The Optios were peeling away, heading back to their squads. Orders had been given. Schedules finalized. There was nothing left to discuss, only the slow, grinding weight of readiness ahead of battle. Around them, the air was thick with anticipation, and the metallic scent of oiled weapons mingled with the distant clatter of armor plates being adjusted for the coming fight.
Harold stood a few paces from the ridge's edge, arms folded behind his back, eyes tracking the pattern of discipline spreading outward like muscle memory.
Then it came—just a quiet flicker in his vision.
PERK ACQUIRED
Detainer (uncommon)
Enemy soldiers under a rival Human Lord have a 5% increased chance to surrender when facing a superior force.
He stared at it for exactly three seconds, then dismissed it with a blink.
Across the field, Hale was already halfway down the slope, giving short clipped nods as squads formed ranks. Evan trailed more loosely, chatting with a pair of adventurers before veering toward the campfires.
Harold raised a hand, getting their attention, and both men angled back toward him without hesitation.
They met him at the corner of the command fire, where no ears lingered.
"I just got a perk," Harold said without preamble.
That stopped them both.
Evan tilted his head. "Now?"
"Just now," Harold confirmed. "While they were walking away."
"What is it?" Hale asked, calm but alert.
Harold didn't make them wait.
"Detainer. 5% chance of enemy soldiers surrendering. Only applies to soldiers under another Human Lord."
There was a pause while both figured out the implications.
"So we have another Lord poking around," Evan said quietly.
"Looks like it," Harold said matter-of-factly.
"Someone sent a soldier this close to our line, or it was initiative on his part. Either one is a bold move; we aren't exactly hiding right here." Hale added, expression unreadable.
"Mm, we'll know soon enough. I know we have a strong picket line out there, but what do you think about setting a Quick Reaction Force for the night? Just in case." Harold asked.
"Maybe one team from the adventurers as well," Harold said.
Hale looked at him calmly, "I'll make sure it's done, it's a good idea, at least until we know what we are up against."
Harold nodded once. "Either way, it wasn't random. And I want to know who caught him."
"I'll get names too," Hale said immediately.
"Better yet," Harold replied. "Let's go meet them."
They hadn't walked far before a runner caught them — one of Tran's logistics aides, breathing fast but trying to keep his composure.
"Sir," the runner said, saluting awkwardly. "A prisoner was brought in just now. Captured near the southern perimeter. They thought you'd want to be notified directly."
Harold didn't stop walking. "What kind of prisoner?"
"Human and bound, some kind of scout. The Adventurer team says he was sneaking in slowly and was really careful."
Harold glanced at Evan. "One of yours?"
Evan's smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If they ghosted him before he noticed… yeah. I've got a guess. That team has been very effective so far."
They reached the area where Tribune Tran had made his own when the adventurer team walked in, escorting the prisoner.
Five of them moved with confidence, each clad in practical, dust-streaked leathers. Weapons were minimal—no gaudy insignia, no clinking metals—just the essentials. Their attire was tightly-wrapped, with scavenged goblin sword hilts secured on back-sheaths. Short javelins, fire-blackened and bound with leather cords, stowed at their sides. The entire group had the purposeful look of fighters who knew the land.
The leader wore a tattered scarf high over her face, shadowing her expression but not her eyes. She moved like she'd been born in the underbrush — quiet and watchful. On her right, a smaller woman walked with a bright, bouncing step and a grin she couldn't quite suppress. She carried a bow, but awkwardly, as if she didn't know how to use it. Behind them, two lean men traded quiet jokes under their breath, one flipping a javelin between his fingers like a coin. The last woman, braid tight, carried herself like stone. She mostly just stood there, but Harold didn't fancy a tussle with her.
Their prisoner walked in the center, hands loosely bound in front of him, feet shuffling in worn boots. He wasn't resisting.
Harold's eyes locked on him immediately.
Ash smeared his face. His leather was worn, scratched up from brush and bark. He had burrs stuck in his sleeves and streaks of dried mud across his jawline. Young and fit. Probably a soldier, but not soft. And absolutely not one of Harold's.
Most telling of all—he looked around the Landing with barely concealed awe.
Harold turned slightly. "Is that him?"
"Dragged him in ourselves," said the scarved woman. Her voice was low, even. "Didn't see us until we had steel at his throat."
"He try to run?" Hale asked.
"Nope," said the grinning one. "He was trying to get closer, we took his bow too, better than anything we've seen so far. Those goblin ones aren't worth much."
Evan stepped forward, already smiling. "Vera. Lyn. Dorrin. Maggs. Tresh. Can't say I'm surprised."
Vera looked at Evan with a small smile, just trying to earn an early spot in that dungeon."
Harold nodded toward the javelins. "Custom?"
"Sharpened stakes, my Lord," Vera said. "Fire-hardened and balanced to throw."
"And the goblin swords?" Hale added.
"They don't need 'em anymore," said Dorrin with a shrug. Tresh grinned.
Harold studied the team for a few long seconds. All of them are quiet, competent, and dangerous without needing to posture.
"You five just earned a perk for the Landing," he said finally. "You'll be rewarded."
Vera blinked once. The stone-faced Maggs gave a slow nod.
"Mark their team and contribution in the campaign book," Harold told Evan. "I want it recorded and see if we have any better ranged weapons in the stockpile we can give them now."
"Already had the pen out," Evan said he mimed writing something down on his slate tablet.
Stolen story; please report.
Harold looked back at the scout. The boy — because that's what he looked like now, up close — stood still under the attention. Not completely afraid but clearly out of his depth.
He'd made it through the pickets, which took patience and at least some skill.
Harold pointed to a nearby unoccupied fire. "Let's see what he has to say."
The camp was quieter near Tribune Marcus's position, the fires more spaced, the soldiers older in their discipline. No tents — just legionaries in tight formation around their squad fires, working gear, cleaning weapons, rotating through watch without needing to be told.
Torren sat near one of the smaller fires, hands loosely tied in front of him. He wasn't guarded like a criminal — just observed. He hadn't tried to run.
Harold dragged over a fire-blackened log and sat across from him. Hale and Evan remained standing, just behind.
The scout looked up, blinking at the three of them. Ash still smeared his cheeks. One cut ran along the ridge of his knuckle, probably from brush or rocks. He looked worn, not beaten — more like a man who'd been pushing too hard in the woods and run out of luck.
Harold studied him a moment, then spoke evenly.
"Name?" Harold asked.
"Torren," he replied, his voice wavering slightly.
"Dalen's Hold?" Harold said back.
Torren's eyes widened. "I didn't… I haven't told you that yet."
Harold didn't blink. "You didn't need to."
Torren hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm from Dalen's Hold."
"You were sent?" Harold asked again.
He shook his head. "No, sir. It wasn't an order or anything. I scout southeast of the hold, my regular pattern. Two or three hours out. I smelled fire. Heard wood being split. Not normal, not out here. So I got curious. Came slowly to take a look."
He looked at Harold and asked, "Am I a prisoner?" Torren asked.
Harold gave a single nod. "For now, yes, you are my friend."
Torren didn't argue. He just sat a little straighter.
"You're portal-born?" Hale asked.
"If you're asking, was I recruited for the crucible? Yes, sir. Recruited two weeks ago. Spent my time since in the woods, scouting and dodging goblins."
"You trap?" Evan asked, motioning to his hands.
"Used to. My da taught me." He gestured vaguely behind him. "Not much good against kobolds, but decent for foxes."
Harold leaned in slightly. "What did you expect to find when you came closer?"
Torren gave a faint, tired smile. "Not this."
Then he looked around.
"This is too organized. You've got patrols running like clockwork and dug earthworks in a day. Stakes set in lines. Soldiers working in formation — no slop. Your adventurers actually cooperate with the camp. Ours mostly disappear once the gate closes."
He shook his head. "I didn't know you were real."
Harold didn't answer that.
Instead, he asked, "What's deeper in the forest?"
Torren shifted slightly on the log. "Two groups. Goblins and kobolds. Not fighting now and not working together either. Just holding ground. Almost like they're watching or guarding something. We're right lucky they haven't just attacked us. We wouldnt be able to hold."
"How many?" Hale asked.
"Three hundred kobolds, maybe. Four hundred goblins. Hard to count — they don't mass up except when they raid. There was a skirmish yesterday. Goblins lost maybe 100 against our earthworks. We have enough kobold bows now to hurt them when they come after us. They're still not weak, though."
"Goblins have archers?" Hale asked.
"Yeah, but not good ones. Short range. More like wild massed shots. The kobolds are where the real bows are. They've got armor, discipline. Shields, spears. Hold tighter lines."
Evan raised an eyebrow. "And the goblins?"
"Messy. Clumps of them, there's a lot of them. But…" Torren hesitated. "They've got a few bigger ones now. Berserkers. They don't wear armor. Just run forward, swinging whatever they have. Took three tower shots before one of them dropped last time."
Harold sat still, letting the firelight do the talking for a few seconds.
Finally, he said, "Lord Dalen. What's his condition?"
Torren hesitated. It was noticeable.
"He's… doing what he can," he said carefully. "We're not starving but we aren't really eating either. We've got clean water. The earthwork trench is solid and deep — almost two meters in some places. Wooden barricades. We've built up two towers for archers, but not much else."
"Any abuse? Conscription?" Harold asked slowly.
"No," Torren said immediately. "He doesn't use a whip. He's out there with the rest of us when he can be. People respect him. Or… try to."
Evan looked at Harold but didn't speak.
"How many in the hold?" Hale asked.
Torren licked his lips. Four hundred. Maybe a little under. Everyone fights. Some kids, I guess they didn't start to get organized until a goblin raid killed a lot of people."
Harold gave him a long look, then a slight nod, and stood. "You'll stay here for now."
Torren nodded. "Yes, Lord."
Harold turned to a nearby squad leader from Garrick's century. "Keep him watched in your area. He gets food. Nothing else."
The man saluted and moved into position.
Harold lingered just a second longer before turning away, already thinking ahead.
Hale followed behind him and approached him when Harold paused.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Mm… I'm thinking… that there is an opportunity here." Harold mused. Give me the night to think it over. Keep questioning him till we know everything he knows. Especially about Dalen's Hold and those kobolds."
The camp wasn't noisy, but it was moving. The sun was barely starting to move into the sky, and the fog crowded the camp, concealing it.
Marcus Tran's logistics crews were shifting crates toward the forward trenches, packing rations and confirming armament loads under the low mutter of a single torch and squad fires. Nothing loud. Just the steady rhythm of a machine that had learned how to run.
Torren was seated off to the side near a stack of water barrels, hands now unbound but still watched. The two legionaries from Garrick's century didn't crowd him — but neither did they relax. One leaned against a spear shaft, chewing something fibrous. The other never looked away.
The scout sat quietly. He hadn't asked for anything since being fed. His eyes tracked everything.
That's when the picket runner came in — a legionary, limping between two others. Blood soaked through the side of his armour where it didn't cover, a jagged arrow still jutted out. They moved quickly, not panicked. Tran's medics were already in motion before they hit the firelight.
Torren's head turned sharply.
The injured man was laid out near a barrel. A quick cut removed the arrow. One medic pressed gauze; another uncorked a healing potion — thick, red, and clear. Poured straight into the wound. The reaction was instant: tissue knitting, breath steadying, bleeding stopped.
Torren's mouth opened a little. Then shut. His hands twitched slightly — then locked behind his back like he didn't trust them to stay still.
He'd seen a lot in the last couple of weeks, but not that.
Hale was there watching his reaction the entire time.
Harold was already approaching.
He moved like he always did — quietly, with intent. The medics stepped aside without being asked. He approached the wounded man, took a knee next to him, and made him laugh before turning to Torren.
"On your feet." Harold commanded.
Torren stood up stiffly. He probably didn't sleep well with his hands bound.
Harold held something in one hand — a folded note, sealed with wax.
"This is for your Lord," Harold said. "You'll take it to him."
Torren stared at it for half a beat before taking it with both hands, carefully, like it might shatter if held wrong.
"I'll carry it," he said. His voice was quieter than before. Less like a scout, more like a man realizing just how much he didn't know.
"No detours," Harold said. "Straight to him. Personally."
Torren nodded once. "Yes, Lord."
Torren looked once more at the wounded soldier — now sitting up, drinking water like he hadn't almost bled out two minutes earlier. Then he looked back at Harold. Whatever he wanted to ask, he swallowed it.
He tucked the sealed note carefully inside his vest, cinched it down, and turned toward the trees.
Harold had just turned back toward the nearest supply pile when Hale fell into step beside him.
They walked a few paces in silence.
Then Hale asked, "What are you hoping to get out of that letter? You staged that scene with Max over there getting wounded."
Harold chuckled loudly, "Max really did get hit, Hale. I just made the most of it."" He glanced back in the direction Torren had gone, then scratched at his temple absently.
"I know of Lord Dalen," he said. "From my last life. He used to be semi-active on the forums. He was the one most vocal about not sharing the relic."
Hale raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not a big poster on it, but I know the name. I scrolled through them last night, just out of curiosity — he's made a few posts asking for help in the area. Had a crude map of the area here. Multiple, actually."
"What kind of help?" Hale asked.
"General. Looking for allies against the hordes. Advice. Volunteers. Anything really. Nobody took him seriously. A couple of threads got no replies at all."
Hale gave a short grunt, half an acknowledgement.
Harold shrugged slightly. "I think there's a chance here to help humanity a little and cement our position at the same time." Hale glanced sideways. "That's what that show with the potion was? You cementing your authority? "
"Hale, like it or not, I do have the authority," Harold said, slowing for a moment as they approached the trench line, watching two soldiers hammering down the next row of stakes. "Being on good terms with him won't hurt," Harold added. "And if we end up moving to take control of the basin, it's better to have Lords who already see us as powerful and in charge. I'll need you to keep my head from getting too big."
Hale fired back in his dry voice, "Too late."
The fires were already cold.
Squads were moving in clean, practiced motion as the scent of cold ash lingered in the morning air. They bundled what few tarps they had, lashed crates, and strapped half-finished repair work to the wagons of the tatanka. There was no yelling or last-minute scrambling, just the creak of leather straps and the soft thud of boots on the hardened earth. It was a testament to the organization that Hale and his NCOs had built.
Harold stood near the trench lip at the southern edge of the now-emptied camp. Behind him, the ridgeline was stripped bare. They didn't bother filling in the trench; if they needed to fall back, it would make a good place to fight. Cooking pits are packed and buried. A whole camp, erased in under an hour. Not that they really had a lot to pack. There were a lot of people wishing they had tents on this march.
No rear guard. No baggage left behind. Nothing to signal anyone had ever been here besides the earth berm and trench line.
Hale approached, a slate in one hand.
"Final check-in from Garrick's century just came through," he said. "Tatanka all harnessed, rations redistributed. Marcus is running the last weight checks now."
Harold gave a single nod. "Let me know when we're ready to move."
"They're all moving with us," Hale confirmed.
Harold stepped up to the ridge, eyes scanning the movement.
The centuries had already begun to shift formation, closing in like a graceful zipper into four columns, each two wide, with scouts and adventurers smoothly pulling ahead through the brush. They formed into their standard spacing with minimal noise and gear secured.
The trees ahead were thicker now, with younger growth tangled and wild. The air clung with an unsettling coolness, and a faint, acrid smell wafted through the woods, sharp and out of place. Leaves rustled with eerie whispers, and unnoticed, slender branches snaked across the path like hesitant fingers reaching out. The kind of woods that hadn't seen structured human presence in years, if ever. It was a perfect place to hide or die, depending on how tight your ranks were. The shadows seemed to deepen in unpredictable patterns, a sign that the goblins had claimed this territory. It was no wonder they were so effective within them. They were really lucky that there were no assassin types that frequented the jungles to the south. It would make it extremely costly to get through this area.
Harold turned to Hale.
"Tell Carter he has full authority over rear cohesion until we stop. Nothing breaks formation. If we get split and can't reinforce each other, this won't end well. We need to stay tight."
Hale scribbled the note onto his slate with his thumb and stylus, then whistled sharply to one of the runners waiting off to the side.
"Move out," Harold said. Harold's bodyguard detail moved with him, one of them carrying a still furled banner that had a lot of legionaries wondering when it would be unfurled. None of them knew what the Lords insignia was yet.
The signal flag went up.
Within moments, the Landing's forward force began to shift from stillness to motion — a quiet, weighty machine rolling toward the deep forest.
The first arrow cracked off a tree about forty minutes in.
It didn't even come close—a bad angle and release. The goblins weren't known for their discipline. But the report snapped across the underbrush, prompting nervous chuckles from some soldiers, while others tightened their grips on spears. The entire column went a little quieter. Harold overheard a whispered joke, something about the goblins needing new archery lessons, which drew a few quiet laughs, but their eyes never lost the edge of concern. This was the calm before the storm.
Hale didn't break his stride. Neither did Harold.
But ahead of them, the point scouts were already shifting — one half-melted into the trees, the other lifting a quick hand signal back—routine contact.
"First blood," Hale muttered. "They're really just annoying right now," Harold replied. The threat with the goblins is running into the berserkers and any more trolls."
Vines crossed low trunks. Mushrooms dotted the wet bark. Fallen limbs tangled up the footing. The kind of terrain that played to goblins more than men.
Ahead, another distant crack. Not a weapon — a branch. Someone is moving too fast or not watching their step. The forest swallowed it just as quickly.
Evan jogged up the side of the column, short cloak pulled tight, bow slung loose.
"Annoying ones today," he said without preamble. "Not committing and just harassing the scouts. They all missed, but it's becoming more constant. I'm expecting real contact within the hour."
Harold nodded. "Push the scouts and your teams out more. Keep the pressure on them. Don't let them get comfortable."
Evan grinned. "Already rotated in the thornwalkers. They're loving it."
Harold looked over curiously. "Is that what that team is calling themselves?" "Those javelins they made and short swords they have are certainly like thorns."
The march slowed just slightly — not enough to disrupt cohesion, but sufficient that each squad was watching the treeline instead of chatting. A few of the Tatanka even started snorting, clearly sensing the tension.
Somewhere in the trees, another goblin shouted and shot an arrow. It pinged off a legionary who barely got his shield up in time. Then was immediately silenced. Whether it had been a scout, a decoy, or a fool — no one asked.
Harold stepped over a rotted log, then glanced sidelong at Hale, who matched pace easily beside him.
"We're underusing the forum," Harold said without preamble.
Hale looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, there's more intel on there than we give it credit for. You saw how I recognized Dalen. That was just from a couple of threads I remembered. If someone had been combing it properly, we'd probably already have a snapshot of the entire basin."
Hale grunted. "The problem is that most posts are nonsense. People asking for help, people talking about all the bad shit they are going through. People arguing about system quirks. It's not like there is any administrator on there. There's a function to filter them, but it's by topic, not by region. There is no direct messaging. So you have to put it out there, and anyone can read and comment. It would be a full-time job to do what you are suggesting."
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
"Yeah," Harold agreed. "But it's not all noise. The trick is knowing which names matter. I know most of the Lords who made it most of the way through my twenty years last time. It's enough to watch for..."
Hale glanced ahead, scanning a narrow turn where two scouts were signaling safe passage.
"We don't exactly have someone who can sit there and do that full-time," Hale said.
"We will," Harold said. "When we get back, I'll have one of Margaret's assistants start digging—sort by topic, Lord name, and any known coordinates. Start tagging anything relevant. It would be a good task for the project I'm having you build."
Hale thought about it for a moment. "Even if we find something, we can't act on it fast.
"For now, we can't," Harold explained. "I know you're using the forum now to send coded messages. But if we do see something we need to act on, it would be good to be prepared."
Hale nodded slowly. "It would make coordination much easier."
"Exactly." Harold said sarcastically. "Like the monsters and other human lords and the other races aren't enough trouble."
He stepped around a thick root, then added, "But it still means something. Patterns. Posts. Even the ones that get ignored say something."
Hale didn't respond immediately. He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, eyes still scanning.
Finally, he said, "So you want to sift through the noise."
"I want to mine it," Harold corrected. "Because half the people we'll be dealing with don't even realize they're leaking intel. We could start building a picture of the human sphere of influence."
Ahead, a scout made a low hand signal — movement on the left flank.
Both men fell quiet again.
It started with a low grunt and the sudden, wet squelch of hooves sliding in muck.
One of the center wagons had stalled where a shallow embankment gave way to a muddy drop. The Tatanka team hauling it shifted uneasily, massive shoulders bunching as they tried to pull free, but the wheels weren't catching.
"Hold!" an Optio barked.
The column slowed with military reflex — the front ranks halting without collision, rear units rippling the signal back. Hale was already moving, two steps ahead of the runners.
Harold followed him up the slight incline.
The wagon in question leaned at an awkward angle. One rear wheel is half-sunk, while the others were straining to lift out of the mud. A few legionaries had already moved to brace it, trying to get enough lift to let the oxen pull it straight.
"We've got it," Carter called from the rear. "It's not a break, just bad footing."
Harold was nodding when the first goblin dropped from a tree.
It didn't make a sound — just the heavy thump of body hitting ground, knife already swinging. It hit one of the flank legionaries in the side, but the man's armor turned it aside. The legionary spun, shield up, sword low.
More came a second later. Five of them, a weak effort by goblin standards — but they came fast.
From the trees and the brush. No typical howls. Just fast, ugly violence.
The closest squad was already turning, shields locking. A short command from their Optio had them forming a tight half-ring around the wagons. Two of the goblins were cut down before they even made a second strike.
One darted toward the Tatanka. A javelin dropped it mid-sprint — the shaft punching straight through its chest and pinning it to a tree. A good shot from one of the adventurers. He must have had some strength perk that let him power that javelin enough to pin a goblin to a tree.
Evan's scouts were already there, moving without orders. A goblin made it past the first line and vanished into the woods again, but the rest lay still — bleeding into the roots.
It was over in twenty seconds. Harold didn't say anything.
He stepped to one of the downed goblins, crouched, and turned it over with the flat of his blade. It was lean, quick, and wore a vest made of some bark laminate. Improvised armor. Light quiver on its back. Half-rotted boots.
"Drop scouts," Hale said behind him.
Harold nodded. "Testing for lag, I think. Trying to find our rear. That was actually well planned, almost as if they knew the wagons would get stuck here."
"We're not that sloppy," Hale said.
Harold murmured, "Mmm, this might be more difficult than I hoped for." As he surveyed the scene, a phantom burn prickled beneath his skin, a tactile echo of past encounters. It reminded him of those times when they battled poison-wielding creatures so potent they required an Alchemist to concoct antidotes on the fly. It was a texture of warfare etched into his senses. He never liked joining those missions last time, but the perks he got out of that were worth it. They didn't call it a crucible for no reason.
Behind them, the wagon team let out a sharp clack of success — the wheels biting into traction again as the Tatanka strained and pulled forward.
The column shifted, adjusted, and resumed its motion like nothing had happened.
But the silence was different now.
Somewhere overhead, the sun was climbing higher — but under the trees, it might as well have been early morning forever. Thick with shade and bird calls that didn't sound quite right.
They were about two hours in when the runner came.
Light armor, forest-painted. One of Evan's scouts — breathing hard, but not panicked. She crossed the column at a jog and found Harold near one of the Tatanka drivers, where he'd paused to check the rear spacing.
"Sir," she said quickly. "Frontline scouts are pulling back. Pressure's building. They've seen at least four distinct goblin groups in overlapping zones. It's light contact, but getting heavier."
"Any sign of kobolds?" Harold asked.
"Not yet. But we're hearing horns farther out."
That changed things.
Harold turned to Hale, who had already stepped closer.
"We can't get caught between both swarms," Harold said, voice low but firm. "That's why we came in from the east — if they're both massing here, we fall back. Immediately. That clearing we passed by an hour ago would be the only place we could make a stand."
Hale nodded. "Let's re-organize the line."
Hale raised a hand and whistled sharply — one long, one short.
An Optio peeled away from the flank to receive the orders directly from Hale.
"I'll stretch the line and rotate the centuries wider," Hale said. "Both on the front, keep the Tatanka center-massed. Adventurers fall back into mobile reserve."
"Good," Harold said. "Have Evan keep rotating his scouts on the forward edge — but if they start falling, I want to be able to press with the Centuries."
They both paused as another sharp cry rang out in the distance — this one clearly goblin. Too far to act on, but close enough to register.
"Do we press to contact?" Hale asked.
Harold shook his head. "Let's keep pushing. At this point, I'm more worried they are working a force around us. No—scratch that. That is what they're doing. This swarm hasn't acted normally. We push hard. Now. "
Hale didn't argue and immediately moved to act. The orders moved fast.
In less than five minutes, the column shifted again — less a wedge now, more a broad, flexible blade. Legionary centuries realigned. Adventurers pulled back from the outer flanks. Every squad had more spacing, more eyes on the trees, and tighter grips on shields and spears.
Harold turned to his bodyguards, "Unfold the banner!" He shouted.
The standard bearer got an excited look on his face as he finally unfurled the banner he had carried the whole march without a chance to look at it.
As he unfurled it for the first time, Harold moved forward, and his bodyguards, led by Ren and Corwin started slamming their swords onto their shields.
In time, they both shouted "Vivat Imperium!"
At first, just a few turned—one here, two there. Then the beat spread…and the entire force was shouting their defiance into the upcoming swarm of monsters.
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.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"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.
Harold didn't hear the screams anymore.
Didn't see the chaos at the flanks or the trolls tearing through lines of panicking adventurers. He didn't even see his own bodyguards beside him.
There was only the path ahead.
And Sarah — somewhere beyond his line, locked in a losing struggle against one of the trolls. He'd seen her dart under its guard, watched her blade bite nothing but thick hide. Then the troll's hammer-like hand came crashing toward her team, and Harold moved.
But the goblin commander stepped in his way.
Six feet of scarred muscle and scale-patched armor. Red paint flaking off his shoulders. A twisted iron warhammer in his hands, long enough to crush a man from four feet out. His yellow eyes locked on Harold, glinting with a cruel intelligence. Without a word, he raised the hammer. Across his chest, a necklace of human teeth, trophies of past victories, lent an unsettling air of menace to the goblin commander.
Harold raised his shield.
The first swing came like a storm.
Harold barely got the shield up in time. Wood cracked. The impact shoved him two steps back and almost to a knee. He didn't even try to counter — just recovered, shield still up.
The goblin didn't pause. It surged forward, hammer coming low this time, aiming to sweep Harold's legs out from under him. Harold blocked. Not cleanly, just enough not to die. The weight behind the strike was monstrous. His arm screamed in pain; he felt something pop in his shoulder. The goblin kept the hammer moving. Swing after relentless swing, forcing Harold to dodge, to block.
He gritted his teeth and stayed on his feet, moving around the goblin.
His sword flicked out — fast and low — aiming for the side. Mana coated the blade, but it scratched armor, nothing more—a wasted effort.
The goblin commander snarled and slammed the hammer down from above.
Harold twisted his body and threw himself sideways—a desperate sidestep. The hammer crushed the earth where he'd been. Dirt exploded upward. The shockwave rattled his teeth.
"Well, shit, clean hit from that and I'm finished," Harold thought to himself.
He fought with no form. No finesse. No duelist's poise or balance. He barely had any real duels under his belt. The only thing keeping him alive was that he could move fast enough. His mana and this strange Mana body fueled him, keeping him moving. Each surge of mana through him left a trail of icy shards under his skin, a cold fire that pricked his nerves and quivered through his muscles. His ears rang as if a distant bell tolled with each pulse, a relentless reminder of the cost for every second of unnatural speed.
Every move was reactive — a shield lift, a dodge, a wild slash when space allowed. He stayed alive by keeping his feet and not trying to match strength.
He couldn't. Even with the mana running through and reinforcing his body, that hammer would still crush and break.
The hammer came again, aiming high this time, a shoulder-breaking arc. As Harold met it with the shield and dropped to a knee, a brief thought flashed through his mind: 'What if this is the end?' The force rolled through his spine, shattering the shield and leaving his arm numb. He staggered back, blinking blood from his eyes, his grip on the sword loosening, breath coming in gasps.
The goblin didn't laugh. Didn't gloat. He snarled at him and kept coming.
Harold burned mana like water.
He had to, not as a flashy skill or technique — to keep moving. To reinforce muscles that were giving out, to brace bones that were on the verge of snapping, and he was running out. He couldn't afford to keep his sword lit constantly anymore. He had enough for one or two good hits. The goblin swung wide.
Harold dropped low and shoved up with the remains of his broken, shattered shield — it was off balance and awkward. But with the mana reinforcing and strengthening him. It worked. The goblin stepped back half a pace.
Harold used it.
He lunged, the blade flashing up, managing to score a shallow cut across the creature's chest right under the collarbone where the armor dipped. Sparks erupted as the blade skimmed past, and a grunt escaped the goblin's lips, momentarily throwing it off balance with surprise. But it recovered quickly, more annoyed than hurt, and brought the hammer around in a tight hook, its eyes glinting with renewed malice.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Harold jumped backward — completely lost his form — just hurling his body away from the strike. The hammer still caught the edge of his greave, spinning him sideways. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and came up wheezing.
He tossed the remains of the shield from him. He gripped the sword two-handed now.
The only chance he had was speed to get into his guard while he swung the heavy hammer.
The goblin commander didn't slow.
It stomped forward — now without hesitation. It had seen enough. Knew Harold was tiring. One more clean blow and it would be over.
Harold ducked another swing and spun closer, trying to get as much momentum as he could. The clang of the goblin's hammer against the earth roared in his ears as he felt the air shear past his head. The scent of churned soil and sweat grounded him amidst the violence. He slashed desperately, aiming for the exposed thigh.
The blade cut deep but stopped on something. The goblin stumbled.
Only for a second — but Harold didn't waste it. He dove forward, blade up, and drove it into the goblin's side. It howled — a horrible, jagged sound — and smashed its elbow into Harold's face.
White light and pain. But pain was an old friend. It had existed with him for years. There was a point in his life when he spent years constantly bleeding out onto the floor. What was one elbow to the face?
Harold reeled. Half-blind. One eye is swelling shut.
But he kept the sword in his hand.
The goblin turned, warhammer rising again.
Harold could barely see it — just the shape of death coming down.
Harold's mind flashed back to a talk he had at the Landing with Hale, who said, 'In the face of overwhelming might, sometimes the best weapon is your own unpredictability.' It wasn't just desperation that drove him to act, but an instinctive decision grounded in those words. So, he threw the sword with all the force he could muster with his mana-reinforced body. It hit hard first, but the force snapped the goblin's head back. It screamed again, this time.
And Harold charged. No weapon, just pure rage for the beast in front of him.
He hit the goblin like a battering ram, shoulder slamming into its chest, hands grabbing for the dagger at its belt. He tore it free and drove it up under the jaw, through the soft part where armor couldn't reach.
The goblin convulsed.
Tried to lift the hammer again — but Harold kept pushing. He shoved it back, slammed it into the burning remains of a wagon, and drove the dagger home one more time, then again, and again.
The goblin commander sagged. Then fell.
Harold collapsed on top of it, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.
He didn't know how long he lay there — just that the danger was over.
Boots slammed into the earth beside him.
Rough hands rolled Harold onto his back — gauntlets fumbling at his collar, one of them already uncorking a potion.
"Stay with me! Drink this, my Lord!"
The voice was urgent and familiar.
It was one of the bodyguards — one of the two who had been with him since the beginning. Since that day, he first learned to control his mana with firm will and to use his body as a potion ingredient.
He pressed the vial to Harold's lips and tipped it gently.
The potion hit like a swallowed explosion. Sweet and metallic, burning through his chest and throat before spreading outward. His ribs shifted painfully as muscle knotted back together. The swelling in his face eased just enough for both eyes to open again. This was one of the stronger ones he made, utilizing a rare ingredient: the emerald gum of the Eldergrove Tree.
His breath rasped once, then steadied.
Above him, the smoke was thinning, and the battle had ended.
Where chaos had ruled only moments ago — trolls roaring, adventurers screaming, lines collapsing — now stood the Centuries. Shields bloodied. Swords and spears are slick. The goblin swarm was broken.
The banner still stood — planted into the churned soil just behind Harold, tilted slightly, its edges scorched.
The trolls lay still, one missing an arm and the other half-consumed by fire. A dozen legionaries surged to where the creatures had fallen, torches raised high, thrusting their weapons defiantly through the smoke. They rallied with a ferocity only seen at moments of desperation, forming a wall that pushed back against the remnants of the goblin horde. The disciplined ranks of soldiers moved as one, spears and shields a synchronized tide that rolled across the battlefield. As the sound of steel meeting flesh echoed through the air, they overwhelmed the hobgoblin stragglers. Seeing the strength of their resolve kindle anew, it was then that the tide turned.
They had seen the banner raised, and their Lord fighting for his life — and in that moment, the Centuries surged unlike anything Harold had commanded before.
His second bodyguard crouched low, breathing hard. "They swept the field the moment they saw you stand alone. Cleared around the flanks and killed the rest of the force. The trolls are dead. We lost some of the supply, but we held most of it."
Another hand gripped Harold's forearm.
The banner carrier, helm lost, face streaked with soot and sweat. "We thought—" he stopped himself, then grinned like a man just pulled from a pit. "But you're not dead."
Harold let them pull him to his feet.
As he stood, a wave of cheers erupted, but one distinct voice rose above the rest. It was Mark, a young recruit Harold had spent hours training alongside, now with a bandage wrapped around his brow and a fierce light in his eyes. "Vivat Imperium!" Mark's voice cracked with emotion.
At first, scattered — one voice shouting "Vivat Imperium!" from the left flank. Then another. Then more.
Dozens of legionaries raised their blades and shields, the cry rippling down the line until it became a roar:
"VIVAT IMPERIUM! VIVAT IMPERIUM!"
Harold didn't raise a hand. He didn't speak. He just stood there, breathing, the dagger still clutched in one hand, the blood of the goblin commander drying on his armor.
Past the noise and the smoke, he saw Sarah standing over the body of a troll, shouting with the rest of them.
The cheers still echoed through the trees, even as Harold sat back down on a crate that had survived the worst of the fire. The smell of charred wood mingled with the metallic tang of blood in the air. The heat from the scorched earth radiated up through the soles of his boots, grounding him in the reality of the aftermath.
He let the noise wash over him for a few seconds longer — eyes half-closed, one hand still clutching the dagger he'd driven into the goblin commander's throat.
One of his bodyguards crouched nearby, face still tense, armor scuffed. The other stood, scanning the treeline like the battle wasn't over.
Harold glanced between them and gave a quiet exhale.
"You two made it through."
"We always do," the Ren said. "But you didn't wait for us this time."
Harold didn't answer at first. He hadn't meant to break away. He'd just seen Sarah about to die and moved.
"You'll need another shield," the Corwin added after a beat. His tone was clipped, but not cold. "That one's well and truly gone."
Harold grunted, looking down at his left arm — bruised, throbbing, but still usable. "Yeah, I'll need another. I'm sure there's one around here I can use."
"You're still alive," said the banner bearer, eyes on the treeline. "That's the part that matters. We tried to get to you, but the commander had hobgoblin guards of his own. They stalled us."
Then Ren looked up, jaw tight. "You shouldn't have fought him alone, my Lord. I'm sorry. We failed you."
Harold didn't reply. He hadn't fought that duel for glory. He just hadn't been able to let Sarah die.
Instead of answering, he blinked open his interface and swiped once, filtering the aftermath of the fight into view.
WORLD FIRST ACHIEVED!
Kill an Enemy Commander in One-on-One Combat.
PERK ACQUIRED
Challenger Perk – Level 1
Warrior Lord (Epic)
Army members deal +10% damage.
Use 20% less mana when fighting enemy commanders.
Enemy commanders are more likely to seek you out in battle.
(Warning: This perk can be stolen if you are defeated in combat)
SETTLEMENT MODIFIER UNLOCKED
Soldiers you recruit have a +10% easier time learning how to use mana.
Training with your army enhances their progress by a variable amount.
PERK ACQUIRED
Trophy Kill (Uncommon)
Your army deals +5% damage to enemy commanders.
PERK ACQUIRED
Disciplined Army (Rare)
Army-wide discipline increased by 8%.
Harold let out a low breath.
"These are good. Very good."
He hadn't known about the world first — but it made sense.
Harold had no doubts about the uniqueness of his mana control at this stage. He'd triumphed in the duel, but only because he expended mana like water. The outcome had been precarious even with all those advantages. With the mana body, every drop of mana counted for more, extending his resources just enough to secure victory.
The Challenger perk worried him, though. Enemy commanders would seek him out, and the fact that it could be stolen? No wonder no one had posted about it on the forums. If you had it, you'd want to keep it a secret.
The training modifier was incredible. There were only two other perks he knew of that helped new soldiers learn mana use faster — and both were late-game. This shortcut was priceless.
The disciplined Army came from defeating a superior force. Getting the rare version meant this had truly been a battle they should've lost. Without the alchemical potions to blast open the goblin lines, they would have.
That hobgoblin commander…
"Was no joke."
Harold dismissed the screen and stood, slower this time. The potion had done its work, but his body still ached like something discarded and scraped back up again. It was too soon to take another.
All around him, the aftermath unfolded. Legionaries moved across the wreckage in small groups — checking for survivors, retrieving bodies, restacking what supplies they could. Some methodically looted goblin corpses. Others stood, leaning on bloodied shields, catching their breath.
One team rolled a scorched troll corpse into a pit. Another followed with torches. The smell would linger for days.
Off to the side, adventurers were already cutting usable pieces from the trolls. He'd have to see what ingredients they could salvage — there were valuable materials here.
A voice called out across the field.
"Lord Harold!"
Hale.
He strode through the wreckage with purpose, Garrick and Carter close behind. Hale's armor was dented, his baton tucked under one arm, a blood-smeared sword still at his hip.
"We've secured the field," he said, wasting no time. "Goblin force is broken. Evan's scouts are sweeping the rear. Casualties were lighter than I feared — your potions saved anyone not outright killed, but we are getting low. The berserkers did the most damage before we got them down."
Garrick nodded tightly. "We've begun sorting wounded. Tran has a triage ring near the center. Lost nine in my century. Two dozen injured, some serious — but we held our core."
Harold nodded. "And the supplies?"
Carter answered. "One wagon lost. Mostly gear and rations. Casualties about the same for my side."
Harold's voice dipped. "Tatanka?"
Carter's jaw tightened. "Lost one. Spooked and broke its leg trying to get loose. We had to put it down. The others are calm now."
Harold closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
"Good work. All of you. That could've gone very differently."
Hale's gaze narrowed. "We saw you fighting him. That turned the line. That wasn't planned — but the men saw it. And they charged."
Harold felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. "I've never fought like that before," he said, honestly. "I was just reacting."
"You stood your ground," Garrick said. "That's enough. But I'm increasing your bodyguard detail. We can't let this happen again."
A quiet settled over them.
Then Hale lifted his slate. "We need to talk about next steps. Time's short."
Harold nodded, squared his shoulders, and asked, "Where's Evan?"
Carter hesitated. Then winced.
"I saw him fall, my Lord. A hobgoblin speared him from behind while he was fighting another. The adventurers took heavy losses. They're still regrouping."
Harold felt a stab of guilt as he recalled his last words to the man. He would have to apologize to him when he got back to the Landing. He was only able to generate one quest that would allow adventurers to join a campaign. As soon as the campaign started, the quest would lock and not allow any more adventurers to join. They could still, but they wouldn't have any respawn protection. At least the ones with the quest would respawn back at the Landing.
A somber silence passed.
Then again...
Harold's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
The bastard's probably enjoying a warm bath and stealing my coffee right now.
He knew he'd seen Evan eyeing the bag of roasted beans.
Harold exhaled, steadying himself.
"Okay. Find out who's next in charge of the adventurers," he said, voice sharpening again. "Then let's get to it."
The crate they gathered around was scorched but intact — splinters dark with soot, its metal bands warped from heat. It was just solid enough to serve as a makeshift table. Hale cleared the top with one swipe of his gauntlet, and Garrick laid out a slate etched with casualty tallies and a rough map of their current position.
Vera arrived a moment later, still wearing the torn half-cloak of her scout team, the edge charred. Her face was grim, and as she gave a short nod to Harold, she absently tapped the hilt of her knife, a gesture that seemed almost second nature when she was deep in thought.
"We've tallied the adventurers," she said, skipping pleasantries. "Five full teams left — but that's a stretch. Half of those are patched together from survivors."
Harold didn't flinch. "And the rest?"
"Dead. Probably respawned and enjoying a good meal at the Landing, minus a perk," she replied, bluntly. "I lost three of my own extended team. Evan's team lost 4 before he dropped."
Harold's jaw tightened. "You're senior now. Take charge. Pick the sharpest team leads you've got left and reorganize the rest under them. We'll be relying on you to scout and skirmish again tomorrow." Vera nodded once, her fingers still resting lightly on her knife, as if drawing strength from it.
Vera nodded once. "Understood."
Garrick tapped the slate. "We've also finished sorting the wounded. Of the two centuries, both lost a full squad, and another squad each is out of the fight. Can't hold a shield, can't walk."
"And Tribune Tran?" Harold asked, already knowing the answer.
Carter exhaled hard. "Only one of his men still breathes. They stood with you at the wagons, and the berserkers tore through them. Tran's still up, but his section's gone."
Harold's eyes flicked over the map, calculating.
"So we consolidate. Make a Prime Century—one double-strength formation — heavy, flexible. The rest pull back to fill out Tran's section. The wounded can help Tran as much as they can, but he will need people for his section."
Garrick nodded. "It'll be tight, but it'll work."
Hale pointed to the casualty slate. "Half of our wounded will be fight-ready after another potion dose. The others… they'll need time. Better ingredients. We don't have what you need out here to regrow limbs or fix deep trauma."
"Even if we did," Harold said, "I don't have time to brew them."
Silence stretched again before Carter spoke up.
"We can butcher the fallen tatanka, get everyone fed. That'll help morale. Let people sleep, repair the wagons, reorganize the gear. There are enough spears now that we can almost arm the whole century with them. A lot of them need new shields. Some need new swords. We leave again at first light?"
Harold looked at the sun and nodded. "That'll work. This was the toughest fight we've had so far. They need a little time."
They all agreed.
Vera leaned forward. "We've got enough teams to set up a full line of pickets. I'll put a team in the trees — if the goblins like using the canopy, we'll use it first."
Harold looked at her. "Good. I want tight spacing between the posts. We need a warning, but I also don't want anyone dying out there."
Hale added, "I'll get someone on the wagons now. The rear axle on one of them was nearly gone. We can strip spares from the burned one."
Harold turned back to Vera. "I'm giving you an open task — ingredient search. Take the teams that can move and sweep for the components we need for the fire potions. I've got a partial stock, but we need more if we want to throw another volley like that."
Vera gave a short nod. "You'll have them."
Harold reached for his satchel and unrolled a worn list. He passed it to her — scrawled names of mosses, glands, fungal bulbs, one noted only as "black bloom — reeks like tar." Most were rare. Some were dangerous to harvest but were needed for the potion.
"We're losing the javelin advantage," Garrick noted. "Can't use them in the brush. Too close and dense."
Harold agreed. "We need to pick our ground tomorrow. The kobolds are better armed than the goblins. From that scout's account from Dalen's hold, they have shields and real armour. That'll be a real fight."
He pointed to a new mark on the map — a possible location two scouts had mentioned in passing before the goblin attack—an area with lower undergrowth, exposed roots, and natural high ground.
"If we can get there first, we prep it. Dig in. Funnel them through choke points. Set torches and traps. I want one of the adventurer teams out tonight scouting it. I want to try and lure the kobold swarm to us."
Vera made a note. "I'll get them moving." Vera looked at Harold for a second, measuring the man. "I'm surprised you didn't want your sister for this meeting."
Harold's face softened for a moment while finding his sister across the field. She looked like hell while she and the team were talking. Her eyes found him looking at her across the battlefield before giving him a wave and continuing to speak to her team.
He looked over at Vera and said softly, "No, she's too young and her time is better spent out there working instead of coordinating people. You look as if you've done this before."
Harold looked between them all, voice low but steady. "We beat the swarm today, but it wasn't the den itself. That's still out there, and it'll repopulate if we don't clear it. Honestly, I'd be fine not clearing it if we got the relic and got out."
He let that settle in.
"So tomorrow, we strike the kobolds. We take the relic, maybe torch the den, and pull out before they know we're gone."
Everyone nodded with no arguments. They knew what was at stake.
Harold looked curious for a moment. "Did ya'll get decent perks from that fight?"
The others exchanged glances. Harold gave a quiet snort.
"Mine would've made the losses worth it… If I didn't care about our people who were killed," he admitted with a soft sigh, the levity from his initial remark fading into a somber shadow.
Carter and Garrick exchanged a glance. Carter smirked and leaned on the crate, arms crossed.
"I don't know what our esteemed, ever-youthful commander here picked up," he said, nodding at Hale. "But Garrick and I both got boosts to shield strength and formation discipline. Just enough to keep us from being flattened by those berserkers next time."
"I got something for frontline coordination," Garrick added. "Slight edge when organizing formations in close quarters. Not much, but it helps."
Harold raised an eyebrow. "Leadership perk?"
Garrick nodded. "Yeah. Carter got that one already, though."
Carter grimaced. "That was a fun trip."
Garrick blinked. "You said it was boring?"
"I just held the tower while Sarah's team went into the dungeon," Carter said dryly. "Never went in. But I got 'assaulted' nightly."
There was a beat. Hale looked sideways at him. "...Physically or emotionally?"
"Both," Carter said without hesitation. "Every night. Screaming and wailing, the goblins there attacked us every night. It was more of an annoyance than anything."
Hale, rubbing the bridge of his nose, muttered, "You two are why we got kicked out of half the bars in 'Nam."
"I was decorated," Carter said, pointing a thumb at his chest.
"You were drunk," Hale shot back. "And you stole your medal from a supply crate."
"That was one time."
"You stole two." Hale shot back.
Garrick cut in, half-laughing, "One was technically mine. He got it for me."
Vera, arms crossed beside them, deadpanned, "So this is the command staff. I feel safe already."
Harold just watched it play out with a smile. "You're all impossible."
Hale shrugged. "You picked us."
"Did I?" Harold muttered. "Or did I get drafted?"
Garrick gave him a tired grin. "Stop complaining, my Lordship, sir. We'll protect you."