The underbrush broke with a whip of branches and snapping ferns as the first scouts came sprinting back through the trees.
"Pressure building!" one of them called breathlessly as she passed by, eyes wide but controlled. "More contact. Multiple points."
Another followed, cloak torn, bow in hand, blood that wasn't hers flecking her sleeve. They weren't panicked. Just quick and focused. They started pulling back into the space behind the center of the formation where Hale had ordered the reserve to anchor.
The column rippled in response. Commands passed smoothly down the line, no shouting or confusion. Just squads shifting formation as they had practiced, shields unlocked, spacing adjusted. Holding this formation was crucial—if they couldn't maintain the choke point amidst the trees, the entire column could be compromised. It was a practiced maneuver, but the trees and vines were getting in the way, and they had trouble tucking in as close as they were supposed to.
Harold stood near the center line, Tatanka, watching it happen in real time.
"Here we go," he muttered.
From his left, Hale approached at a jog, already shifting his slate to his back and freeing his offhand for signaling. "Frontline scouts are back in the fold," he reported without being asked. "Reserve is folding tight back to you. You want full engagement?"
"Centuries forward," Harold said. "Reserve holds for now. Let's keep the adventurers tucked close."
Hale nodded once, then moved — like muscle memory.
Evan came close to Harold.
"Ive still got people on the sides making sure they don't try to turn our flanks."
To the right, Carter was already directing his first line forward, the tight formation snapping from column into a fluid forward spear. Garrick's group mirrored the move a heartbeat later — both centuries moving up to intercept the first visible goblin forms slipping between trees ahead.
They didn't charge or scream; it was a silent swarm of goblins from the front.
Scattered shadows moving low to the ground. Bone piercings and patch-leather armor. Short swords, jagged spears. Their bodies bent and nimble, faces half-painted in streaks of red and black.
Harold stepped forward three paces. The trees ahead thickened, branches clawing at the open air. Somewhere farther in, a guttural screech pierced the ambient noise — not a call to charge, but a signal.
The goblins came on faster now.
Dozens. Then dozens more. A soldier two ranks ahead adjusted his grip on his shield, foot tapping once against the forest floor.
Evan rejoined him, breathing steady. "We've got contact on both flanks. Nothing heavy yet. My people are holding for now."
"Then we need to hold," Harold replied. "Let them come."
The goblins did. And the Legion met them head-on.
The clash came hard and fast.
There was no time to prep their javelins and throw them. The forest was too dense, and the goblins came too fast.
The front ranks of goblins met the Centuries in a chaotic crash of shields, claws, and short blades. No clean battle lines. Just violent momentum. But the Legion held. Mostly.
Hale stood just behind Garrick's flank, eyes sweeping the field.
"They're not pressing the sides," he muttered. "And there's barely any ranged support. Why aren't they enveloping?"
Harold was watching too, brow furrowed. Goblins were pouring in — yes — but not in overwhelming numbers. Enough to make it messy. Not enough to threaten collapse.
That's when the first berserker hit.
It slammed into one of Carter's squads like a boulder —its weapon a rusted metal bar in its fists and a mouth full of teeth. The soldier who was hit went down with a crushed helm. Another stumbled back, shield cracked. The thing howled — a shrill, inhuman sound — and charged again.
The line staggered.
"Hold!" Hale barked, already moving.
Another berserker came from the side — low, bounding on all fours before leaping up and over a shield wall. A legionary tried to block, but wasn't fast enough. The beast's club caught him in the ribs and sent him spinning.
"They're breaking through!" Garrick shouted from the left. "Pattern Red!"
Hale didn't hesitate.
"Mana users up!" he bellowed. "Pattern Red! Pattern Red!"
The call echoed down the line. From behind the second ranks, five soldiers moved quickly — sharper, more practiced. Each reached inward, fists clenching as mana surged through their limbs. Their skin shimmered faintly — a pulse of energy flowing over bone and muscle.
Reinforcement magic. The kind that hardened bone, sharpened reflex, made them faster and stronger.
One of them launched forward, intercepting a charging berserker, slamming it back with a reinforced shoulder, and finishing it with a clean slash to the neck. Another leapt over the formation entirely, driving a spear through the torso of a berserker already tangled with two of Garrick's men.
The plan was working.
This was the drill Harold and Hale had worked out with Carter and Garrick the day before. The hours spent preparing and sacrificing sleep, the resources diverted for extra mana training, and the strain on supplies were felt by everyone. Yet, this investment in a designated reaction team of mana-capable legionaries embedded behind the lines was precisely for moments like this. Every bead of sweat shed in training now paid off on the battlefield.
The berserkers were strong, but dumb. Once faced with true resistance, they faltered.
Still, they were slowing the advance.
Garrick's right flank was reforming, but at a cost. Hale saw two men down. Another limped from the line, arm dangling, making his way toward the triage Tribune Tran had set up behind the formation. Tran was already there, handing out potions, slapping shoulders, sending men back into the fight.
A goblin spearman tried to press the advantage and caught a blade to the face for his trouble by a lunging legionary.
Hale stepped in, helping one squad re-lock their shields.
"They're trying to pin us," he said aloud, voice cutting through the noise. "This isn't the full swarm."
He glanced back at Harold, trying to communicate what he realized — and what might be coming next.
The wind shifted—just a little.
Enough for Harold to smell smoke.
Before he could speak, the first fire arrow arced overhead — lazy, almost beautiful. It trailed a red line across the gray canopy before it sank into one of the rear wagons.
The oiled tarp burst into flame on impact.
Another arrow struck a ration crate. Then another. The tatanka screamed.
The rear of the column exploded into motion — not a rout, not chaos, but the kind of ripple that could turn deadly fast. Drivers shouted. Soldiers wheeled, eyes up, trying to find the source. The rear reserve snapped to attention, the few shields they had rising, but the fire was spreading, and the tatanka were panicking.
"Rear contact!" someone shouted.
Harold's eyes locked onto the treeline behind them. And then he saw them.
Emerging from the brush like a tide — dozens of hobgoblins in tight formation, heavy shields, and red paint streaked across their faces. Behind them, two lumbering trolls, each the size of a wagon, thick hides layered in patchwork armor. And in front of them all — a massive hobgoblin, broad as a wall, warhammer resting across one shoulder.
They were just watching.
"Shit," Harold muttered. "I knew something was off."
"They weren't trying to win the front. They were holding us."
Then, all at once, it moved. The hammer dropped. The hobgoblin commander bellowed something guttural and sharp.
Arrows launched again — thicker this time, faster. Dozens. Evan's adventurers scrambled back from the flanks, already pulling into motion.
Harold's eyes flicked between the burning wagon, the surging rear threat, and the Centuries still entangled up front.
We're split." The words left Harold's mouth with an involuntary whisper, tinged with an edge of uncertainty that cut through the battlefield chaos.
A javelin clattered near his feet, shot wild from the treeline. Behind them, the Tatanka were bucking, eyes rolling, drivers yelling in vain to calm them. The supply line was minutes away from collapse. Tran was there working to calm them and get them away from the fire.
Harold's eyes roved the fight, looking desperately for Hale. Off in Garrick's Century, he saw Hale trying to get his attention. Harold saw him and shouted. "Pattern blue!"
Hale's head whipped back around. "Pattern blue! Pattern blue! On my mark!"
The command flew down the line like lightning — repeated Optio to Optio, rank to rank.
"Pattern blue!"
"Mark!"
From the second ranks of the centuries, a dozen soldiers snapped forward — each pulling a potion from their side-packs—thick red liquid with glowing orange flecks — like tiny sparks trapped in syrup.
They hurled them high and hard, arcing them just over the front lines, deep into the goblin ranks.
The first one hit.
And erupted.
It wasn't fire — not really, more like a violent shockwave of combustion, pressure, and force exploding outward. Goblins screamed as they were thrown back — some broken against trees, others shredded by force alone.
Another hit. Then another.
Ten potions. Each clearing a blast radius of nearly ten feet.
Dozens of goblins were erased. The front line staggered — goblins tumbling over their own dead, ranks faltering.
And then Hale roared, "Advance!"
The Centuries surged.
No hesitation. Just boots hitting churned earth and shields locking tight. Swords rose and fell in rhythm. The gap created by the explosive potions gave them just enough breathing room to break through the stalled goblin front.
Garrick's men led the charge, blades flashing. Carter's right followed, cutting down stragglers. Berserkers tried to regroup but were crushed under coordinated spear thrusts and mana-enhanced strikes.
And all the while, Harold turned to Evan.
"Now," Harold snapped. "That force in the rear — hit them. Harass them, slow them down. Buy us time."
Evan's eyes were already on it, calculating. "You know this isn't a fight we can win. I'll give you as much time as we can." Evan said.
Harold looked at him. "Good thing you'll respawn! Go!" He'll be annoyed if he has to go back and re-earn a perk but he needed him to delay that force.
The Adventurer gave a sharp nod and vanished into the trees, already barking orders to his teams.
The goblin commander in the rear saw it all.
He watched his front ranks collapse under the unexpected force of alchemical fire.
He snarled something in his own language, lifted the warhammer from his shoulder, and screamed. His force began to move — not a charge, but an accelerated march. Pushing forward. Trying to reach the center before the Legion's centuries could reevaluate.
But the harassment began immediately. Arrows from Evan's teams. Javelins. Even rocks, anything that would slow them down. Enough to force shields up.
It wasn't enough, and Harold didn't wait.
He turned from the front just as the last of the explosive shockwaves faded behind him. The path was opening — but not fast enough.
The rear was in chaos.
Tatanka were bucking, one already down with a broken yoke, another dragging half a wagon sideways. The supply train, crucial and vulnerable, was about to be overrun. The trolls were almost on them, lumbering forward with unnatural speed, one stepping straight over a log like it wasn't there. Behind them came the hobgoblins — tighter formations, heavy shields, sharp discipline. Not the usual goblin rabble. This was trained muscle.
"On me!" Harold shouted, already moving. His bodyguards peeled off the flank, forming a wedge with him at the center.
Ten soldiers from the supply escort joined them, shields raised, forming an uneven block near the fires. Behind them, adventurers fell in — not a cohesive formation, just the ones who hadn't yet been pulled into the front or the harassment teams. Enough to delay the force coming at them.
"Form up tight!" Harold barked. "Hold the gap!"
The first wave hit seconds later.
Hobgoblins, not goblins — heavier, stronger, better armed. The Legionaries met them with a wall of shields and the crack of iron. A line just barely held, a clash of brute strength and desperate footing.
To Harold's right, one of his bodyguards cried out — not from injury, but sheer exertion. His blade drove into a hobgoblin's gut, then caught halfway on bone. Another hacked at the opening with an axe before Harold's sword pushed into his neck.
The line didn't break yet, but then came the berserkers.
They hit like wrecking balls — screaming, wild-eyed, swinging crude clubs the size of tree branches. One smashed into the shield wall and collapsed it outright, sending two legionaries sprawling. A gap opened. Another charged through and slammed a younger adventurer across the ground like a sack of grain.
Harold's sword flicked up and caught the creature just under the jaw, mana-coated steel shearing through tendon and bone.
But more were coming.
"Squeeze it!" Harold yelled. "Shoulder to shoulder! You give them a gap, they'll tear through!"
Adventurers were already falling. They weren't built for this kind of line work. They were too light and too scattered. They werent armoured. One woman with a sword half her size tried to parry a hobgoblin's axe and got thrown for the effort.
Harold saw one of his bodyguards — the bannerman — now using his sword, the banner planted in the dirt behind him, its cloth fluttering with each shockwave. The man fought like he wasn't ready to die yet. He parried one sword and whipped his sword through another goblin before moving it back to the original foe.
Then Harold's skin prickled.
The sense — that old instinct, honed from a life that ended badly — flared up in his spine.
He turned just in time to see Sarah.
Her team had peeled off from the reserves and was now flanking the first troll. Two engaged it from the front, swords flashing but barely scratching the hide. Sarah herself was behind it, lunging in with twin goblin blades. She slashed at the back of its knee, the only real vulnerable point. It demonstrated what he had been trying to tell his council: the adventurers needed time to accumulate perks and tools to be super effective. They just didn't have the power to kill a troll quickly. The mana-capable soldiers could do it, but not them.
But the troll just grunted and shifted — the blade bit, but didn't go deep enough. She turned and pulled a potion from her bag and tossed it immediately at the troll's head.
It exploded, tossing her and her team away from the troll, but the troll also staggered.
"No." He surged.
Mana surged through him like a second pulse. His will firmed, and he commanded the mana in his body, hardening, speed snapping into overdrive. His sword lit with raw energy as he closed the gap, cutting down two hobgoblins in a blur. One tried to duck. He didn't duck fast enough. The two legendary perks powered his mana body to move, and Harold made his presence known.
Harold was in the thick of it now — rage, fear, clarity. The sound of it all dimmed.
He wasn't thinking about the battle. He was thinking about her.
In his last life, he was the one broken. Tortured. Sliced, his body used for fun. He remembered the cold of a cell. The taste of blood in his mouth. But that pain didn't compare to the thought of watching her die. He knew it didn't make sense. She would respawn, but emotions rarely made sense.
A berserker tried to flank him from the left — wild swing, rusted club. Harold didn't hesitate. He cut through the weapon and straight into the creature's skull, splitting it clean in two.
The trolls were advancing now — both of them. Each step is a thunderclap. The line was breaking.
To his right, one of his bodyguards took a black-fletched arrow to the eye and went down without a word. Another lost a leg to the swing of a broadsword and was dragged back by a pair of adventurers.
Sarah's team was up and still trying to flank the troll, but they were being forced back. Another teammate — the big guy with the round shield — took a hit straight to the ribs and dropped.
The second troll reached the front line.
People screamed.
Harold lifted his sword, eyes locking with the goblin commander now stalking forward behind the trolls. He noticed the goblin commander adjust his grip on the massive warhammer, fingers tightening around the handle. Almost instinctively, Harold mirrored the motion, shifting his own grasp on his weapon, feeling the familiar weight settling perfectly into his palm. The two leaders, though separated by the chaos of battle, reflected each other's readiness for the inevitable clash.
The massive hobgoblin had eyes like coal and a warhammer that looked like it was made from a building's support beam. It crushed an adventurer with one blow, then turned—eyes meeting Harold's.
They both moved at once.