Gor roared, "HALT THE ADVANCE!"
But his voice was drowned out by screams.
In seconds, chaos replaced order. Waves of kobolds tried to turn back—only to trigger secondary traps: thunder mines exploded in the rear lines, and shackling winds dragged them forward into death zones.
Above, arrows rained down like locusts. The sky darkened with their numbers—thousands per volley, and all aimed with lethal accuracy. Gor looked up to see archer units on the enemy wall: bronze-clad, silver-clad, all firing in synchronization. Flame-tipped, wind-enhanced, shadow-bound arrows cut through even the heaviest of shields.
"SHIELDS UP!" Knol bellowed, forming a protective line with enchanted tower shields. But it was too late for hundreds.
And then came the magic.
Blazing pillars of fire erupted mid-field, conjured by high-tier human mages stationed on the walls—Zara, Lily, and others. Their spells didn't just strike; they choked the land, left magical residues that slowed regeneration, melted scales, confused formations. Bolts of chain lightning jumped from kobold to kobold, turning squads into smoking heaps.
Gor's claws tightened on the reins of his mount.
"This is not ordinary warfare…" he growled. "This is a slaughter disguised as strategy."
Behind him, Knot muttered, "The land itself is cursed. No… not cursed. Enchanted."
Gor bared his fangs.
He looked closer—and noticed something the average kobold wouldn't have seen. The patterns in the blasts. The pulse of the traps. The frequency of magical surges. They were slowing. Flickering.
"They're running out of mana," Gor muttered, eyes narrowing. "These aren't permanent enchantments."
Knol perked up. "You think the humans lack the energy to sustain this?"
"A trap like this… It burns bright, but brief," Gor said. "Two hours. Three at most."
His mind raced. "And if we find the focal points… the runes, the nodes… we can break it early."
He turned to his vice commanders.
"Send scouts. Smart ones—mages, sensers. I want trapbreakers sweeping the field. Tell them to look for anything glowing, pulsing, or humming."
"Yes, Commander," Knot replied at once, riding off.
Gor turned back toward the battlefield.
The air was thick with ash and screams. Their losses were already in the tens of thousands, even hundred thousands by now—he could feel it in his blood. But if the humans thought this would be enough to win…
"They'll learn that we don't retreat. Not for traps. Not for tricks."
Still, he felt a chill slither down his spine.
This wasn't just a battlefield. It was a cage. A labyrinth of spells. Someone had shaped the terrain itself with war-magic. And that meant one thing:
He was fighting a monster.
The trapbreakers moved swiftly—dozens of elite kobold mages and scouts trained to detect and dismantle magical constructs. They scattered across the war-torn field under Gor's command, eyes glowing with detection spells, hands pulsing with arcane energy designed to unweave the runes beneath their feet.
Gor watched them with a glimmer of hope, his warbeast rumbling beneath him.
"They will find the source," he murmured. "Then we will unleash the full strength of our legion."
But that hope was short-lived.
It began with a flicker—then a scream.
A trapbreaker near the third ridge suddenly collapsed, his throat opened in silence, blood pouring onto the cracked dirt. No warning. No sound. Just death.
Another fell—a shadow moved behind him, slit his spine, and vanished before the kobold mage even hit the ground.
Then another. And another.
"ASSASSINS!" came the cry.
But it was already too late.
They were everywhere.
Kaelira, commander of the Shadow Unit, danced between blades of wind and flame like a ghost cloaked in darkness. Her twin daggers shimmered with cursed enchantments, each stab severing not just flesh, but mana veins—rendering her victims useless even in death. Her unit followed her example, striking like whispers of the void, never staying long enough to be seen.
"Too slow," she whispered coldly as she tore through the neck of a trapbreaker, his detection spell shorting out in a pulse of fading blue light.
From the other side, a group of kobold scouts cried out as their own shadows turned against them.
Kai, commander of the Chainbound Marauders, had already thrown himself deep into enemy lines. Chains of blackened steel wrapped around his arms, writhing like living serpents. With a grunt, he launched one—snaring three kobolds, snapping bones and yanking them into the air. His team struck in unison, appearing through teleportation glyphs, blinking between positions like lightning.
The scouts never had a chance.
Further still, near a cluster of kobold mages attempting to stabilize a trap node, the air turned cold.
Violet, the enigmatic leader of the Bone Dancers Unit, emerged with a slow, elegant stride. Her presence chilled the air as faint ethereal spirits danced behind her. She raised a pale hand and whispered, "Suffer."
The bones of the nearby kobolds twisted inside their bodies—a silent spell, cruel and irreversible. Their screams never made it to Gor's ears. They fell in twisted heaps, magic unraveling around them.
From his vantage, Gor clenched his fists.
"They're targeting our lifelines…" he growled. "This isn't random slaughter. It's surgical. Precise."
Knot returned, his armor scorched, blood dripping from his arm. "We lost over half the trapbreakers. They can't move. They're hunted. Even those who reach the trap nodes… die before they finish the first chant."
"Where are these assassins coming from?" Gor demanded.
"They're already among us," Knol replied grimly, approaching from the west flank. "They blend with the smoke. Use shadow magic. Even silence the sounds around them."
Gor's eyes glowed with fury. "Then bring forth the Inferno Scorchers. Burn every patch of darkness. Every unnatural shadow. I want flames that don't stop burning."
"Y-Yes, Commander!" Knot rode off again.
But as Gor stared at the mounting bodies of his elite, the truth became undeniable.
Arthur had not merely laid traps in the earth. He had unleashed demons upon the field—ghosts of the wind, killers of silence, shadows with names and smiles.
This battle had never been about raw numbers.
It was about control. Timing. Precision.
And Gor was beginning to understand—
He was fighting a man who had turned war into an art form.
Still, his eyes narrowed. "Let's see how long you can paint, Arthur… when the ink runs dry."
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