30%, Lavafist took on another 30% with a second wave, and Pascal managed the rest.

Alexander also agreed that the lion's share of logistical prep would be his responsibility. It was an obvious choice since he had excellent administrators, logistical personnel, and the support to achieve a frictionless supply. Additionally, he also had more practical ways to organize food, his rainbow mush, which was also served in school, and all other resources—hundreds of spatial bags simplified transport and storage.

This meticulous approach solved the typical bottlenecks that doomed campaigns on Orbis or Earth: supply breakdown. But that meant the main friction now came from uncooperative or undisciplined personnel, who might sabotage the entire effort with their arrogance.

'If they can't even wear the correct uniform or keep their mouths shut, no fancy supply lines will save them,' he thought bitterly.

What was very different from Earth were the individuals who acted like big shots because of their levels or divine skills—an indeed novel sight for even Alexander. Someone at Tier 4 or 5 was almost universally respected as they were about to become a powerhouse, but teamwork and military were another matter altogether.

He forced himself to quell his anger. If they unify under new tactics, we can wrap this up in weeks—maybe months. If they cling to archaic nonsense, they risk becoming the first campaign to fail because nobody followed basic orders.

'So be it,' Alexander thought grimly, scanning the camp. 'I'll have to drive them forward… one step at a time.'

...

Inside Alexander's private command tent—a smaller but well-warded space, standing inconspicuously at the camp's outer perimeter, designed to make it look like a simple storage space for unimportant or damaged equipment—Sarah was already changing her clothes. Her old outfit lay discarded on a wooden bench. Alexander paused mid-thought, noticing her figure.

'She looks less bulky…' he mused. 'Is she using potions or creams to reduce muscle mass appearance?'

Certain potions and topical treatments on Orbis allowed one to alter muscle visibility without losing strength. Many warriors used them for personal or social reasons. Alexander himself used a blend of salves to mask scars. If Sarah was doing something similar, he could guess she wanted a more feminine look, given her typical Amazonian physique.

'I should probably tell her she looks good.' Then he jolted from his reverie as Sarah whirled, catching him eyeing her rear.

"Stop staring at my ass!" she snapped, a flush creeping across her cheeks. She clutched a piece of clothing to cover her hips. "We need to talk, Alex. This is serious."

Alexander blinked, forcing his gaze to her face. "Sure. Go ahead."

Sarah took a deep breath, composing herself as her pheromones went wild since her first mating season was only a few months away. Right now, frustration and embarrassment tinged the air. "Why am I only a lieutenant?" she demanded, crossing her arms, letting the piece of cloth nonchalantly fall to the ground. "I'm your fiancée, and you treat me like a novice."

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Because you must practice leading a smaller group before commanding hundreds or thousands. I'm not giving you a lofty title you can't handle."

He devised a rank structure that was intentionally minimalistic yet distinct since his campaign had too many races from territories where certain ranks meant something different. The language barrier already made it hard enough to coordinate them—adding a local military system would only lead to chaos.

General—that was him, the absolute head of the campaign. First Rank Officers—like Bjoern, Narsiz, and Zaphiro—were special appointees handling entire fronts or unique missions. Second Rank Officers led up to a thousand troops, a tier reserved for those with proven track records or already troops under their belt, such as Freya or Lorient. Then, third-rank officers for around 500, fourth-rank for 250, and so on down. Lieutenants generally commanded squads of 25 or fewer, enjoying significant autonomy in skirmishes, but the title held less prestige.

For a proud warrior like Sarah, "lieutenant" felt like an insult. "You're treating me like one of your underlings," she growled. "Darling."

Alexander had to tread carefully. 'It's time to show her how underprepared she is.'

"Do you know the 14th Technique?" he asked calmly.

She rolled her eyes, fueling mana into her hands until needle-like protrusions formed along her skin and became barely visible. "Yes, that one's called Redacted Claws, right? Learned it ages ago."

Alexander gave a satisfied nod, acknowledging her skill. She was far better at their in-house martial arts techniques than he was, turning them into lethal tools in seconds. "Great. Now, imagine you and your units of 250 soldiers are encircled by rogue fire djinn groups who strike from multiple angles, dividing your forces."

Sarah's expression soured. "We'd just fight them, obviously. You know that."

"How?" Alexander pressed. "You're in a dense jungle, no open lines of sight. They know the territory; you don't. The moment you split up, they can pick you off."

She scowled. "I'd… handle it. Let me gather my lines, erect a defense—"

"You'd just get pinned down if you spread too thin. Or they'd encircle you further. Or they might burn the jungle to trap you, causing chaos."

Sarah stepped closer, baring fangs. "So what's your genius plan, oh mighty General?"

"You'd retreat," Alexander said simply. "Form a defensive ring, minimize casualties, and call for aerial and magical backup to flush them out. You can't let pride push you into a suicidal stand."

Sarah's eyes flashed. "Coward."

Alexander kept his voice even. "I'd call it smart. Every soldier here has a family or loved ones. Sacrificing them for 'honor' alone is a... fool's move. If it meant losing you, I'd throw away my rank or my reputation in a heartbeat, and trust me, those soldiers would rather live than die for a handful of gold coins if they have someone even resembling you waiting at home."

Her anger wavered, giving way to a more complicated emotion. "So this is your roundabout way of saying I'm inexperienced at large-scale tactics?"

He shrugged. "Yes. And if you'd prefer blunt honesty, there it is."

Sarah brushed a strand of her now-dyed brown hair aside, exhaling. "Fine. We do it your way," she muttered, a note of reluctant acceptance in her voice. Then, his gaze flicked over her silhouette. "You shaved?"

Sarah grinned slightly. "I dyed everything black, so I might as well keep it consistent."

"But why shaving?"

Sarah shrugged, her face slowly turning into a deeper red. "It... burns, and I like consistency."

Alexander nodded. "Huh, I guess it makes sense."