The regiment marched westward, their boots striking the dirt in steady rhythm. As dawn broke, the horizon blazed with the first light of the sun. Among them rode Valen—once a nameless peasant, now a sergeant entrusted with command. He led five hundred fresh recruits toward Captain Alphonse's camp.
The path was kind that day. The heat was gentler than before, the sky stretched clear and blue, and no bandits or monsters crossed their way.
By afternoon, the sun tilted westward. Valen ordered the regiment to halt off the main road, choosing a more secluded spot for camp. Rumors spoke of bandits lurking in the area, and he would not risk an ambush on open ground. Dismounting his horse, Valen set his men to work—raising tents, collecting firewood, and posting guards along the perimeter.
Soon the campfire flickered, and the croaking of frogs from a nearby marsh filled the night. The sound soothed the weary soldiers, wrapping them in a fragile sense of safety.
In his tent, Valen unsheathed his sword. Mud still clung to the steel from an earlier drill. He cleaned it in silence, letting the peaceful rhythm of the task calm his thoughts. Yet when he finally sheathed the blade and prepared to rest, his ears caught a detail he could not ignore.
The frogs had fallen silent.
His heart tightened. He grabbed his sword and shield and stepped outside. The guards, too, had grown tense, scanning the darkness with wary eyes. Before Valen could rouse the rest of the camp, a sudden whistle cut the air. An arrow struck a guard through the chest.
"Enemy!!" the man cried with his dying breath.
From the treeline came a chorus of savage war cries. Dozens, then hundreds of goblins swarmed the camp, their crude weapons flashing under the moonlight.
"It's goblins! Hold your ground!" Valen roared. "Ready for battle!"
The camp erupted in chaos. Steel clashed against rusted blades, arrows rained from the shadows, and screams mingled with the guttural snarls of the horde. Valen cut down one goblin, then another, his shield ringing from each strike. But the sheer number of enemies gnawed at him.
"Nugi!" he shouted to a nearby soldier. "Take command here—I'll check the other flank!"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
Valen sprinted across the camp, only to find the ground littered with bodies. His soldiers lay dead or dying, goblins prowling among the corpses. Rage swallowed his fear, and he plunged into the fray, hacking through the creatures with desperate fury.
Then he saw her.
Velichia stumbled from her tent, unarmed, her face pale with terror. A goblin lunged at her with a jagged spear. Without hesitation, Valen hurled his shield. It struck the creature squarely, knocking it to the ground.
He rushed to her side. "Are you hurt? Where's your gear?"
"It's inside!" Velichia gasped. "Th-there are goblins in the women's tent. They're attacking the others—I was too afraid and tried to run."
Valen pressed his shield into her hands. "Take this. Stay behind me."
He ripped open the tent flap with his sword. Inside, several female recruits struggled against their attackers, some already wounded. Valen waded in, cutting the goblins down with merciless strikes. "Arm yourselves! Now!"
Velichia and the others scrambled for their equipment, and together they returned to the fight outside. The battle raged on for what felt like endless minutes, but as their casualties mounted, the goblins at last broke and scattered into the trees.
The survivors stood among blood and corpses. Dawn crept over the horizon, its golden light revealing the true toll of the night. Valen collapsed to the ground, his body heavy with exhaustion, his heart torn in two.
Velichia approached quietly. "Valen… I'm sorry. I should have—"
"It's fine," Valen cut her off, his voice hollow. "You're safe. That's all that matters."
She sank down beside him. They watched the sunrise in silence, until Nugi approached and saluted stiffly.
"Report, sir. Casualties are confirmed. Seventeen dead. Seven severely wounded but still able to return to duty."
Valen's face drained of color. He clenched his fists, trembling.
"If you wish, I'll send a detachment back to the capital with the bodies for burial," Nugi continued gently. "Our medics will tend to the wounded."
Valen nodded without speaking. As Nugi departed, Velichia leaned closer, sensing his grief. She wrapped her arms around him.
"It's all right to feel guilty," she whispered. "They were your men. But this wasn't your fault. It's your first campaign—you did all you could. Please, don't hate yourself."
Her words pierced the armor he had built around his heart. Tears welled in his eyes, and he buried his face against her shoulder.
"That's not fair," he choked out. "I was trusted with command, and I failed them. I let them die… I'm just a fool."
"That's okay," she soothed. "No one else is here. Just let it out."
And so Valen wept, until the storm inside him ebbed. When at last he pulled away, he managed a faint, broken smile. "Thank you, Velichia. I… I feel better now."
"I'm glad." She smiled softly back.
Valen ordered his men to rest, then helped distribute breakfast before resuming their march. Though fewer in number, they pressed onward.
After a day's journey through rivers, plains, and forest, the regiment raised the Gooserian banner and joined the second army's camp.
"Greetings, fellow warrior," a soldier hailed them. "I am Sergeant Lucius."
"I am Sergeant Valen," he replied, gesturing to his companion. "And this is Velichia von Humbfort. We've come with four hundred and seventy-six men to join Captain Alphonse."
Lucius's eyes lit with recognition. "So you're the Valen everyone's talking about. Come—I'll take you to the captain."
They entered a large command tent where a blue-haired man bent over a map. He looked up as they entered.
"Captain Alphonse," Valen said, saluting. "Reporting with my regiment."
"Ah. So you're the one who felled two knights with nothing but a hammer." Alphonse's eyes flicked to Velichia, then back to Valen. "I expected five hundred men. Where are the rest?"
Valen's face darkened. "We were ambushed by goblins. Seventeen killed. Seven too wounded to march."
Alphonse's brows rose. "Only seventeen? Remarkable. A goblin band numbers at least fifty, yet you kept your losses so low. Most sergeants would lose double that."
"I don't consider it remarkable," Valen said grimly. "Each one was a life, not a number. I failed them."
Velichia touched his hand gently, calming his rising anger.
Alphonse exhaled. "Still, you did well. Make camp to the southeast. With your men, our numbers exceed two thousand."
Before Valen could respond, a soldier burst into the tent.
"Captain! The Ionburg army—they're here!"
"What?! From where?"
"From the west—through Deportun Forest. At least four thousand strong!"
The officers in the tent exchanged horrified glances.
"That forest…" Valen frowned. "Why does it matter so much?"
One officer swallowed hard. "Deportun is home to a Goblin Emperor. His horde numbers five thousand, and worse—he can wield magic."
Alphonse slammed a fist against the table. "The Duke is tied down at Xeniveron with seven thousand men. If we retreat, two cities will fall undefended, and their nobles will turn to Ionburg."
"Then we'll be crushed if we stand our ground," another officer snapped.
The room fell silent. Valen studied the map, mind racing. Then he spoke.
"Captain, I have a proposal. We cannot fight in the open, nor can we abandon the cities. But here—" he pointed to a hill marked near the rear. "This hill has only two approaches. We can hold one, and if they bypass us, we can slip out at night, flank them, and trap them between the city garrison and ourselves."
The officers leaned closer.
"And if they attack both sides?" Alphonse pressed.
"They cannot. One flank is blocked by a river, too deep this season to cross. If they try the long route, our engineers can build trebuchets to strike them down before they reach us. We have the means, and the men."
Silence, then Alphonse's lips curved into a grim smile.
"Very well. Sergeant Valen—under my authority, I appoint you chief strategist of this army. Tomorrow, we march."
The officers saluted as one. Some gazed at Valen with admiration, while one—Officer Gerard—glared with undisguised resentment.
Later, as Valen left, a knight in full plate armor approached him.
"I am Vikar, knight squire," he said with a faint smile. "I'll be watching, strategist."
Valen blinked, but returned the nod. "I'm Valen. I'll be counting on you."
That evening, he found Velichia serving soup to weary recruits.
"Once a noble, now a cook?" Valen teased.
Velichia flushed, puffing her cheeks. "I—I'm not a cook! Hmph!"
He chuckled. "That reaction again? You're too cute when you pout."
"Valen! Stop teasing me!"
"Fine, fine." He raised his hands in surrender, grinning. Then his voice turned firm. "Everyone, listen! Tomorrow, we march with Captain Alphonse's army. Be ready."
"Yes, sir!" the recruits chorused.
Velichia handed him a steaming bowl with a quiet smile. As Valen sat down among his men, the camp filled with the scent of soup, the sound of laughter, and the heavy shadow of war to come.
Thus began the first campaign of a man who had once been a peasant—and was now a sergeant, soon to be more.