Chapter – 37
[Berserker] was one of those rare traits in the game Overlord that appeared with only a 0.1% probability — something only a true hero could possess.
What made it even stranger was that the trait only ever appeared when playing as Frey von Sigmund, Carlisle’s younger brother. In other words, it was essentially a unique trait exclusive to the Dekaron faction.
The problem was that no one could ever predict when, where, or how a [Berserker] would appear — so most players had long since stopped expecting it at all.
And even if one did appear, there was no guarantee it would be powerful enough to remain viable into the later stages of the game.
But then…
“If the Berserker state can be triggered by a specific action…”
According to Carlisle’s game knowledge, [Berserker]s usually awakened through excitement in battle — things like being injured or cutting down so many enemies that their bloodlust took over.
But to awaken from sheer terror — even wetting yourself in fear — that was something else entirely.
“At least S-rank.”
Carlisle’s eyes gleamed.
When the conditions for activation were so bizarre they bordered on absurd, it usually meant the potential behind it was enormous.
If a normal [Berserker] appeared at a rate of about 0.1%, then an S-rank or higher variant would be something like…
“Maybe 0.01%?”
He couldn’t be certain — only guess.
Even Carlisle himself, despite all his time playing as Frey von Sigmund, had never once seen a Berserker above S-rank.
“Kill… kill them all…”
In the blink of an eye, Russell had slaughtered every barbarian surrounding him — and was already scanning for his next prey, eyes rolling wildly.
“Does he even recognize who’s who…?”
“He does. Don’t worry about it,” Begman said calmly.
“Definitely S-rank or higher.”
That one assurance from Begman was all Carlisle needed to confirm it.
The most crucial quality for any [Berserker] was the ability to distinguish between friend and foe.
Low-grade Berserkers couldn’t even recognize their allies — some even failed to recognize their own family, which made them little more than liabilities.
It wasn’t uncommon for players to execute them on the spot once they started attacking teammates or even the player’s own character mid-battle.
“We’ll see soon enough.”
Carlisle tore his gaze from Russell and focused back on the fight.
If Russell really could tell friend from foe, then — as Begman said — there was nothing to worry about.
He just had to let the man rampage to his heart’s content.
“Focus.”
Carlisle steadied his stance.
“Good! That’s it, rookie! Even if you lose sight for a second, don’t lose your head!”
Begman’s voice cut through the chaos — the mark of a seasoned commander who never lost track of his men, even in the thick of battle.
A faint smile tugged at Carlisle’s lips. He didn’t even realize he was smiling.
* * *
Amid the chaos, the Dekaron Army was holding strong.
Thanks to the [Mud Mire] spell and Helen’s command, their position at the entrance was secure. Meanwhile, the scouts’ precision strikes ensured that any barbarians who made it past the palisade were swiftly cut down.
And Carlisle… was beginning to stand out.
Slash!
“Agh!”
Each time he unleashed his soulblade skill, [Genesis Breaker], someone was cleaved clean in two.
Thud!
And when he used [Piercing Devotion], a blade would punch through someone’s chest, throat, or skull without fail.
“It’s like breathing.”
That’s how Carlisle felt as he struck down his enemies — effortless, natural.
At this point, it almost felt as though the enemies were walking straight into his blade on their own.
He didn’t dwell on it.
He didn’t think about whether killing came too easily — or whether he should feel guilty about taking lives.
As Begman had said, such thoughts could wait until after the battle.
“Let’s push a little further.”
Carlisle decided to press the advantage.
“Roo—”
Begman almost called out to stop him… then stopped himself.
“Who’s worrying about who here? A mere squad leader?”
There was a saying: You don’t worry about a Sigmund.
They said the Sigmunds were born with swords in their hands — and even the most reckless among them were no exception.
Slash, thrust, thrust again.
Shhhh!
Thud, squelch!
“Guh!”
“Argh!”
“V-Valhall—urk!”
Three barbarians fell before they even realized what had happened.
“Keep pushing forward.”
One step, then another.
Each time Carlisle advanced, the engineers followed, securing the area behind him — creating a zone of control that slowly pushed the enemy back.
“If we keep this up, they won’t even dare approach the wall…”
Then—
“Aaahhh!”
A scream pierced the battlefield.
Carlisle turned — Gwen was down, a barbarian looming over her with a massive war hammer raised high.
“Danger!”
He kicked off the ground instinctively.
“Filthy continent woman! I’ll crush your skull!”
The barbarian roared as he swung the hammer down.
“It’s over.”
Gwen squeezed her eyes shut.
She was a non-combat engineer — untrained, unathletic. There was no escaping this.
BOOM!
The hammer came down.
“W-what…?”
Gwen blinked in disbelief. The hammer that should have smashed her skull had instead slammed into the dirt beside her.
No one was holding it.
Or rather — only two severed arms still gripped the handle.
“M-my arms… my ARMS!”
The barbarian screamed in horror, staring at his own dismembered limbs.
SHUNK!
A rough, battered sword pierced the back of his skull and burst through his mouth.
“O-oppa…?”
Gwen was more stunned by Carlisle’s sudden appearance than by the gruesome death before her.
“Who’s your oppa?” he frowned, voice cold.
“T-then why are you talking informally?”
“Huh?”
Carlisle froze — realizing he’d dropped formal speech without thinking.
“Get up, Private Gwen.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Now.”
“C-could you… give me your hand?”
Sigh.
Carlisle exhaled heavily.
“She really is a handful.”
Still, he extended his free left hand — his right still gripping Grimundgand.
It wasn’t that she was whining — her ankle was clearly sprained.
“Pick up your spear first.”
“Y-yes, oppa.”
She picked up her dropped weapon.
“If you can’t fight, why did you even enlist?”
“Heh…”
Gwen gave him a sheepish smile instead of an answer.
“This way.”
“O-okay.”
Carlisle led her back toward the cluster of engineers. There was no time for chatting in the middle of a battlefield.
“Persistent bastards… they should be retreating by now.”
He clicked his tongue.
Whoever commanded these barbarians clearly had no intention of pulling back — even after losing half their forces.
Then again, barbarians were known for never retreating. Even when facing certain death, they often fought to the last man.
“They’re really going to fight to the end?”
That’s when—
BOOM!
Something massive and heavy dropped from the sky, crushing one of the scouts beneath it.
The shockwave rippled through the ground like a small earthquake.
“That move…”
Carlisle’s eyes hardened.
Thunder Leap.
A skill usable only by barbarians who had carved at least four spirit marks into their bodies — a 4-star or near-4-star warrior.
Barbarians were far behind the continentals in terms of civilization and technology.
But they made up for it with brute strength, sheer numbers, and their own form of magic — sorcery.
Most notably, the shamans’ Spirit Tattoos, called [Divine Engravings], were terrifyingly powerful.
And the ink used for those tattoos? Refined from mana stones.
That was why both barbarians and continentals had fought for centuries over control of Kuberin — the land of mana stones.
When the dust cleared—
The barbarian who’d performed [Thunder Leap] rose to his feet, towering and broad-shouldered.
That skill wasn’t just a leap — it let the user soar 10 to 50 meters and slam down with the force of thunder, obliterating whatever lay below.
And the fact that he could use it meant only one thing:
“A 4-star… or a very strong 3-star.”
Carlisle’s mind raced.
“DERRICK!!!”
Begman screamed the fallen scout’s name.
Derrick’s corpse was beyond recognition — crushed flat beneath a hundred-kilogram brute dropping from fifteen meters up.
“You bastard!”
Begman charged, fury blazing.
And that was only the beginning.
“Kill… KILL HIMMMM!!!”
Russell let out a bloodcurdling roar and sprinted at the barbarian.
“Your corpse will look the same!”
Wilson followed right after him.
Shh! Shh! Shh!
From atop the watchtower, Marder loosed arrows in rapid succession, his face twisted with rage.
“The price for killing a scout will not be light.”
Even Kudo, arriving late, moved toward the barbarian.
The scout squad was small but elite — bound by pride and fierce camaraderie.
To kill one of their own was to earn their collective wrath.
But the barbarian merely grinned, flashing his teeth.
“You pathetic continent worms… You think you can face me?”
He roared, voice booming.
“No way… is that Bjornsen?”
Carlisle’s brow furrowed.
If that barbarian was that Bjornsen, then—
“Why the hell are you here?”
His expression twisted into something caught between disbelief and dread.
