The Landing didn't wake quietly that morning.
Before the sun broke the horizon, the east field was already filled — soldiers moving in tight formations, packs checked, shields slung, javelin-stakes stacked neatly by squad. Armor creaked, boots stamped, and the sharp call of optios echoed across the still-cold ground.
It was the first army that the Landing filled. Even if most of the people were summoned people. The only people that weren't were the few ex-soldiers from Earth who switched into soldiers and the adventurers.
Two full centuries now stood in formation, consisting of nearly one hundred legionaries split into eighteen squads of eight. In modern terms, this force is akin to a reinforced company. Each squad had an Optio leading it. Commanding each century was a centurion — Garrick for the First, Carter for the Second — and each bore their banner proudly, carried by a dedicated standard-bearer. These banners, freshly stitched by the first looms in the Landing, unfurled to the cheers of each century. The Centurions quickly assigned a banner bearer for these valuable pieces of cloth.
Behind them stood the auxilia, sixty adventurers, each one armed and armored as well as the settlement could manage. Most had fought already, goblins, scouting runs, dungeon excursions. They knew what it meant to take a hit and return one. Evan led them after pulling each team leader aside for a briefing.
As he spoke, a flicker of doubt crossed Harold's mind, but he quickly crushed it—a fear that failure could mean not just the loss of lives, but the collapse of the Landing's fragile hope. Yet, there was also a spark of hope, burning alongside the fear. If they succeeded, they could carve out a secure future for everyone. Claiming the relic was a game-changer for the Landing.
Harold was worried about losing some of the adventurers, but he would be happy to use the respawn system to get messages back to the Landing. Each adventurer who respawned would come back to the Stele and be able to update the village on their progress, as long as their timer wasn't too long. He would rely on them to scout and skirmish for the legionaries.
And scattered throughout the formations were nearly three dozen fresh recruits — new arrivals from the week's portal activation. Some had been recruited that morning or the day before, but Hale had pressed them hard and slotted them into place. Some marched with regular squads. Others had been assigned to support roles — runners, guards, or wagon detail. Every hand mattered.
At the head of the formation stood Harold, in plain but well-fitted leather — the first real product from the Landing's fledgling tanners and leatherworkers. They had finally started to make the tannins needed from the bark of the large trees around here. He hadn't known that was the process until one of the leathermakers came from the portal and just started working. For now, he was working out of a large tub and stretching racks near the creek.
Harold had no cape or plume. No visible mark of rank besides the still furled banner being carried by the standard bearers by his side. His bodyguard detail stood beside him, still being led by Ren and Corwin. The two who had helped him figure out how to leverage the soldiers' mana method. They picked two others they trusted, and they followed him everywhere with the still furled banner.
Behind him, Hale walked with arms crossed, eyes scanning everything. Margaret, Beth, Josh, and Mark were back at the Landing, watching over what remained.
He didn't bother with a speech, choosing instead to signal Hale to begin the march. He still wasnt comfortable speaking in front of so many people like that.
Form march, Hale commanded. First Century, forward. Second, behind. Auxilia, center and screen. Scouts, go. Wagons, ready. Move in five.
At the rear, four very rugged wagons rolled into position — each pulled by a pair of tatanka, harnessed with double-thick leather straps and guided by long-handled poles. The wagons were made by some of the crafters who had come through the portal. The tatanka were still rough to guide, but with the extra people to help, they would go in the right direction.
The wagons were a miracle to complete in time for the march, which would be a godsend. The wagons were actually easy to make. It was the wheels that were harder, and they were lucky that a couple of the crafters who came through to the portal got together and figured it out. They had worked by firelight through the nights to complete them and required rushed, specialized tools that the blacksmith teams had to devise. They were the most complicated piece of construction the Landing had figured out how to make so far, and Harold couldn't have been prouder of them all.
Caldwell had overseen their construction. The supply from Lira finally trickled through. Supplies were stacked high: rations, spare weapons, rough cordage, bandages, extra stakes/javelins. The final wagon — painted with a crude red slash on its side — was double-guarded. That one held the healing potions.
The wagon teams were a mix of experienced haulers and recruits, handpicked by Hale's new supply tribune — Marcus Tran, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel. One of the few Hale had known from Earth. He ran logistics like a campaign, barking commands and snapping short nods at every checkpoint. When asked if he knew what they were marching into, he only replied, "A fight."
The scouts set off first, 20 of them spread in pairs. All on foot, they had neither mounts nor bows. Their best ranged options were short-throwing spears, carried across their backs in loops. The scarcity of mounts was going to hurt them, and bows required materials and craftsmanship the settlement had yet to fully develop. Bow staves required time to dry and shape. The area's dense forestation also rendered mounted travel less effective. Despite these constraints, the scouts moved fast and quietly, eyes scanning the trees and underbrush for signs of predators, traps, or ambushes.
Their job wasn't to kill; it was to guide. They marked the path with carved sticks and cloth flags, checked stream crossings, and scouted tree breaks wide enough for a legion line to pass.
And then the army moved.
The First Century stepped out, boots thudding in rhythm. Then the Second. The auxiliaries flowed in behind them, looser in formation but just as ready. Scouts returned constantly to the marching line — whispering updates, pointing new paths, handing off messages. A large part of the adventurer scout teams was figuring out where to march the army. There were no roads or paths for them yet, so they worked to find the best routes. Sarah's team moved alongside them, quiet and alert, already halfway between independent and integral.
The road — such as it was — barely deserved the name. It was a trail carved more by intent than structure, cleared through brush and marked by stone cairns every few hundred paces. Beth's engineers had done what they could in the few days they had, but it barely reached a couple of kilometers, and then they were breaking brush. But it was still wild country — ridgelines, old game trails, uneven footing, and the occasional fallen log that took half a squad to shift. It was a constant struggle to find a path that the Tatanka could manage with their wagons.
The Tatanka grunted and pulled. The men guiding them worked to keep them moving the right direction. The wagons creaked. Shields bumped in time with the march.
Hale kept the pace sharp but steady. March for an hour. Halt for ten minutes. Rotate squads, shift load bearers, and redistribute water. Then move again. It wasn't a forced march, but it wasn't easy. It was built to leave them tired, but not broken, and they didn't leave the wagons behind.
Even the adventurers kept up. There were numerous skirmishes through the day against some groups of goblins and the forest cats, but it was nothing the adventurers and scouts couldn't handle on their own. At one point, there was a crashing and thudding that shook the forest, but it was moving away, so they didn't bother running it down. Harold was worried it was a forest or hill troll.
By late afternoon, they reached the first day's target — a shallow basin between two low ridges, partially forested, but clear enough to make camp. It was defensible. Easily screened by scouts and a slow stream ran along the far edge.
Hale called the halt. Garrick and Carter assigned watches. The wagons were drawn into a loose square, with the potion wagon at the center. The legion didnt really have any tents. There were a couple of large shelters, but they weren't put up. Squads would have to make do with huddling by fires for warmth in the cool nights. Water was drawn, and rations were passed out. The squads moved like they'd done it before — because they had.
Harold walked the edge of the perimeter just as dusk fell, checking every detail. He didn't make them build a typical Roman marching camp; it was more important to get a few more kilometers in the early days than it was to have walls up.
Garrick took the first watch, with four squads. Evan rotated adventurer teams along the outer ring, overlapping with Hale's pickets. Mira sketched the terrain into her slate, noting where the trees thinned and where sightlines were broken. Jace and some of the other scouts built a simple perimeter trap with some thread and stakes. Theo kept to the fire, shield propped beside him.
Sarah didn't rest. She ran through sword drills by the edge of the camp, her steps quiet, precise, and deliberate.
By full dark, the camp was quiet — watchfires burning low, the army bedded down, weapons close to hand.
The command teams gathered near the center of the camp — no tents or chairs, just a flat rock they used as a map table, and the soft crunch of boots in cold grass. Breath steamed in the air—crows called in the distance. And the smell of weak stew and stronger tea drifted from the cooking fires.
Harold was already there, a rough cloak draped over his shoulders, eyes scanning the charcoal map Mira had marked on the slate. Garrick arrived first, stretching out his sword arm and rolling his shoulders. Carter followed, pulling his gloves on tight. Hale came next, as always, expression unreadable.
Evan stepped in last, a short nod exchanged with Hale, then Harold.
"Here's the latest updates from the scouts," Evan said.
Harold studied it. "Elevation?"
"Rolling hills. Enough slope to strain the wagons, but not bad enough to split the formation. Scouts marked two possible ambush choke points, but we flagged them last night. We can route around them with a slight detour. We're mostly descending from the plateau today through some of the open passes down into the basin proper."
Harold looked to Hale.
Hale grunted. "We detour. Not risking a tangle before we're even close, some of the dens near hear are going to be large ones."
Harold nodded. "Done My Lord."
Evan folded his arms. "My people are fine. No fatigue. We'll keep the scouts rotating in pairs, as we did yesterday. I want to shift one pair farther ahead, though. Make contact with that cave network that got spotted. Could be goblins, or something worse."
Harold agreed without hesitation. "Send your best. No heroics. I think the crashing we heard in the forest earlier was a forest troll; it could be a hill troll for this area, too, though. If we run into one, we will need fire to kill it. Take some of the resin torches."
Evan didn't smile, but he tapped a fist to his chest.
Evan pointed again at the map. "If we maintain pace, we'll hit the southern ridge by sundown. Good high ground. Decent field of view."
"That's tonight's camp," Harold confirmed.
Then he looked to Hale. "Anything else?"
Hale gave a short shake of his head. "Discipline's holding. No slackers. No complaints worth mentioning. Food distribution is clean. Gear's holding up. If something breaks, it's getting fixed fast. Tribune Tran knows his job."
"Alright, let's break camp and start moving. Speed is essential." Harold ordered.
They didn't linger. The officers dispersed with practiced ease, each heading to their squads, their teams, and their wagons.
Harold stayed behind for a moment, fingers resting on the slate, eyes on the path ahead.
Only Hale remained beside him.
"Something's coming," Hale said quietly. "You feel it too?"
Harold nodded once. "Yeah, we're being tracked. I'm hoping they decide we are too big to fight."
"Today?" Hale asked?
"Hmm," Harold grumbled..."I hope not, but maybe, the adventurers just don't have the perk accumulation to really flush this forest."
Hale grunted again, then turned back toward the waking camp, voice rising in command.
"Form up! First call! Shields on backs, ruck up! You've got two minutes to make me believe in you again!"
The army moved — slowly at first, then with purpose.
The sun was already slanting low when the warning came.
A sharp whistle — two notes, high and fast. One of Evan's scouts. Then another. Then a runner sprinting downhill through the trees, breath ragged.
"Movement! Goblins! East ridge! A lot of them!"
Everything snapped into motion.
"Form up!" Hale's voice cracked like a whip. "Optios—call your ranks!"
Shields came off backs in a wave. Training poles dropped, real swords drawn. The air filled with the sound of boots pounding dirt, of armor scraping, of names shouted across the column.
"Squad three, on me!"
"Shields up!"
"Form the line—now!"
The scouts had bought them minutes—maybe less. But it was enough.
Harold vaulted up onto a low stump, scanning the treeline. Black shapes moved fast through the brush, dozens of them, maybe more. It was goblins and too many for a simple raid. Worse, he caught glimpses of something larger in their wake, broader shoulders and metal glints that could only be hobgoblins. The ridge narrowed where the shield wall had to hold its ground, limiting their maneuverability and creating a natural choke point. It heightened the tension, as Harold could see that any misstep in such tight quarters would leave them vulnerable.
Hale was already in front of the line, voice iron.
"First century! Shield wall forward! Second century, left flank hold! Keep it tight!"
Garrick and Carter bellowed commands, batons raised. The line stretched across the narrow field just ahead of the planned camp — grass torn up by boots, eyes forward. The second century wheeled smoothly into position next to the first and linked their shields forming a solid line of shield against the oncoming horde.
Then the goblins crested the ridge. And charged.
They came screaming with no formation or plan. Just raw numbers and hate, slamming toward the center like a tide of knives and green skin.
The line held. Shields were braced and feet dug in. The first wave hit like a wave crashing against stone.
Goblins smashed into the formation with shrieks and steel, blades scraping over shields. Soldiers grunted under the impact and dug their feet in, but not a line broke. Swords jabbed through gaps and the goblins began to scream.
"Hold!" Hale shouted. "Steady!"
The line absorbed the second wave. More goblins hurled themselves forward. Then two hobgoblins joined the rush, barreling toward the right side — Harold saw the formation bend, but not break.
"PUSH!" Hale roared.
The command was thunder.
With a sudden, synchronized movement, the entire line surged forward. Shields slammed into goblin bodies, staggering them, throwing the front line back a step. And in that space—
Swords flashed.
Goblins screamed and died, hacked apart before they could recover.
"Reset!" Hale snapped.
The line drew back, just slightly, locking shields again.
Then—
"PUSH!"
Another wave of violence. Another crash of shields. Another sharp thrust of blades into exposed throats and bellies. The field stank of blood and churned earth.
The goblin charge faltered.
And that's when Evan's team arrived.
The adventurers swept in from the right flank like a blade drawn from the dark — sixty strong, teeth bared, weapons flashing. Sarah's team led the charge, silent and swift. Followed by a sharp-looking team led by a fierce blonde woman.
The goblins broke.
What hadn't been crushed between the legions and adventurers scattered into the trees, shrieking and scrambling. A few of the hobgoblins tried to rally — one even charged Evan directly.
It didn't make it three steps towards him before he was killed.
Then it was over.
Harold dropped from the stump, boots hitting the dirt.
He exhaled — slow.
Hale called over the chaos, "Optios! Get your counts! Check wounded! 1st—secure the field. 2nd, lock the flanks!"
Harold walked through the aftermath, stepping over twitching bodies. Some still groaned, some didnt but none were from the legion.
The field still stank of sweat and blood when Harold stepped away from the line and called for Hale.
"Garrick. Carter. Evan."
The officers broke from their formations and made for him at a jog, blood spattered, but alert. Evan had a cut along his cheek, and his cloak was torn at the shoulder — but he moved with purpose.
Harold didn't waste a breath. He turned to Hale first.
"That wasn't a random warband. That was too many, and they hit too fast and aggressively. That close to where we meant to camp?" He shook his head. "There's a den near here. Has to be."
Hale nodded once. "I thought the same. Their cohesion was too good for a wild group."
Harold turned to Evan, his voice clipped.
"Your scouts missed it."
Evan didn't flinch. "Yeah. They did." He looked toward the treeline. "Could've been underground in the tunnels. Could've moved in behind us from another line. We'll find it."
"Not later," Harold said. "Now," Harold commanded.
He looked between them — the weight of command cold in his voice. He was new to command like this but something about him made them listen. Harold could feel his starter perk flaring when he spoke urging them to listen to him.
"We don't camp with that thing behind us. I won't leave it to fester or wait for another ambush. It's here, and if we leave it alone, it'll track us." Harold said.
Hale nodded. "Then we'll finish it."
"Good," Harold said. "We sweep the whole sector. I want both centuries ready to deploy within the hour—March light. No wagons. No supplies beyond what they can carry for a short engagement."
Carter stepped forward. "You want both on this?"
Harold didn't hesitate. "If it's big enough to throw that many bodies at us now, it's big enough to deserve our full weight. We eliminate it tonight — or we can't move forward. We'll leave a large detail to protect the wagons."
Evan cracked his knuckles, grim. "We'll scout ahead again. Tighter formation and we'll find the hole."
Harold nodded, bending down to pick up a small goblin sword, "You're with Hale this time. We crush it fast."
He turned to Garrick and Carter.
"Prep your squads. I want ranks checked, wounds pulled, gear replaced. You have until we find the den to loot the dead. I want as many of those hobgoblin spears as we can get."
Then he looked toward the forest, where the last goblin body twitched in the grass.
"And next time," he said to Hale and Evan, "I don't want the warning to come that late, that proves our need for a dedicated scout program."