Harold crouched beside Hale and Garrick, feeling the mud squelch between his fingers from the recent work on the trench. The metallic scent of sweat mixed with the earthy aroma of the churned soil filled his senses, grounding him in the gritty reality of the battlefield. Suddenly, a scout came sprinting from the treeline.
"Contact!" the soldier gasped. "It's them! The scouting teams are back — and they're being chased."
Hale sprang up, his voice booming over the chaos. "Form the line! Drop tools! Weapons up!"
In an instant, legionaries were on the move. Shovels hit the ground. Shields clattered into place. A rush as spears were yanked from where they stacked them. Orders barked. Ranks filled. The sound of soldiers scrambling to their positions echoed through the clearing.
The banner of the First Century unfurled to the left, scarlet against the dark trees. The second century flew their banner on the right — patched but proud. And in the center, rising above it all, was the black and silver banner of Harold's banner, still stained from the last battle but held high. His position marked for everyone to know.
"Make ready!" Hale shouted. "Shields tight! Eyes forward!"
As the legion snapped into place, Harold could already hear it — the crashing underbrush. Shouts and footfalls. Then they saw them:
Vera's team broke through first, emerging at a sprint, bows in hand and blood on their cloaks. At a sharp whistle from Vera, her team turned on the run — planting their feet just long enough to loose a volley of arrows behind them before continuing their retreat.
Right behind them came Sarah's team — faster, rougher. They were half-dragging Theo between them, the big man limping hard, one arm slung over Jace's shoulder. Harold took a moment to wonder why he was always the injured guy.
And at the center, streaked with dirt and sweat, was Sarah. Her eyes locked with Harold's across the clearing. She was panting, wild-eyed — but smiling.
She lifted something above her head. "We got it!" she shouted. In her hand, the relic gleamed — faintly pulsing with its own light.
Harold felt something rise in his chest — pride, relief, fury at what was about to come — and he turned toward his soldiers.
"Alright, boys!" he roared. "The adventurers had their fun— now it's our turn!"
He unsheathed his sword and pointed toward the treeline, his voice steady and loud.
"This is our line! Not one step back!"
All along the trench, legionaries echoed the cry — shields slamming down into the earth, spears braced forward, the clatter of discipline. Spears were angled out, the line bristled with spear points ready to make anyone who approached pay. The Prime Century was ready.
And just in time. Because from the trees ahead, the first wave came.
Raptor cavalry burst out of the jungle — six of them at once, bounding across the ground at a dead sprint. Their riders leaned low, curved blades in hand, not slowing for anything.
Sarah's team had just cleared the makeshift plank bridge across the trench when the riders hit it.
The legion pulled the board back at the last second, and the cavalry launched itself.
They leapt — mounts and riders alike, clearing the trench in flying arcs. But they were met mid-air by a forest of spears.
One rider flew from his saddle and was impaled mid-jump. Another had his raptor drop out from under him, skewered by two spears in the chest. One rider made it through — only to be cut down by a backline legionary with a short sword.
Garrick, in the center front of the century, barked out, "Well, that's one way to deliver dinner! Never had raptor before!"
Laughter answered him — brief, sharp. And then more movement came from the trees.
The first wave fell back into the undergrowth, broken and bloodied. Raptor corpses twitched in the trench. But no one relaxed.
Because now, the forest itself seemed to breathe.
Shapes moved in the shadows — scores of them. Dozens became hundreds, slinking through the underbrush. Kobolds, armored in dark leather over their natural scales, emerged in loose skirmish lines.
Archers first.
They crept to the edges of the treeline, bows drawn and watching. Their eyes glinted yellow in the dim light. Then — just as quickly — they melted back into the trees.
"They're testing us," Hale said grimly. "Feeling out the line."
A horn blew, low and long. And then they saw him.
From the brush emerged a knot of taller kobolds — these heavier, their leather armor reinforced with bone and chitin. Shields locked, formation tight.
At the center of their cluster was a massive, scaled beast — a komodo-like creature the size of a small wagon. Atop it rode a smaller kobold, gaunt and swaying in his saddle. One claw held a carved staff of gnarled wood. The other clutched the reins.
He was surrounded by a personal guard — the same tower-shield bearers that had tried to stop Sarah.
"That's him," Harold said. "Their commander."
"And he's looking right at you," Hale muttered.
Harold stared back. The two leaders locked eyes across the field — no words, just the charged silence of knowing. Then Harold held up the satchel Sarah had returned and began handing out its contents — small, heavy bottles. The explosive potions. Not as many as last time, but it would have to be enough.
He passed them to runners, who hurried them down the line.
The kobold commander raised his hand.
Dozens of archers stepped forward.
"Testudo!" Hale barked.
The front line of legionaries dropped to a knee, shields locking in front. The second line raised theirs over the first — a shell of overlapping iron. The third rank angled theirs above.
The volley came.
Arrows hissed through the air, slamming into shields. Some bounced, some stuck. A few punched deep enough to wobble. But none made it through.
When the volley paused, Hale raised his voice.
"First rank — hold! Third rank, javelins ready!"
The third line lowered their shields behind the front, javelins in hand.
"Loose!"
The javelins flew — thick, the makeshift javelins built for punch, but barely enough to punch through the light scales. They crashed into the kobold lines with a forceful clap, slamming shields aside and punching through leather. Dozens dropped, snarling, some still trying to crawl.
The kobold commander gave no signal — he didn't need to.
The second wave charged.
The archers dropped back. The shield-line advanced. And now they were close enough that arrows became a hindrance.
The trench was the only thing between them and the legion.
Hale shouted, "Spears! Lock shields! HOLD THIS LINE!"
The kobolds came.
They didn't stop. They leapt across the trench, trying to clear it entirely — trying to land in the line, not on it.
And some did.
Spears caught the first few mid-air, impaling them. But others used their shields to deflect, crashing into the ranks. One smashed into a legionary and rolled, stabbing wildly before being cut down.
Breach points.
Harold's eyes tracked them automatically — two left, two center, one right.
"Hale! Get them ready for another throw!"
Hale was already shouting — "Pattern Blue!"
Second and third ranks reached for satchel pouches, pulling the bottles free.
Only a handful this time.
They threw.
The explosions rocked the trench — fire, heat, shockwaves that slammed into the kobolds packed tight in the ditch and beyond. Bodies flung into the air. Smoke filled the gaps. The legion reset.
The breach lines were bloody. But they were holding.
Then — from the rear — the kobold commander raised his staff again. The lizard roared, low and guttural.
Harold watched as a runner handed him a horn — and blew.
Another wave surged from the treeline. Another jump.
This time, the whole field shook.
"Pattern Blue again?" Garrick called.
Harold's grip on his sword tightened involuntarily, the slickness of sweat making him almost lose his hold. His voice was rough, edged with weariness. "No, we're out," Harold growled. The toll of battle lingered in every strained word.
He stepped forward, toward the trench — his Carter tried to stop him, but he raised a hand.
"Stop, he's being too smart, we need to stop this momentum," Harold shouted.
He lifted the glowing mushroom relic high above his head.
The kobold commander's eyes snapped to it instantly.
Harold shouted, voice raw with fury:
"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? THEN COME TAKE IT!"
For a second, the entire field went silent.
And then Hale roared, picking up the cry.
"KILL THESE LIZARDS! HOLD THE LINE!"
The kobolds screamed back — high, shrill cries of rage — and the discipline they had was gone.
They charged.
The kobolds surged as a tide unleashed — no more formations, no more coordination. Just fury.
They came screaming, weapons raised, crashing into the trench with wild, reckless energy. Shield or not, it didn't matter now. They meant to tear the legion apart with claw, blade, and numbers.
"On my mark!" Hale shouted. "One step back — just one!"
His voice carried, taken up by the optics and repeated down the line.
"One step back!"
"One step back!"
"Mark!"
The legion mostly moved as one, shifting a single pace back from the trench line.
It was just enough.
The kobolds, mid-jump, didn't adjust. Their momentum carried them over the trench and into space — expecting to crash into men, into shields — and instead landing in the open.
Spears met them midair. Swords slashed as they landed.
Kobolds dropped in waves.
"Hold!" Hale bellowed. "This is our ground!"
The legion dug in, planting boots and shields. Spears stabbed through gaps. Shields slammed into faces. Blades swung from the second rank, catching exposed arms, legs, throats.
The trench became a killing zone. Kobolds clawed at the dirt to get up and over, but every time they rose, they were cut down by the mass of spears.
Still, more came.
One wave. Then another.
The line began to groan. Shields cracked. Blood sprayed. Legionaries grunted and shouted — pushing back, bracing, stabbing in rhythm.
"Push!" came the call.
The front rank surged forward, shoving shields into the enemy. The second line stabbed over their shoulders. Then:
"Shield!"
They reset. Stepped back. Let the next wave hit. Repeated.
Push!
Shield!
Kobolds were cut down in their mindless rage.
Push!
Shield!
And then — from the center — something massive moved.
The lizard was coming.
It smashed through the brush, snarling. Its scales were a dull, rocky grey, but its mouth glistened red. A kobold sat atop it, clutching the reins, shrieking something in their strange tongue.
Around it came the commander's personal guard — the tower-shield kobolds, forming a wedge.
They hit the trench like a hammer and flowed over it.
The line buckled.
The lizard leapt, jaws wide, and landed in the center ranks. Men screamed. Blood splashed. The commander on its back howled, stabbing downward with a hooked spear.
"Pattern Red!" Hale roared.
From the rear, mana users surged forward — blades glowing, limbs crackling with their mana. They crashed into the guards' flanks.
They were working to cut through anything the guard had left exposed. They would cut through shields and flesh in one strike. In moments, the guard was decimated. They would try to hold, but there was no blocking the mana-clad blades.
But the lizard spun — tail whipping, smashing three legionaries into paste. That he crushed one of his own guards, too, didn't matter.
Harold stepped forward.
His guards tried to block him, but he shoved past.
"We go now!" he barked.
Hale stepped back from the fight and met Harold's furious gaze. "Stop, my lord, let us do our jobs. We can't rely on you to do everything."
Then — from behind — a high, piercing whistle.
A javelin screamed through the air — no ordinary throw.
It struck the kobold commander square in the chest — exploding with a familiar force. How she attached that potion to her spearhead was a mystery.
The beast reared, shrieking — and the kobold rider fell backward, lifeless, his body tumbling from the saddle into the ditch.
Harold's eyes snapped to the treeline.
He caught just a glimpse — Vera lowering her arm.
The impact shattered the kobolds' coordination.
Where before they fought in a formation, now they scattered, snarling and snapping — no longer a warband, just angry individuals.
Hale didn't hesitate.
"Advance!"
The call echoed.
"Forward!"
The legion pressed forward, not in a wild charge, but with a calculated, brutal march. Step, strike. Step, strike. Shields up. Blades stabbing low. Each movement was deliberate, driven by a muscle memory carved from unyielding discipline.
The trench was theirs now, the taste of victory bitter under the metallic tang of blood and sweat. Kobolds fell by the dozen, the remnants of chaos left behind.
But for a brief moment, as the dust settled, the legion paused. The air hung heavy, cradling a collective breath.
And then — just like that — the last one broke and ran.