Pain was the first thing he felt. A dull, throbbing pressure pulsed at the back of his skull—heavy, invasive—like something had been driven deep into his head and left there to fester. He groaned and tried to move, instinct urging him upright—

  Cold metal bit into his wrists.

  The sharp clink of chains cut through the darkness, loud and absolute. His breath caught. He froze as awareness crept in, piece by piece, unwelcome and slow.

  Carefully, he opened his eyes.

  Dim light seeped through a narrow slit ahead, barely enough to outline his surroundings. Canvas sagged overhead, uneven and low. A tent. The air inside was thick and stale, clogged with sweat, dirt, and a sour rot that clung to the back of his throat.

  He tried to sit up again.

  The chains snapped taut.

  Metal screamed against metal as he was yanked back down, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Pain flared through his arms and legs as iron cuffs dug into his wrists and ankles. He twisted on instinct—only to feel the weight anchoring him to the earth. Thick chains. Fixed. Unyielding.

  Panic surged, sharp and sudden.

  He forced himself to stop moving. His chest heaved, breath coming too fast. The ache in his head worsened, blooming behind his eyes.

  Where am I?

  The thought came clearly—and then nothing followed.

  He tried to remember. Anything. A name. A face. A place. His thoughts slipped uselessly through his grasp, like fingers closing on smoke. There was no past. No familiar image. Just a hollow absence where memory should have been.

  He didn’t know who he was.

  Didn’t know how he had come here.

  Didn’t even know how long he had been chained to the cold ground.

  A chill crept up his spine as the realization settled in. He turned his head slightly, eyes straining through the gloom—and caught movement.

  Shadows. Shapes.

  Figures lay scattered across the tent floor. Some sat upright, others slumped or sprawled, all bound in chains like him. Men and women. Young and old. Faces hollowed by hunger and fear. Some stared blankly at nothing. Others watched him in silence, their expressions worn thin—exhaustion, dread, and something dangerously close to surrender.

  No one spoke.

  Then, quietly, a voice came from beside him.

  “At last you’ve noticed us, kid.”

  He turned toward the sound. An old man lay chained beside him, thin as a dried branch, his beard white and tangled. One eye was swollen shut, the skin around it bruised purple and yellow. The other eye, sharp despite everything, studied him closely.

  The young man swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Where… where am I?” His voice came out hoarse, barely louder than a breath.

  The old man leaned closer, the chains between them clinking softly. He lowered his voice until it was almost lost in the canvas rustle above them. “Keeper’s camp,” he whispered. “And if the rumors are true, we’re about to go to war.”

  The words hit him like another blow.

  “A war?” The word tore out of him, louder than he meant it to.

  Instantly, the old man’s hand clamped over his mouth—bony fingers, surprisingly strong. Several heads nearby twitched in their direction. Someone whimpered softly.

  “Keep it down,” the old man hissed, eyes darting toward the tent entrance. “You want the guards to hear you?”

  He nodded quickly, heart racing, and the hand withdrew.

  “From what I overheard,” the old man continued, voice barely a murmur, “Keepers are organizing an attack on a goblin fortress.”

  The young man’s mind struggled to keep up. “Keepers? Then… are we going to fight?” he asked.

  The old man let out a humorless breath. “Keepers, the protectors of the realm, or what they are supposed to be. And no. They are going to fight, not us.”

  A cold weight settled in the young man’s chest. “What about us?”

  The old man didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted over the chained figures, their hollow faces, and the trembling hands gripping the iron. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.

  “Bait. Meat shields. Call it what you want.” He met the young man’s eyes again. “Either way, we’ll be at the front.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” the young man said, panic seeping into his tone. “We’re not soldiers. Why would they—why would we go?”

  The old man’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Because we have no choice,” he said quietly. “This is the slave’s fate.”

  “Slave?” The word tasted strange in the young man’s mouth, as if he were testing a foreign language. He turned his head slightly toward the old man, careful not to rattle the chains too much. “So… I am a slave.”

  The old man snorted softly. Even that small sound carried a bite of scorn. “Of course you’re a slave. Look at you.” His single good eye swept over the young man’s sunken cheeks, messy red hair, the torn clothes, the iron biting into his wrists. “Do you truly think you’re some lost prince or wandering noble? Dream on, kid.”

  The young man shook his head. The motion sent a dull throb through his skull, but he didn’t flinch. “No. That’s not what I meant.” He hesitated, then said it plainly, without drama. “I lost my memory. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know my name. I don’t know where I came from.”

  For a moment, the old man didn’t reply. The camp noises filtered faintly through the tent—boots crunching gravel, distant shouts, the clank of armor. Finally, the old man spoke, his voice lower, almost thoughtful.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “For a slave, remembering nothing is better.” He tilted his head back against the ground. “No hatred to burn you awake at night. No love to rot inside your chest. No heartbreaks.” A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips. “And slaves, commonly don’t have names.”

  The young man studied him. “So you don’t have a name either.”

  The old man chuckled—a dry, humorless sound. “I do have a name.”

  “But you’re a slave,” the young man said, not accusing, just stating what he saw.

  The old man’s eye sharpened. “I was never a slave,” he said. “Not until they decided I should be.”

  Something in his tone shifted—less weariness now, more steel beneath the rust. “I was a noble once. Accused of treason.” His fingers curled slightly around the chain, knuckles whitening. “They stripped my rank. Stole my land, my wealth. Turned my name into a curse people spit on the ground.” He exhaled slowly. “I became nothing. But unlike you, boy, I remember every single moment of it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “A nightmare that never ends, even when I sleep.”

  The young man listened, silent. There was sympathy in his eyes, but no pity. After a brief pause, he asked, “How can I get a name?”

  The old man snapped his head toward him. “I am being emotional here,” he hissed, irritation flashing, “and all you care about is getting a name.” Then, after a heartbeat, he sighed. “Still… I can’t blame you. Having a name is everything.”

  The young man frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “A name,” the old man said, “is identity. Proof that you exist as something more than just livestock.” He leaned closer despite the chains. “And name carries power.”

  “Power?” The young man echoed the word, curiosity outweighing fear.

  “Yes. Power.” The old man’s voice carried a quiet conviction now. “Power granted by the gods themselves. Power that keeps men alive in this cruel world full of monsters.”

  The young man absorbed that, then asked, “Where can I get a name?”

  “There are three kinds of people who can give one,” the old man replied. “The rich. The powerful. And the holy. Anyone who possesses one of those can bestow a name.”

  The young man met his gaze steadily. “So… you can give me a name?”

  The old man opened his mouth—

  “Up!” a voice barked.

  The tent flap was torn open, light flooding in. Soldiers stood there, armored, armed, faces bored and cruel all at once. “On your feet. Fall in line. Pairs.”

  Chains were yanked, curses hissed, bodies dragged upright. The young man pushed himself up despite the ache in his head, steadying the old man when he wobbled. They were linked together by chains, shuffled forward like cattle.

  Outside, the morning light caused the slaves to cover their eyes for a moment. The young man knew he was unconscious for the whole night.

  The camp was alive with movement. Caged carriages waited, iron bars gleaming. The smell of smoke and sweat hung thick in the air.

  As they neared one of the cages, a man stepped forward.

  He wore gold-trimmed armor, polished despite the dust, a sword resting easily at his side. His smile was thin and practiced.

  “Well,” he said pleasantly, “look what we have here. The former Duke of Hallosbel.” His eyes gleamed. “Duke Leopold de Vedre. I’m pleased to see you.”

  Leopold, the old man, scoffed, the sound sharp despite his frailty. “I wish I could say the same, Hevert. Or should I call you the filthy dog of Hallosbel?”

  The punch came without warning.

  Hevert’s fist drove into Leopold’s abdomen. The old man folded with a sharp gasp. Before he could hit the ground, the young man moved, instinctively catching him under the arm, lowering him carefully despite the chains.

  “Learn respect,” Hevert said coldly, “old slave. You think you still hold power? You have nothing.”

  Leopold wheezed, then forced himself upright with the young man’s help. His eye burned with fury. “I have nothing because of you—and the Warhog family,” he spat. “You conspired against me. Planted false evidence. Framed me as a traitor. Took everything. My land. My wealth. My family.”

  Hevert leaned in, voice low and venomous. “And soon your life,” he said softly. “Just be grateful. Your beautiful wife and daughters still draw breath—thanks to Duke Sebas Warhog.”

  Something snapped.

  With a surge of desperate strength, Leopold lunged.

  Hevert reacted instantly, driving a boot into Leopold’s chest. The old man crashed back, chains clattering. “Stay still,” Hevert said calmly. “It’s not your time to die.”

  His gaze shifted to the young man, seized the chain and hauled him toward the carriage.

  The young man didn’t resist. He helped Leopold up again, supporting him as they climbed into the iron cage.

  As the door slammed shut, Leopold looked back through the bars, his eye locked on Hevert.

  “You’re nothing but a pawn,” Leopold said hoarsely. “Sooner or later, Sebas will discard you like trash. I only hope I live long enough to see it.”

  Hevert’s jaw tightened. “Shut up, old man.”

  The carriage lurched forward.

  The young man watched Leopold in silence, something heavy settling in his chest. Awe crept in first—unwanted, unasked for—followed closely by sympathy. It was difficult to reconcile the frail old man beside him with the image Leopold had painted of himself: a duke, a ruler of lands, a man whose name once carried weight. Power reduced to chains. Authority to dust.

  He finally spoke, voice low so the guards wouldn’t hear. “Looks like you were telling the truth, old man.”

  Leopold cracked one eye open and snorted. “Of course I was. You imbecile kid.” His lip curled faintly. “And you didn’t even try to help me beat that disgraced Keeper.”

  The young man glanced toward the iron bars, then back at Leopold. “He had a sword.”

  Leopold huffed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Fair enough.” He shifted, wincing as the chains tugged at his wrists and ankles. “My whole body’s aching. I need rest.” Without waiting for another word, he closed his eyes again, breathing evenly out despite the jolting carriage.

  The young man leaned back against the bars, careful not to disturb him. He let his gaze wander.

  Only now did he truly see the scale of it.

  The caravan stretched far beyond what he’d imagined—dozens of caged carriages like theirs rattling along the road, escorted by dozens more standard wagons stacked with supplies and foot soldiers. Hundreds of horses kicked up dust as they moved, soldiers riding in loose formation around them, alert and unbothered. This wasn’t a raid or a patrol.

  This was an army on the march.

  The carriage lurched forward as the caravan began to move in earnest. The sun climbed steadily, and with it came heat—unforgiving and dry. Sweat clung to the young man’s skin, his throat tightening with thirst long before noon. The forested terrain fell away behind them, replaced by flat, barren land. Trees thinned, then vanished altogether. The earth cracked under the sun’s gaze, lifeless and pale.

  No one spoke much as the hours dragged on. Groans and quiet sobs drifted from neighboring cages, but even those faded as exhaustion set in.

  By the time the caravan stopped, dusk had already begun to creep in, painting the horizon in bruised shades of red and purple.

  The soldiers didn’t let the slaves out.

  Instead, hands shoved coarse bread through the bars—one small piece per person—and passed along waterskins just long enough for a few gulps. It was all they would get for the day.

  No one complained.

  The young man watched people tear into the bread as if it were a feast. Crumbs fell, quickly scooped up with trembling fingers. He ate too, slowly, forcing himself not to rush. The bread was dry and tasteless, but it filled the hollow ache in his stomach just enough to quiet it.

  Leopold chewed in silence, muttering under his breath between bites. “Hard as stone… tasteless… disgraceful…” Still, he ate every last crumb.

  As the camp settled, the young man noticed movement beyond the cages. A lone horse passed by, ridden by a gray hooded figure. The rider didn’t slow, didn’t glance their way, but the guards straightened instinctively. The horse headed toward a tent larger than the rest—its canvas thicker, its shape reinforced with wooden beams. Lantern posts surrounded it, casting steady light, and guards stood watch on all sides.

  Leopold’s eye followed the rider, sharp despite his weariness.

  “That one,” he murmured, lowering his voice further, “might be a scout. They send them ahead to watch the fortress—count fires, measure walls, see how the goblins move at dusk.”

  The young man looked at him. “So they’re close.”

  “Close enough,” Leopold said quietly. “Which means we won’t be far behind.”

  He fell silent for a moment, listening to the distant clink of armor and the murmur of soldiers. Then he turned his head slightly toward the young man. “Rest well tonight, kid. Tomorrow will be the big day.” His tone lost its bite, leaving only hard-earned certainty. “Try to survive.”

  The young man met his gaze. There was fear there, yes—but beneath it, something steadier. Resolve, quiet and unyielding.

  “I will,” he said simply.

  Leopold studied him for a second longer, then nodded, as if committing the answer to memory. He leaned back and closed his eyes again.

  Dawn came without warmth.

  The young man stirred as the world around him erupted into noise. Shouting. Metal clashing. Horses snorting and stamping as handlers yanked reins tight. Orders were barked and repeated, layered over one another until the air itself seemed to tremble.

  Leopold was already awake.

  The old man sat upright as much as the cramped cage allowed, his single good eye sharp, alert—nothing like the broken figure he pretended to be when guards were near. He watched the chaos with the practiced calm of someone who had once commanded it.

  “They move fast,” Leopold murmured. “Means the scout returned with good news. Or bad enough to hurry.”

  Before the young man could ask, iron bars screeched open.

  “Out!” soldiers roared. “All of you! Fall in line!”

  Hands shoved, boots kicked. The young man stumbled forward with the others as they poured from the cages. Hundreds of slaves were forced into formation, five long rows stretching across the dry earth. Bare feet dug into dust. Shoulders hunched. Eyes stayed low.

  Behind them, three disciplined ranks of soldiers formed—two rows with swords and spears, shields locked tight, and a third mix with staffs and bows already strung. Horsemen waited at the rear, lances upright like a forest of steel.

  At the front stood Hevert.

  Four gray-hooded figures flanked him, their faces hidden, their presence heavy. Hevert raised a gauntleted hand, and the camp slowly fell silent.

  He began to speak.

  “Soldiers of the Kollus Empire,” Hevert’s voice rang out, practiced and powerful, “today we march not merely to battle, but to destiny. Before us stands a nest of filth—a goblin fortress, built by monsters who gnaw at the borders of civilization and dare to exist under the same sun as men. We are the Empire’s will made flesh. Our blades are justice. Our march is order. The goblins are vermin, fit only to be crushed beneath our boots. Today, the Empire expands, and history will remember who stood tall—and who was erased.”

  The speech drew cheers from the soldiers. Swords struck shields in rhythm.

  Leopold snorted quietly. “Empowering,” he muttered. “Nothing inspires loyalty like calling slaughter ‘destiny.’” His lips thinned. “Sending slaves to the front without weapons, though—that’s the Empire’s true intent. Clean hands. Bloody results.”

  As a former noble, Leopold knew the real problem, slaves outnumbered the citizens of the Empire. Yet instead of making better solution, they chose to just throw slaves into meat grinder.

  As if summoned by the thought, one of the hooded figures stepped forward.

  She pulled back her hood.

  A collective hush rippled through the slaves.

  She was young, no older than the young man himself, yet carried herself with effortless authority. Her features were delicate, almost gentle, framed by pale hair that caught the morning light. Noble. Untouched by hardship. In her hand rested a slender staff carved with intricate runes.

  “Good morning, Duke Leopold,” she said lightly.

  Without waiting for a reply, Peonome tapped the base of her staff against the ground.

  The earth trembled.

  A deep, grinding sound rolled through the ground, low enough to be felt before it was heard. The earth beneath the slaves’ feet split apart, dirt and stones flung outward as something colossal forced its way up.

  A massive tree erupted from the soil, its trunk thick as a watchtower, bark dark and veined with glowing sap-like lines. Roots the size of serpents tore free from the ground, snapping and writhing as they dragged chunks of earth with them. In the span of a single breath, it surged skyward, branches unfolding violently, leaves screaming as they cut the air.

  The slaves recoiled, cries breaking loose—then, without warning, the tree detonated.

  The trunk shattered from within, bursting apart in a thunderous crack. Wood exploded outward in a controlled storm, fragments spinning and snapping midair, reshaping as if guided by invisible hands. The blast ended as abruptly as it began, and the ground was left littered not with splinters but with solid wooden clubs, each one resting neatly at a slave’s feet.

  Silence followed.

  Leopold’s expression didn’t change, but his eye narrowed. “Efficient,” he said. “Wasteful, but efficient.”

  The young man bent and picked up a club, feeling its rough weight in his hands.

  As Leopold reached for one, Hevert moved.

  He stopped in front of the old man and extended his hand. The ring on his finger pulsed with light, casting a dull glow across his gauntlet. With a brief shimmer, a rusted dagger materialized in his grasp.

  “A wooden club wouldn’t suit a noble,” Hevert said, voice smooth with mock courtesy. “Even a former duke. Here—consider it a kindness.”

  He drove the dagger into the dirt at Leopold’s feet and walked away without another glance.

  Leopold snorted. “Show-off.” Still, he bent with a grunt and picked up the dagger, testing its balance. His grip was practiced, familiar.

  The young man stared, unable to help himself. “How did he do that?”

  Leopold glanced at him. “A storage ring,” he said. “It can hold weapons, supplies—almost anything.” His lip curled faintly. “Costs a fortune. More than most commoners earn in a lifetime.”

  The young man nodded slowly, eyes lingering on the ring before looking ahead again.

  Peonome tapped her staff once more.

  Chains unlocked and fell away, clattering across the ground. Slaves flexed their freed wrists, murmurs spreading through the ranks.

  As the last echoes of chains faded, the remaining hooded figures stepped forward and shed their coverings.

  Leopold’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Where others saw power and salvation, he saw tools—and dangers.

  He leaned closer to the young man, keeping his voice low. “Watch them carefully,” he murmured. “Knowing who stands near you can mean the difference between dying uselessly and dying last.”

  “That one is Arnold Ironfire—the Moving Fortress,” Leopold said, nodding toward the towering man encased in silver armor.

  Arnold was unmistakably middle-aged, broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, with a full, dark beard shot through with iron-gray. His face was lined not with age alone, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had survived too many battles to count. The armor he wore was heavy and brutally practical—thick silver plates layered over one another, scarred, dented, and polished only where constant use demanded it. Each mark told a story, none of them gentle.

  A massive shield was strapped across his back, its surface etched with old runes, and a heavy war hammer rested easily in his hand, as if it weighed nothing at all.

  “A Keeper known for endurance beyond reason. Strength enough to shatter bone with a single grip.” His eye narrowed slightly. “They say his shield has never been breached. Not by steel, not by fang, not by spell.”

  The young man swallowed, eyes following the way Arnold stood—unmoving, unyielding, like a fortress given flesh.

  “Samantha Hawk,” Leopold continued, looking at a young, lean figure in black leather armor. She moved lightly, almost lazily, a well-crafted bow already resting in her grip. Her gaze swept the horizon with predatory calm, sharp and calculating.

  “They call her the Beast Archer.” There was a hint of reluctant respect in his tone. “She uses the abilities of beasts she’s slain. Speed, vision, instincts—you name it.” He exhaled softly. “Rumor says she carries more than a thousand skills taken from different creatures. And her aim?” A brief pause. “Unmatched.”

  The young man felt a chill settle in his spine as Samantha’s eyes flicked briefly over the slave ranks, as if measuring them.

  The last hood fell away to reveal a woman dressed in white and gold robes, the fabric immaculate despite the dust. She clutched a heavy tome bound in metal, faint symbols glowing along its spine. Her expression was calm, almost serene, like someone who believed the gods walked beside her.

  “And that,” Leopold said, voice lowering further, “is Illumi Webleton. A priestess from the holy city of Lightborn.” His lip twitched. “A Keeper as well. Known for her wide-area blessings and healing miracles. If you see light falling from the sky—stand in it.”

  Leopold’s gaze shifted back toward the woman with the staff—the one who had turned a tree into weapons with a single tap.

  “Also, the young woman with staff. Her name was Peonome Cloverstone,” Leopold said. “A genius mage.” His voice carried a rare note of certainty. “They call her a once-in-a-century talent. Born with a mana reserve so vast most mages would collapse just sensing it.”

  The young man glanced at Peonome again, unease creeping into his awe. She was smiling faintly, chatting with Hevert as if they were discussing the weather.

  Leopold leaned back, gaze returning to the vast land ahead where the fortress waited unseen. “Except for Hevert, every one of them can stand alone,” he added quietly, “Together, they are why this army dares to march so boldly.”

  The young man tightened his grip on the club.

  For the first time, he truly understood what stood behind him—and what stood ahead.

  Hevert raised his voice again. “Move!”

  The Keepers took the lead. Slaves followed, clubs clenched tight. Soldiers closed in behind them, formation unbroken.

  As they marched, Leopold leaned closer to the young man. “Remember this,” he said quietly. “Weapons don’t decide survival. Awareness does.”

  The young man tightened his grip on the club, eyes fixed forward.

  Ahead, beyond dust and blood, waited the fortress.

  They had not gone far when Samantha Hawk raised her hand.

  The signal was unhurried, almost careless, yet the effect was immediate. The marching line faltered, then stopped—soldiers bracing their stance, slaves halting mid-step, the entire column freezing as if the air itself had thickened.

  Samantha’s eyes lingered on the barren stretch ahead, sharp and distant at the same time, as though she were watching something unfold just beyond sight. She turned her head slightly toward the man beside her.

  “Fortified shield,” she said, her voice calm, bordering on bored.

  Arnold Ironfire responded without a word.

  He stepped forward and drove his shield into the ground.

  THOOM.

  The impact sent a dull vibration through the earth, up the legs of those standing nearest. Runes carved into the shield ignited in pale white light, and in the next breath, transparent barriers surged into existence.

  Layer upon layer of shields unfurled across the front line—rows and columns interlocking with mechanical precision. The formation sealed tight, leaving no gaps, no weakness. A wall of force stood between them and whatever lay ahead.

  A heartbeat of silence followed.

  Then the sky burned.

  Something screamed through the clouds.

  Massive fireballs tore downward like fragments of a collapsing sun. They struck the land in violent succession—

  Explosions bloomed across the field, fire rolling outward in crushing waves. Heat slammed forward, the ground trembling beneath their feet.

  The slaves panicked.

  Freed from their chains only hours ago, many had not yet learned how to stand without fear pressing down on their backs. Some screamed. Some broke formation and ran away, bare feet kicking up dust as survival overwhelmed reason.

  The young man felt it too—that sharp, instinctive pull to turn and flee. His muscles tensed, already shifting—

  “Stay.”

  Leopold’s voice cut through the chaos.

  The old man’s hand closed around the young man’s arm, firm and steady. There was no panic in his grip, only command. “Stay where you are.”

  The young man hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he stopped.

  He planted his feet and forced his breathing to slow, eyes fixed forward. The fireballs continued to rain down, but the shield wall held, flaring brighter with every impact.

  Screams rose from the rear.

  The young man flinched and tried to look back.

  Leopold shifted just enough to block his view. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Keep your focus. Our enemy is in front of us.”

  The screams faded.

  The explosions did not.

  Leopold’s jaw tightened. He knew what had happened behind them. He also knew that looking would change nothing.

  Then, abruptly, the bombardment ceased.

  A warm, golden radiance spilled from above, bathing the battlefield in light. The young man looked up and saw an enormous magic circle suspended in the sky, intricate runes glowing with divine precision.

  As the light washed over him, strength surged through his body. His fatigue vanished. The dull ache in his limbs faded, replaced by a steady, grounded energy. Around him, others straightened, wounds closing, breaths evening.

  Leopold inhaled slowly as the pain in his body receded. He blinked his once swollen eye. “Healing and enhancement,” he murmured. “Illumi’s work.”

  Now, the barrage of spells stopped.

  Samantha moved first.

  She drew an arrow in one smooth motion—posture loose, eyes sharp. Peonome lifted her staff beside her, murmuring under her breath. Mana rippled outward, and the arrowhead flared crimson with a sharp, heat warping the air.

  Samantha released.

  The arrow tore through the sky, leaving a burning trail. A heartbeat later, the horizon detonated—

  Fire and shockwaves rolled outward, the explosion dwarfing the earlier bombardment. The earth buckled. Debris rained down.

  Samantha smiled faintly. “Interesting.”

  Peonome tilted her head, expression curious rather than impressed. “What’s interesting about a cluster of goblins?”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “A goblin general.”

  The atmosphere shifted.

  The Keepers fell silent.

  So did Leopold.

  A chill crawled up the young man’s spine. “What’s a goblin general?” he asked, keeping his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.

  Leopold did not look away from the smoke rising in the distance. “A goblin with the strength, intelligence, and power to rival a Keeper.”

  The young man swallowed. “But we have five Keepers,” he said. “They can deal with one goblin general, can’t they?”

  Leopold finally turned his head, meeting the young man’s gaze.

  “The general isn’t the real danger,” Leopold said quietly.

  He let the words settle before finishing.

  “It’s the one he serves,” he said. “The Goblin King.”

  The roar came without warning.

  RRRROOOOOAAAAAARRR—

  It was not the cry of a beast announcing its presence, but the sound of command—deep, layered, and absolute. It rolled across the barren land and sank into bone. A moment later, the ground answered it. The earth shuddered, a low rumble swelling into something that felt disturbingly like an approaching storm.

  Samantha exhaled through her nose. “Brace yourselves,” she said, finally sounding alert. “They’re coming.”

  At first, there was only movement at the edge of sight—a jagged line where dust met sky. Then the silhouettes grew clearer, swelling as they advanced, until the land itself seemed to vomit them forth.

  Goblins.

  Thousands of them, easily outnumbering both slaves and soldiers ten to one, charging at a terrifying speed. Small, twisted bodies pumping forward with manic energy. Among them ran greater goblins, broader and smarter, their eyes glowing with crude intellect. Massive orcs thundered at the center of the formation, tusks bared, weapons raised.

  And towering above them all—

  An abnormally massive goblin, its armor scavenged from fallen foes, its presence dragging the air down around it. Sword resting on its shoulder.

  The goblin general.

  Hevert stepped forward, blade still sheathed, voice ringing sharp and disciplined. “Archers,” he barked. “Draw. Wait for my signal.”

  Behind the slaves and soldiers, bows came up in practiced unison. Arrowheads glinted in the sun. The young man could feel the tension crawling through the ranks, a thousand breaths held at once.

  “Wait,” Hevert snapped, eyes narrowed. “Wait—”

  The goblins surged closer.

  “Now!”

  The sky darkened as arrows screamed forward in a lethal arc. For a brief, hopeful moment, it looked as though the front ranks would be skewered—

  A roar answered the volley.

  One of the greater goblins raised its staff, symbols carved into bone flaring sickly green. A violent wind surged forward, crashing into the arrows mid-flight. The volley faltered, then died, shafts clattering harmlessly to the ground.

  A murmur of dread rippled through the lines.

  “Mages!” Hevert commanded.

  Staffs rose. Mana ignited.

  Fireballs tore through the air. Ice lances followed, then jagged spears of stone. Peonome joined them without hesitation, her casting seamless and relentless. Explosions ripped through the charging mass, bodies torn apart, limbs flung skyward.

  Still, the goblins did not stop.

  Hevert drew his sword.

  Steel whispered free—a clean, ringing release—and settled into his grip.

  Samantha strung her bow, the cord tightening with a low, resonant tension, then reversed her grip. Her enchanted daggers slid into her hands with a muted, predatory hush.

  Illumi opened her tome.

  Pages lifted as if caught in an unseen current, parchment fluttering in tight, controlled agitation while golden script peeled away from the surface and hung in the air. Her chant began—quiet, steady, inexorable—each syllable carrying weight.

  Peonome slammed her staff into the ground.

  Stone groaned. The earth heaved, and a massive golem tore free, rising to its full height with a thunderous crack. Peonome leapt, landing lightly on its shoulder as it charged forward, trampling goblins beneath each step.

  Arnold dismissed the shield wall in a flash of light. He rolled his shoulders, slid his shield onto his back, and then—

  Jumped.

  “Hammer Fall.”

  He soared impossibly high before crashing down into the heart of the goblin horde.

  The impact shattered the ground, a crater forming beneath him, bodies reduced to broken meat and bone.

  It did not slow them.

  Goblins swarmed Arnold instantly, clambering over one another to reach him. He roared back, hammer swinging in wide arcs, shield flaring as blades bounced harmlessly off it.

  Then the front line broke.

  The goblins reached the slaves.

  Panic exploded.

  Wooden clubs swung wildly. Screams tore free as goblins darted in, blades flashing. Small, fast, merciless. Slaves fell in moments, bodies dragged down under sheer numbers.

  “Hold your ground!” Leopold shouted, already moving.

  Despite his age and injuries, he fought with ruthless efficiency. His dagger flashed, precise and economical, taking heads cleanly. He positioned himself slightly ahead of the young man, intercepting blows meant for him.

  The young man barely had time to think.

  A goblin lunged at him, dagger thrusting toward his ribs. He reacted on instinct, bringing his club up. The blade buried itself into the wood with a wet thunk.

  The goblin shrieked and pulled.

  So did the young man.

  He wrenched the club back with all his strength, the dagger still lodged in it, then drove it down again and again until the goblin stopped moving.

  His breathing came fast, but his grip did not shake.

  Leopold glanced at the body, then at him. “Not bad, kid.”

  The young man allowed himself a brief smile. He did not pull the dagger free. Instead, he adjusted his grip and used it as part of the weapon, striking with sharper intent.

  The battlefield dissolved into chaos.

  Spells streaked overhead from both sides. Arrows fell like rain. Samantha moved like a shadow, weaving through the goblins, her blades carving clean paths through flesh.

  Arnold batted orcs aside as if they were toys, crushing skulls with casual brutality.

  Hevert cut his way forward, disciplined and relentless.

  Peonome’s golem rampaged through the enemy ranks, reducing formations to nothing but crushed bodies and screaming chaos.

  Illumi’s magic washed across the field in pulses of gold, mending wounds, dragging the dying back from the brink.

  Still, it was not enough.

  Too many slaves fell.

  Too many screams ended too quickly.

  The young man fought on, jaw set, eyes steady. Leopold stayed near him, always watching, always positioning, turning survival into something deliberate rather than desperate.

  Behind them, the soldiers still held formation.

  The cavalry remained motionless.

  Leopold noticed—and his eyes hardened.

  The ground shook again.

  And this time, the goblin general moved. But did not charge.

  Instead, it dropped to one knee.

  The ground continued to shake, not from movement ahead, but from something deeper—heavier—approaching with slow, deliberate inevitability.

  Leopold’s breath caught. “No.”

  The young man followed his gaze.

  The dust parted.

  What emerged made the goblin general look small.

  A towering goblin stepped into view, broader and taller than any creature on the field. Its armor was not scavenged but forged—polished copper plates etched with crude yet deliberate patterns, reflecting the dull light of the battlefield. A massive axe rested in its grip, the blade wide enough to split a man in half with a careless swing. Each step it took pressed the earth flat beneath it, as though the land itself yielded.

  The goblin king.

  Flanking him were two figures that radiated danger.

  One was an orc draped in a brown, weathered cloak. Its face was hidden in shadow, but a red orb floated above its palm, pulsing softly, alive with malignant intent. The air around it warped faintly, as if reality itself was uneasy in its presence.

  An orc warlock.

  The other was larger still, bare-armed and scarred, dragging a jagged greatsword blackened with layers of dried blood. The weapon’s edge seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. Each breath the orc took was slow, controlled, predatory.

  An orc commander.

  A hush fell over the battlefield—not silence, but a collective intake of breath.

  Samantha whistled softly, rolling her shoulders. “Well,” she said, a sharp grin cutting across her face. “Looks like the main act finally arrived.”

  Arnold chuckled, tightening his grip on the hammer. “About time.”

  Illumi’s fingers tightened around her tome, knuckles whitening. Peonome’s expression hardened, her brows drawn together as she measured the mana gathering around the newcomers.

  Hevert remained perfectly still, his face unreadable.

  Leopold, however, clicked his tongue in open irritation. “This is troublesome,” he said, voice low but edged with urgency. “A goblin general, a goblin king, an orc commander, and an orc warlock. That’s not a battlefield—that’s a massacre waiting to happen.”

  The young man swallowed. “Can… can we win?”

  Leopold didn’t answer immediately. His eyes never left the enemy leaders. “Maybe,” he said at last. “If everything goes right, and many people die.” He glanced sideways at the young man. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

  The young man frowned. “Then why—”

  “To escape,” Leopold said simply.

  Before the words could settle, a new sound rose behind them—disciplined, metallic, merciless.

  The soldiers were moving.

  Spears lowered in unison. Shields locked together. Archers and mages advanced behind them in perfect formation. They split into four groups, each one a moving wall of steel and intent.

  Then they charged.

  Not at the goblins.

  At everything in front of them.

  Slaves screamed as the formations plowed forward, spears thrusting without hesitation. Men were impaled, crushed beneath shields, trampled under armored boots. Panic erupted again, sharper and more desperate.

  “They’re clearing the field,” Leopold said grimly. “For themselves.”

  He seized the young man’s wrist and dragged him sideways, forcing them toward a narrow gap between two advancing formations.

  “Now,” Leopold snapped. “Move when I move.”

  They darted forward.

  A spear lunged unexpectedly from the left. Leopold twisted, shoving the young man out of the way—

  Pain exploded through his shoulder.

  The spearhead tore into him, ripping through flesh before he could fully turn. He grunted sharply but didn’t scream. Instead, he bit down hard, using the momentum to drag them through the gap.

  Blood soaked his sleeve.

  The young man felt it instantly. “You’re hit—”

  “Later,” Leopold hissed. “Keep moving.”

  They stumbled clear of the formation just as shields slammed shut behind them. Leopold’s breathing turned ragged, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating even through the pain.

  Behind them, only a few dozen slaves remained alive.

  Some still fought, backs pressed together, clubs slick with blood. Others fell as cavalry thundered past, hooves crushing bone, lances punching through flesh. The battlefield widened violently as the cavalry charged from both flanks.

  Spells detonated. Steel rang. The goblin king raised its axe and roared a command that shook the air itself.

  The slaves were no longer part of the plan.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  They were expendable.

  Their strategy was brutally clear now: the slaves had served their purpose. The initial clash was over, the enemy formations revealed, the strongest threats identified. From that point on, the Keepers’ attention narrowed exclusively to the soldiers and cavalry. Orders flowed cleanly through disciplined ranks.

  And the surviving slaves were left behind.

  They stood in the open, unaccounted for.

  Stray magic—never meant for them, never corrected for them—rained down without mercy.

  A fireball fell short of its intended mark and struck a surviving slave square in the torso. There was no scream. The explosion erased his upper body in an instant, the shockwave knocking others flat. What remained collapsed into the dirt, smoking.

  The young man froze for half a breath.

  Leopold didn’t let it become more.

  “Keep moving,” he said sharply, hauling him forward.

  An icicle screamed down from above, impaling another slave through the chest and pinning him to the ground. Blood steamed as it spilled. The man’s fingers clawed weakly at the ice before going still.

  The smell followed—burnt flesh, ozone, blood turned sharp and metallic.

  “They’re not even looking at us,” the young man said, disbelief cutting through his breathless words.

  Leopold’s jaw tightened. “That’s because to them, we’re already dead. We need to escape now.”

  Another spell detonated close enough to hurl dirt and stone into the air. The shockwave slammed into them, nearly sending Leopold to his knees. His injured shoulder flared with white-hot pain, but he bit it down, refusing to slow.

  The young man obeyed, ducking when he saw the telltale glow overhead, pulling Leopold with him as a blast scorched the space they’d just vacated.

  Ahead, the camp came into view.

  Wagons stood half-abandoned, some already burning, others overturned in haste. Torn tents flapped wildly in the hot wind. Compared to the open battlefield, it was the only place left that offered cover.

  A fire spell struck a wagon to their right, igniting it instantly. Flames roared up, heat slamming into their faces.

  “Left,” Leopold ordered, adjusting their path without hesitation.

  They sprinted, boots slipping on churned dirt and blood, and dove behind a supply wagon just as another explosion thundered down behind them. The wood rattled violently, splinters snapping free.

  Leopold pressed his back to the wheel, breathing hard, one hand clamped over his wounded shoulder. Blood seeped through the cloth, dark and steady.

  Another scream echoed nearby—short, desperate, then cut off.

  “Once the battle was done,” Leopold spoke quietly. “Then they’ll take accounts. Survivors where there shouldn’t be any are inconvenient.”

  The implication settled heavily.

  “They’ll hunt us,” the young man said.

  “Yes,” Leopold replied without hesitation. “Once the field is secure. Clean work, no witnesses.”

  He closed his eyes for a brief second, committing the rhythm of the battlefield to memory. His fingers flexed unconsciously, calculating distance and timing, escape routes already mapping themselves in his mind. He picked up a sword lying on the ground, handed his dagger to the young slaves, “Have this, we’ll need it later.”

  He leaned forward, pain flashing across his face, resolve hardening beneath it. “We need to go now.”

  They broke from cover and ran. Deeper into the camp, into smoke and shadow, weaving between burning wagons and shattered supplies. They planned to escape through the forest beyond the camp.

  ***

  Back on the battlefield, the clash had settled into a merciless rhythm—one measured not by numbers, but by endurance.

  Illumi stood slightly apart from the thickest fighting, her boots planted in scorched earth littered with broken arrows and shattered weapons. An ornate grimoire hovered open before her, pages turning on their own as glowing runes bled softly from the parchment into the air. Her breathing was shallow now, her gentle voice thinning as she completed another spell.

  “…Hold on,” she whispered, not commanding, only asking.

  The golden barrier she had woven flickered, its edges fraying like worn silk. Illumi’s fingers trembled as she brushed them along the book’s spine, feeling the strain pulling at her mana.

  She reached into her satchel and produced a small blue vial. The liquid inside pulsed faintly. She hesitated just long enough to murmur a soft prayer, then drank.

  Warmth spread through her chest, steady and calming. The pressure behind her eyes eased. Her shoulders relaxed as the grimoire brightened, pages snapping open to new sigils.

  She lifted her hand, palm open.

  The runes flared.

  Soft golden light flowed outward in controlled waves, knitting flesh, sealing wounds, and easing pain. Soldiers gasped as strength returned to their limbs. Illumi turned pages with care, never raising her voice, her magic precise rather than overwhelming.

  Not far away, Samantha was the opposite—motion without restraint.

  Twin daggers flashed in her hands, thin blades catching firelight as she danced through the chaos. Her expression held a quiet smirk, eyes sharp, body loose, as if the battlefield were a familiar stage.

  An orc nearly four times her size barreled toward her, swinging a massive sword down in a brutal arc.

  Samantha stepped forward.

  Then she was gone.

  The blade struck empty ground with a thunderous crack. The orc barely had time to register the absence before something tapped its back.

  It turned.

  Samantha stood there, daggers already wet with blood.

  Warmth spread across the orc’s arm. It looked down just as the limb slid free, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

  It roared, staggering, raising its remaining arm—

  The world spun.

  For a brief moment, the sky filled its vision.

  Only then did it understand.

  Its head fell a heartbeat later.

  Samantha didn’t look back. She flowed onward, blades flashing, cutting through flesh and armor alike with effortless precision. To her, this was not frenzy—it was routine.

  Arnold’s fight was far less elegant.

  He stood amid crushed bodies and torn earth, hammer rising and falling in savage arcs, his shield absorbing blow after blow. Each impact rattled his bones. Each blocked strike left his arm heavier than before.

  He was strong—undeniably so—but the swarm was taking its toll.

  Bruises darkened beneath his armor. Blood seeped from cuts along his forearms. He spat to the side and crushed a goblin beneath his shield.

  “Enough,” he snarled. “I didn’t come here to play gatekeeper.”

  He looked up.

  The goblin king stood in the distance, unmoving, watching the slaughter as if it were entertainment.

  Arnold grinned despite the ache burning through his muscles. “That’s the one.”

  He ripped the shield from his arm, mana surging into its rim as he spun and hurled it forward.

  “Shield boomerang!”

  The shield tore through the battlefield like a screaming disc, spinning fast enough to shear through goblins, orcs, and even chunks of stone. Bodies split cleanly as it carved a straight path toward the goblin king.

  Then something jumped into its way.

  The orc commander reached out and caught the shield with one hand.

  The impact cracked the ground beneath its feet, dust erupting outward, but the commander did not budge. Muscles flexed as it forced the spinning shield to a dead stop.

  Silence rippled for a heartbeat.

  The orc commander studied the shield, then lifted its gaze to Arnold, a slow grin spreading across its tusked face.

  Arnold tightened his grip on the hammer, bloodied knuckles creaking.

  “Good,” he said, voice low and eager. “This is what I’m hoping. A worthy opponent.”

  Arnold’s chest rose and fell heavily as he reached into the storage ring, fingers brushing cold metal before closing around a vial the color of fresh blood. He bit the cork free with his teeth and drank.

  Heat flooded his veins.

  Bruises tightened, then faded. Torn muscle knit itself together with a dull, grinding ache. The fatigue that had weighed on his arms burned away, replaced by a familiar, dangerous clarity.

  He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders.

  “Time to get serious.”

  Across the churned battlefield, the orc commander answered with a low, amused growl. With a flick of its arm, it hurled Arnold’s shield back at him—not as a courtesy, but as a challenge.

  Arnold stepped forward and caught it mid-spin. The impact drove his boots several inches into the ground, but he didn’t yield. He locked the shield into place, mana humming along its surface, and broke into a charge.

  He did not slow.

  Goblins and lesser orcs swarmed to intercept him, shrieking as they lunged. Arnold swung his hammer in wide, brutal arcs, each strike pulverizing bone and armor alike. Bodies were flung aside like debris, but the swarm kept coming, clawing, biting, hacking at him from all directions.

  Peonome stood atop the stone golem’s shoulder, robes snapping violently in the heated wind. From her elevated perch, the battlefield unfolded like a living map—lines breaking, pressure points forming, lives ending in blurs of motion and magic.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  She lifted her staff and struck it once against the golem’s shoulder.

  The summon obeyed instantly.

  It stomped its foot down, frost exploding outward in a circular wave. Jagged ice walls erupted around Arnold, freezing goblins mid-leap, locking snarling orcs in place, their expressions forever trapped between rage and terror.

  The sudden stillness lasted a heartbeat.

  Arnold’s shield slammed into the ice wall, shattering the frozen barricade in a violent spray of shards.

  The orc commander crashed into him.

  Greatsword met shield with a thunderous impact. The force of the blow obliterated the remaining ice and sent frozen bodies flying. The ground cracked beneath them, and for a moment the world seemed to tilt.

  Arnold gritted his teeth, boots skidding back, arms screaming as he absorbed the strike.

  “Now that’s more like it,” he growled.

  The battlefield around them instinctively parted. Goblins hesitated, circling but not daring to interfere. Orcs backed away, sensing that this was no longer their fight.

  Arnold and the orc commander stood alone amid broken earth and corpses.

  From above, Peonome raised her staff again. Mana condensed, sharp and precise, forming half a dozen spectral spears that hummed with lethal intent. With a controlled flick of her wrist, she sent them screaming downward.

  The orc commander didn’t even flinch.

  A translucent red barrier flared to life in front of it, the spears shattering against the shield in bursts of light before they could reach flesh.

  Peonome’s frown deepened.

  She turned her head slightly, senses flaring.

  The orc warlock had stepped forward. The brown cloak shifted as unseen energy gathered around it, the red orb in its grasp pulsing slowly, like a second heart.

  Peonome inhaled sharply.

  Vast. Uncomfortably vast.

  The mana signature rolled across her senses like a tidal pull, dense and deliberate. Her fingers tightened around her staff as her gaze flicked instinctively toward Hevert, ready to call for coordination—

  And stopped.

  Hevert was fighting, yes. His blade moved, clean and efficient, cutting down goblins that came too close. But it was perfunctory, almost absent. His stance never fully committed. His eyes were not on the frontline, nor on the goblin king. They were fixed on the far edge of the battlefield.

  The realization slid into place with a cold, precise clarity.

  This battle was never his true objective.

  It was Leopold de Vedre.

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment, disappointment threading through her composure. “Tsk... a loyal hound, indeed,” she murmured under her breath.

  Her fingers tightened around her staff. Beneath her, the stone golem shifted, responding to her resolve. Cracks of light ran along its shoulders and arms as it began to move.

  Peonome straightened atop, robes settling, expression hardening into focused calm.

  Her target was clear.

  “Forward,” she said softly.

  The golem roared and surged ahead, each step shattering the ground, carrying Peonome on its shoulder as she advanced toward the orc warlock.

  Without a warning.

  A massive beam of condensed mana tore across the battlefield and struck the charging golem squarely in the chest.

  There was no explosion at first—just a blinding flash, followed by a sound like mountains grinding together.

  The golem’s arms sheared cleanly from its shoulders and crashed into the earth with bone-shaking force. Its upper torso didn’t fall—it disintegrated. Stone, sigils, and mana constructs were pulverized into dust, its head erased as if it had never existed.

  Smoke and debris swallowed everything.

  For a heartbeat, even the battlefield seemed to pause.

  Then, amid the settling dust, a white sphere hovered where Peonome had been standing. Smooth. Perfect. Untouched by the chaos around it.

  The sphere flickered.

  Light peeled away like mist, revealing Peonome—robes pristine, expression calm, eyes glowing with mana. Not a scratch marked her skin.

  She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting the distant silhouette of the orc warlock.

  A faint smile touched her lips.

  “That was a bold opening,” she said evenly. “But this isn’t the place for a proper duel.”

  Her eyes swept the battlefield—interlocking formations, overlapping spells, bodies falling faster than they could be counted.

  “It’s too crowded.”

  The orc warlock’s red orb flared in response, its glow deepening as mana surged outward. The ground beneath him cracked, reacting to the pressure he released.

  Peonome raised her staff.

  Light coiled around its head, space itself seeming to fold inward. The air around both of them distorted, as if reality were being pulled taut.

  Then they vanished.

  No explosion followed. No flash. Just absence.

  Peonome and the Orc Warlock were gone.

  At the center of a newly carved wasteland, Arnold and the orc commander clash heated.

  Arnold was enormous for a human—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, built like a fortress given flesh—but standing before the orc commander, he looked almost small. The orc towered over him, muscles layered like coiled cables beneath scarred green skin, greatsword swinging with terrifying ease.

  Yet Arnold did not retreat.

  Hammer met blade. Shield caught steel.

  Each impact sent shockwaves through the ground, cracking earth and flinging loose stones into the air. Arnold’s boots sank deeper with every exchange, but he adjusted, rolled with the force, compensated instinctively.

  The orc commander snarled, amused.

  Arnold spat blood to the side and grinned. “You hit hard,” he said. “I like that.”

  They clashed again—hammer glancing off the greatsword, shield scraping sparks along its edge. Arnold felt his arms scream in protest, felt old injuries flare despite the potion still working through his system. He welcomed it. Pain meant he was alive.

  Around them, the war raged on.

  Human soldiers held formation with grim discipline. The front rank braced shields while the second rotated forward, seamless and practiced, allowing the exhausted to fall back before fatigue could break the line. Mages behind them hurled spells in staggered volleys—fire, lightning, stone—while others drank mana potions with shaking hands, faces pale from overexertion.

  Archers had long since abandoned their bows. Short swords flashed as they darted through gaps, reinforcing faltering lines or cutting down goblins that slipped past the shields. Cavalry thundered along the flanks, lances lowered, carving through clusters of enemies before wheeling away to regroup.

  At first glance, the battle favored humanity.

  The goblin king knew better.

  He stood calmly amid the chaos, copper armor gleaming despite the blood and ash around him. His expression never changed as he snapped his fingers.

  A burning spear materialized beside him—floating, spinning slowly, heat distorting the air. Mana radiated from it in suffocating waves.

  He caught it effortlessly and turned his gaze toward a figure in white and gold.

  Illumi.

  The priestess felt it the moment his attention settled on her. Her breath caught, heart hammering, instincts screaming. She raised her hand without hesitation.

  “Kyrie Phylax,” she said softly.

  A translucent barrier bloomed around her, etched with glowing sigils. The spear struck it an instant later.

  The impact sent sparks and a roaring whirlwind outward, the force driving Illumi to one knee. Her teeth clenched as she held the barrier, arms trembling under the strain.

  She reached forward and pressed her palm against the spear’s burning head.

  “Ultio Sacra.”

  Light surged.

  The spear reversed direction, screaming back toward its creator—faster, brighter, infused with sanctified mana that made the air itself recoil.

  The goblin king did not move.

  The goblin general did.

  The massive goblin stepped forward and cleaved the spear in half with a single, precise strike. The two blazing fragments dissipated harmlessly into the air.

  Illumi sagged, breath coming in ragged pulls. Sweat soaked her hairline as she fumbled for another potion, fingers unsteady. She drank deeply, the cool rush of mana steadying her—but only barely.

  Large-scale support and healing spells exacted a brutal toll, even on a Keeper.

  She straightened slowly, eyes lifting back to the battlefield, resolve replacing exhaustion.

  Her calm eyes met the goblin king’s across the battlefield. Smoke and fire distorted the distance between them, but the connection was unmistakable. The king’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. He raised one clawed hand and extended a single finger toward her, the gesture accompanied by a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the ground itself.

  Illumi did not flinch.

  She drew her grimoire closer to her chest, fingers resting lightly against its cover, and exhaled a steady breath. “I see,” she murmured, voice gentle, almost apologetic. “So you knew it’s me.”

  Without her, the human army won’t survive.

  The goblin general moved at once.

  It did not hesitate, did not posture. The massive figure surged forward in a straight, brutal charge, each step cracking the earth beneath its weight.

  Samantha saw it and clicked her tongue.

  “Oi,” she barked sharply, eyes already tracking the commander’s trajectory. “Protect Illumi.”

  She didn’t wait for confirmation. Her daggers were in her hands as she launched herself forward, body low, lethal, every movement stripped of excess.

  For a moment, Hevert’s senses snapped back into place.

  He stepped in to intercept, blade flashing as he met the goblin general head-on. Steel screamed against steel. The force of the impact drove Hevert back several paces, boots skidding through blood-soaked dirt. He grit his teeth and pushed forward, but the difference in strength was immediate—and unforgiving.

  The goblin general snarled and kicked.

  The blow struck Hevert squarely in the chest, sending him flying dozens of meters before he crashed into the churned earth, rolling until he lay still.

  Samantha glanced at the impact point and scoffed.

  “Useless doofus,” she muttered, already closing the distance.

  The goblin general turned, greatsword swinging in a wide, murderous arc.

  It cleaved through nothing.

  An afterimage shattered like mist.

  The real Samantha was already behind it, dagger flashing toward the nape of its neck—

  A massive arm descended from her side.

  Samantha twisted midair, barely clearing the strike.

  “Whoa—that was close,” she said flatly, landing in a crouch.

  She rose slowly, posture loose, predatory. Her feet shifted in small, deliberate steps, light and steady. Then she moved—and split.

  Two, three, seven images of Samantha peeled away from her form, each one solid enough to cast a shadow.

  “Let’s see if you can catch me,” she said, voice laced with quiet malice.

  The images surged forward together.

  The goblin general roared and swung, sword tearing through one—then another—only for the blade to pass through afterimages. The remaining figures struck in unison. Daggers bit into flesh. Shallow cuts bloomed across green skin, real blood spilling, real pain registering.

  The general swung again. Missed. Again. Missed.

  Frustration boiled over.

  A deafening roar exploded from its chest, a burst of compressed wind blasting outward in all directions. Samantha was hurled back, her images evaporating in the shockwave. She dug her heels in, skidding across the ground as she fought to regain balance.

  “Shit,” she hissed, dodging just as the sword slammed down where her head had been.

  The earth split.

  Before the goblin general could recover—

  “Sword Spear!”

  Hevert’s voice rang out.

  He had forced himself back to his feet, blood streaking his armor, eyes burning with stubborn resolve. Mana flared along his blade as he charged, accelerating until his movement blurred, sword aligned like the tip of a launched spear.

  The goblin general sensed the threat at the last instant and wrenched its sword upward from the ground, meeting Hevert’s attack in a brutal clash.

  Metal screamed.

  Hevert was thrown back again, boots digging trenches in the dirt as he barely stayed upright.

  Amidst the chaos, Illumi closed her eyes and started chanting.

  “Move back!” Samantha snapped.

  Hevert didn’t argue this time. He withdrew, breathing hard.

  Samantha reappeared at the general’s flank, movements sudden and precise. She drew in a breath, eyes cold.

  “Corrosive haze.”

  She exhaled.

  Purple mist poured from her mouth, thick and heavy, spreading to engulf the goblin general in a choking cloud. The air hissed as armor began to sizzle. Samantha retreated, watching carefully as the haze slowly thinned.

  When it cleared, the goblin general still stood.

  But its flesh was blistered and burned, patches of green skin sloughing away. Segments of armor clattered to the ground, eaten through and warped. Its eyes closed with tears, obviously irritated by the haze.

  Samantha clicked her tongue, unimpressed.

  “What a tough bastard,” she flicked a glance toward Illumi, irritation sharp in her eyes.

  “Aren’t you done yet, priestess?”

  Illumi did not answer.

  Her eyes were closed, lashes trembling faintly as she knelt with her grimoire floating before her. Her lips moved in a steady, unbroken chant, voice soft, almost tender, as if she were praying beside a sickbed rather than standing in the middle of a war.

  Samantha clicked her tongue and shifted her weight. She glanced toward Hevert, who stood several paces away, blade lowered, gaze unfocused—half on the goblin general, half on the distant chaos where smoke swallowed the fleeing slaves.

  “Fine,” Samantha said flatly. “Let’s entertain our guest until she’s done with her little miracle.”

  Hevert snapped out of it and nodded once. No words. Just motion.

  He surged forward, sword arcing down in a powerful overhead strike.

  The goblin general—vision still clouded from Samantha’s haze—didn’t see him, but it sensed him. With a guttural snarl, it raised its sword just in time, steel colliding with steel in a thunderous clash that shoved Hevert backward.

  The general swung wildly after that, massive blade carving the air in wide arcs meant to keep anything from getting close.

  Samantha slipped through the gaps with practiced ease, dodging the swings by inches. She carved shallow lines across exposed flesh, testing, probing, never overcommitting.

  “Tch. Still standing,” she muttered. “You’re annoyingly sturdy.”

  A sudden backhand from the general forced her to retreat, boots skidding across bloodied earth. The beast shook its head, blinking hard. Its vision was returning.

  Samantha shot another glance at Illumi.

  “Priestess,” she called sharply. “Time’s up. You done yet?”

  Illumi’s brows knit together—just slightly. The chant never stopped, but a hint of strain crept into her breathing.

  The goblin general roared and surged forward again.

  Hevert stepped in, dodging a downward strike and countering with a slash at its leg. The blade bit—but not deeply. The flesh resisted like thick leather reinforced with iron beneath.

  “Damn it,” Hevert hissed.

  Samantha didn’t slow. She pressed harder, striking again and again, blades flashing, forcing the commander to react rather than attack. A heavy downward swing nearly caught her, but she vaulted forward, closing distance.

  The general’s fist shot out.

  Hevert struck the arm at the same time—but the blow rang uselessly off reinforced armor.

  That single interruption was enough.

  Samantha drove her dagger straight into the commander’s eye.

  The roar that followed shook the battlefield.

  She twisted free and leapt back as blood poured down the creature’s face. One eye burned with blind rage, the other ruined completely.

  Samantha exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders.

  “Yeah. That’s better.”

  She looked at Illumi again.

  “Now. Please tell me you’re done.”

  This time, Illumi answered—not with words, but with light.

  “Chain of Light.”

  Her voice was calm, almost soothing.

  Golden radiance burst from the ground.

  Chains rose in every direction, luminous and heavy, wrapping around goblins, orcs, and commanders alike. Screams erupted as enemies were yanked off their feet and slammed into the dirt.

  The goblin king shattered their bindings with a roar, raw power snapping all the chains like glass. One by one, the chains around him started to break.

  But the short moment of restraint was enough for the Keepers.

  The goblin general froze mid-motion, chains still locking around its limbs.

  Samantha moved instantly.

  She used the chains themselves as a pathway, sprinting along their glowing links. Before the bindings fully failed, she spun and struck—

  The general’s head fell to the ground just as the chains exploded apart.

  ***

  Elsewhere, Arnold was fighting on borrowed breath.

  The battle with the orc commander had been even until exhaustion crept into his limbs. His hammer felt heavier. His shield slower.

  They clashed again—hammer to sword.

  Arnold tried to follow with a shield bash, but the orc grabbed the shield, kicked him hard, and sent him crashing into the dirt. The shield flew from Arnold’s grasp, skidding across the field.

  The orc advanced, confident.

  Arnold forced himself up, teeth bared, hammer shaking in his grip. Pride burned hotter than pain.

  Then, golden chains wrapped around the orc commander.

  Arnold didn’t waste the moment.

  He charged, swinging his hammer with everything he had left—

  The chains shattered with the roar. The orc raised its arm and crushed by the blow, Arnold’s arm gone numb with the impact.

  The beast roared and attacked again.

  Arnold ducked, rolled, and lunged for his shield. He turned just in time to block another strike, then slammed his hammer into the orc’s leg.

  Bone cracked.

  The orc knelt.

  It tried to raise its sword again.

  Arnold brought his hammer down, shattering the blade, then spun and hurled his shield like an executioner’s axe.

  The orc’s head left its shoulders.

  Arnold stood there, chest heaving, staring down at the corpse before finally letting out a hoarse laugh.

  “Still standing,” he muttered proudly.

  Illumi lowered her hand, exhaustion finally showing as she looked toward Hevert.

  “We can manage this,” she said softly. “You may… pursue the slaves.”

  Hevert nodded without hesitation and turned toward the ruined camp, already moving.

  Samantha watched him go, unimpressed.

  “Honestly,” she said, wiping blood from her blade, “his priorities never change.”

  Illumi closed her grimoire gently.

  “That,” she replied, voice calm but tinged with quiet sadness, “is how he became a Keeper. Doing the dirtiest work for nobles… just to climb the ranks.”

  Samantha wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with the back of her glove and flicked her gaze toward Illumi and Arnold. “That’s it,” she muttered, voice flat and edged with irritation. “No more distractions. The raid boss is ours now.”

  Ahead of them, the Goblin King straightened from the carnage, towering above fallen soldiers and broken war-beasts alike. Its armor was cracked and blackened, but its posture was still proud, still defiant. One yellow eye burned with something sharper than rage—calculation.

  Far from the battlefield—tens of kilometers away, the desert lay exposed beneath an unsettled sky.

  Peonome hovered in still air, her staff resting lightly on her hand. Below her, the orc warlock stood at the center of a widening transformation. The sand around it darkened, then softened, then liquefied—turning into a viscous, bloodlike substance that spread outward in slow, deliberate waves.

  Peonome’s eyes followed the change, sharp and analytical.

  “A terraformer spell,” she noted calmly. “Changing landscape in your advantage, interesting.”

  The liquid continued to expand, swallowing dunes and filling shallow depressions until the desert itself seemed to bleed. Mana flowed through it in dense, overlapping currents—fire, earth, and something older, more corrosive.

  The orb beat above the warlock’s palm. Once. Twice.

  The blood surged upward.

  Spears formed by the dozens, then by the hundreds—compressed, hardened, and sharpened by mana pressure. They launched toward Peonome in a chaotic storm, trajectories overlapping, angles deliberately irregular.

  Peonome lifted her staff.

  Small mana barriers bloomed into existence around her—hexagonal plates of light appearing exactly where each spear would strike. Not a single barrier lingered longer than necessary. Spears shattered into mist, evaporating before they could fall.

  “Impressive control,” she said, her tone unbroken. “Most mages rely on volume. You understand precision.”

  She rotated her wrist.

  Light beams descended in converging lines, striking at the warlock from above and flanks simultaneously. The bloodlike liquid responded instantly, rising to form thick, flowing shields that absorbed the beams and dispersed their energy into ripples across its surface.

  Peonome watched the reaction closely.

  “Adaptive medium,” she continued. “Elementally neutral. That explains the efficiency.”

  The sand beneath the liquid shifted.

  A stone spear erupted upward, driven by compressed earth mana, impaling the warlock through the torso with brutal finality. The force lifted its body from the ground before it sagged, the glow of its orb flickering violently.

  Peonome did not lower her staff.

  “That should—”

  The body dissolved.

  The spear passed through nothing as the warlock’s form melted into the bloodlike liquid and vanished completely. A heartbeat later, the liquid surged and reformed several meters away, the warlock rising from it as though reborn.

  Fire ignited in the air.

  Multiple fireballs streaked toward her from different angles as fresh blood spears launched in tandem, the assault now layered and coordinated.

  Peonome’s brow lifted slightly.

  “Multi-elemental casting,” she smiled. “Looks like I’m not the only one who can do that.”

  She drifted sideways, barriers forming and dissolving in rapid succession. Fire scorched the air beside her. Spears shattered inches from her robes. Her counterattack intensified—light beams firing in rapid, staggered patterns, forcing the warlock to divide its attention between offense and defense.

  Then the mana pressure changed.

  Peonome felt it before she saw it—the sudden enclosure of space, the thickening of ambient energy, the way the air itself seemed to resist her presence.

  She looked up.

  The sky had darkened to a deep, bruised red. Thick droplets began to fall, splattering against the transformed ground with wet, heavy impacts.

  A blood rain.

  The warlock chanted in a language that clawed at the edges of comprehension. The bloodlike terrain surged upward, walls rising and curving inward as they grew, enclosing both of them within a vast crimson structure.

  Peonome’s eyes traced the geometry of the forming spell.

  “A domain spell,” she said quietly. “blood prison.”

  The walls sealed.

  Immediately, the liquid lining the domain reacted. Blood spears erupted from every surface at once—ground, walls, even the air itself—launching in an omnidirectional barrage. There was no blind spot, no safe angle.

  Peonome moved.

  She spun her staff in a tight arc, barriers forming in layered shells around her as she drifted lower, closer to the warlock. Spears shattered in waves, striking from above, below, behind—each one met with precise, economical defense.

  “Relentless,” she observed, voice steady despite the pressure. “And costly. You’re burning mana at an unsustainable rate.”

  She tested the domain with a focused beam of light.

  No effect.

  She struck again—harder, pouring more mana into the attack.

  Still nothing.

  The walls pulsed and began to shrink, the space compressing with slow, inevitable force. The domain fed on the terraformed ground, recycling its own substance endlessly.

  Peonome lowered herself until she hovered only a few meters from the warlock, her gaze meeting its glowing orb.

  “For a warlock,” she said, and this time there was unmistakable respect in her voice, “you are exceptional. One in a generation, perhaps.”

  The warlock snarled, blood spears erupting once more, fire flaring at their tips.

  Peonome exhaled.

  “I’ve had enough of this.”

  Her body began to glow—softly at first, then brighter, the light intensifying until it rivaled the sun. The blood walls recoiled, boiling where the radiance touched them. The rain hissed into steam before it could reach her.

  The warlock staggered back, panic finally cracking through its control. Its chant faltered. The orb in its palm pulsed erratically.

  Peonome raised her staff.

  “Ultimate Skill: Singularity.”

  The domain collapsed inward.

  Then the world detonated.

  The explosion consumed everything—blood, sand, spell, and warlock alike—obliterating the desert in a blinding surge. The shockwave tore outward for a kilometer, flattening dunes and vitrifying the ground beneath. A towering mushroom-shaped cloud rose into the sky, visible even from the distant battlefield.

  When the light faded, there was nothing left.

  At the center of a vast, glass-edged crater, Peonome stood alone, boots sunk into scorched sand. Her breathing was uneven—controlled, but strained. The glow that had once wrapped her body was gone. Every drop of mana had been spent.

  She planted her staff to steady herself and reached into her storage ring, retrieving a small blue vial. A mana rejuvenation potion. She drank it in one motion. The cool energy spread slowly—barely enough, but sufficient.

  A few steps away lay the warlock’s orb, shattered and dark, its once-hostile pulse silenced.

  Peonome approached it, eyes calm, calculating even in exhaustion.

  She exhaled, a faint edge of respect in her tone.

  “The second I’ve ever forced myself to go all out against.”

  ***

  The shockwave reached them like a giant’s breath.

  The forest shuddered. Leaves tore free from branches, birds burst screaming into the sky, and the ground beneath their feet rolled hard enough to nearly throw them down. Leopold grunted as the tremor wrenched his injured shoulder; his arm tightened instinctively around the young man’s neck to keep himself upright.

  They had already put distance between themselves and the battlefield—deep enough into the forest that the sounds of steel and screams had dulled—but this was different. This was not battle noise.

  This was annihilation.

  They both turned.

  Far beyond the treeline, rising above the jagged silhouettes of distant hills, a colossal mushroom-shaped cloud bloomed into the sky. Ash and dust spiraled upward, glowing faintly at its core before darkening into something vast and obscene.

  The young man swallowed. “That… that wasn’t—”

  “Normal,” Leopold finished, voice low. “Yes. I know.”

  He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing with something between awe and unease. “That might be Peonome’s doing.”

  The young man stared, unable to look away. “Are Keepers… all like that?”

  Leopold let out a short, humorless breath. “No. Most of them are merely exceptional.”

  He glanced back at the cloud. “She’s a monster.”

  They moved again, slower now. Leopold’s shoulder wound was not deep, but it bled steadily, each step pulling pain through his frame. He masked it well, but the weight he leaned onto the young man grew heavier with every minute.

  From the camp to the forest, they had counted survivors without meaning to.

  Half a dozen. No more.

  The rest had vanished into steel, fire, and indifference.

  Leopold’s gaze kept drifting backward—not to the battlefield, but to its edges. To the routes a hunter would take.

  Hevert would not let this go.

  That explosion meant victory. And once the battle was decided, the hunt would begin.

  “We keep moving,” Leopold said quietly. “Find somewhere to hide.”

  The young man frowned. “Shouldn’t we run? As far as we can?”

  Leopold shook his head. “Running only delays the inevitable. Hiding changes the rules.”

  The answer clearly confused him, but he nodded and followed without argument.

  Fate—or perhaps sheer cruel irony—made the decision for them. Not five minutes later, the forest opened just enough to reveal a narrow break in stone. A cave, half-hidden by roots and creeping moss.

  Leopold studied it, eyes sharp despite exhaustion. Wind direction. Depth. Footing.

  “This will do.”

  They slipped inside, moving deeper until daylight thinned to a pale smear behind them. Leopold gestured to a flat stretch of stone. “There.”

  They sat.

  The cave was cold, damp, and quiet enough that the young man could hear Leopold’s breathing—slow, measured, but heavier than before.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked softly.

  Leopold was silent for a long moment.

  Then he turned, eyes clear despite the blood soaking his sleeve. “Will you help me get my wife and daughter back?”

  The question landed without warning.

  The young man did not hesitate. “Of course.”

  Something in Leopold’s expression shifted—not softened, but steadied.

  “Then answer me this,” Leopold continued. “Will you help me take my revenge?”

  The young man paused this time. Not out of fear—out of thought.

  Instead of answering, he asked, “Why?”

  Leopold nodded once, as if that had been the correct response.

  “You asked me before if I could give you a name,” he said quietly. “The answer is yes. But names carry weight. Blood. Obligation.”

  He met the young man’s eyes. “Promise me this—help me reclaim my family.”

  “I promise.”

  Leopold did not mention revenge again. He didn’t need to. Once a man stepped into this path, there was no clean way out.

  He placed his palm on the young man’s head. The touch was firm, deliberate.

  “No backing out, kid,” Leopold said. “Let’s begin.”

  The young man nodded.

  Leopold straightened as much as his injury allowed and spoke with sudden gravity, his voice resonating unnaturally within the cave.

  “By the authority granted under the Almighty God, Tharion—

  I, Leopold de Vedre, bestow my blessing.”

  Power stirred. The air tightened.

  “From this moment forth,” Leopold continued, “this man stands as an adopted son of House de Vedre.”

  He smiled—faint, weary, but genuine. “Your name is Klaus de Vedre.”

  Light surged.

  Klaus gasped as warmth flooded through his body. Symbols flickered into existence before his eyes—clear, structured, impossible.

  “What—what is this?”

  Leopold snorted. “Where are your manners? Is that how you talk to your father? By the way, you’re staring at your future now.”

  A transparent screen hovered before Klaus, pulsing softly.

  Page 1/2

  Name: Klaus de Verde

  Race: Human

  Age: 19

  Class: Reaver

  Level: 1

  Party: House de Verde

  Coalition: None

  Description: The Adopted Son of House de Vedre. A wanderer seeking revenge for his fallen house.

  Status:

  Health: 300 / 300

  Mana: 100 / 100

  Stamina: 150 / 200

  Attributes (Free Points: 0)

  Strength: 8

  Agility: 10

  Endurance: 7

  Intelligence: 8

  Dexterity: 8

  Charisma: 4

  Coins

  Gold: 0

  Silver: 0

  Bronze: 0

  Next Page>>

  Klaus frowned at the translucent screen hovering before his eyes. It pulsed faintly, as if aware of his attention.

  “What are these?” he muttered, tapping Next Page with tentative curiosity.

  The list of skills unfolded, lines of text sharp and undeniable.

  Page 2/2

  Trap Master Lv1 –

  Create an explosive trap on any object held by the caster. The caster can manipulate the complexity of the trap. Explosion power scales with casting duration and the caster’s dexterity.

  Cost: 50Mana, 1 Silver

  Reaver Graver –

  Permanently copy one basic skill of choice from a defeated foe. The level of the basic skill copied scales with the caster’s intelligence.

  Cost: 50 Mana, 5 Gold

  Mindforger (Passive) –

  Manifest any weapon based on the user’s perception and understanding.

  Weapon form, stability, and effectiveness scale with mental clarity and combat experience,

  Power of Gold (Ultimate) –

  Convert gold directly into raw power.

  For every 1 Gold coin spent, all attributes increase by +1.

  Effect last for 30 minutes.

  Gold consumed cannot be recovered.

  <

  >

  Next Page >>

  Klaus tapped Storage and took out a vial. A vial slid into his trembling hand—health regeneration. Relief surged through him. He crawled toward Leopold, arm outstretched.

  Before he could reach him, Leopold raised a hand.

  “No, son.” He shook his head slowly. “It won’t work. Once my ultimate skill was activated, there was no turning back. My death is inevitable. No potion can change that.”

  Tears spilled down Klaus’s cheeks. “But—”

  “No buts,” Leopold said gently. “I’m done. Just fulfill your promise to this old man. That’s all I ask.” His voice softened. “Drink it. I don’t need it.”

  With shaking hands, Klaus uncorked the vial and drank. Warmth flooded his body; pain vanished, bones knitting, blood receding.

  “Now,” Leopold said, “you have to go.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll wait,” Leopold replied calmly. “The battle’s almost over. If you linger, you’ll be caught. Just keep your promise.”

  Klaus stood, every step heavy. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t stay either.

  “Wait,” Leopold added. Hope flared—then died. “Take off your clothes. Samantha can sense you. Strip, jump into the river. It’s the only way to disappear.”

  Klaus nodded, a bitter smile breaking through. “Goodbye, Father.”

  Leopold smiled back. “Goodbye, my son.”

  When Klaus was gone, the warmth drained from Leopold’s face. His smile sharpened, dark and calculative.

  “I hope you like my last gift, Sebas,” he murmured. “Soon, I’ll be welcoming you from hell.”

  Soon, Leopold’s vision started to dim as the shadow hands crawled their way to his heart, until everything was swallowed in darkness.

  Leopold died smiling, knowing he didn’t die in vain.

  ***

  Back on the battlefield, the ground shuddered as Peonome’s distant explosion rolled across the plains like a delayed thunderclap. A column of smoke bloomed on the horizon. Arnold felt it through his boots and grinned through clenched teeth as he uncorked a health regeneration vial and downed it in one rough swallow. Samantha and Illumi followed suit—mana rejuvenation potions, quick and practiced. Illumi’s breathing never changed; her expression remained soft, almost serene, as if the violence around her were little more than a passing storm.

  The goblin king moved.

  He lifted his head and surveyed the field with predatory focus. Despite their numbers, the goblin ranks were buckling—humans advancing in tight formations, rotating lines with discipline the goblins could not match. The king crouched, dragged two fingers through blood-soaked soil, and smeared three crimson lines across his forehead. When he roared, it was not an order but a declaration. The goblins answered in kind, frenzy igniting their eyes as they surged forward with renewed savagery.

  Arnold and Samantha split without a word, flanking instincts honed by countless battles. Illumi stayed back, book glowing faintly as steady healing pulses washed over them. The goblin king met the charge head-on. His axe crashed into Arnold’s shield with brutal force, sending the knight skidding back several meters, boots carving trenches in the dirt. Samantha lunged, illusions blooming around her—but a single stomp shattered them, the shockwave rattling her bones.

  “Damn it,” she hissed, barely hopping back as the axe slammed down where her head had been.

  Arnold pushed himself upright, pride burning hotter than the pain. “He hits like a battering ram,” he said, voice strained but eager.

  “No shit,” Samantha snapped. “Assist me.”

  He barked a laugh. “You mean babysit.”

  “Whatever keeps you useful.”

  She darted in again. The axe came down—Arnold slammed his shield into the ground. “Fortified Shield.” A transparent barrier flared just in time, the blow screeching against it. Samantha slipped past, blades flashing, carving a shallow line across the king’s arm before narrowly evading a counterstrike. Arnold charged from behind, hammer raised—only to be stopped mid-swing by a crushing kick that forced him back behind his shield.

  “I’m done playing. Old man, move.”

  Samantha landed hard, boots biting into churned soil. Arnold did not argue. Pride urged him to stay, but experience won; he pulled back, shield raised, eyes never leaving the goblin king.

  Samantha dropped to one knee and slammed both palms into the ground. Her voice was cold, flat, almost bored.

  “Unique skill: Predator’s Paradise—Golem’s Hand.”

  The earth groaned. A massive stone hand tore free from below, fingers like broken towers, clamping around the goblin king’s legs. The king roared and wrenched, muscles bulging, but the grip held.

  “I’m not done,” Samantha muttered.

  She inhaled deeply, chest expanding, then exhaled a pale, milky mist straight at the restrained king.

  “Predator’s Paradise—Gorgon’s Blood.”

  The liquid splashed and hardened instantly, spreading like frost over flesh and armor. In a heartbeat, the goblin king was entombed from the neck down in white stone, only his head free—eyes still burning, expression unnervingly calm.

  Arnold stared. “Seriously… how many damn mysteries does that mouth of yours have? You ever worry men would be too scared to date you?”

  “I don’t need men to survive,” Samantha said without looking at him.

  “I’ve got sons,” Arnold added, grinning despite the tension. “I could arrange something.”

  “Shut up,” she snapped. “And finish him.”

  Arnold stepped forward, pride straightening his spine. He raised his hammer, aiming for the king’s skull.

  Cracks spiderwebbed across the hardened shell.

  Then it exploded.

  Arnold barely managed to brace behind his shield as shards blasted outward. Burning spears of flame materialized around the goblin king, hovering like vengeful stars. The king wrenched free, swinging his axe toward Arnold while the spears screamed toward Samantha.

  Then.

  The ground beneath the king suddenly turned soft, swallowing his footing, and small light barriers appeared before Samantha, absorbing each spear with incredible precision.

  “Am I late?” Peonome asked calmly, hovering above, eyes already calculating.

  Arnold exhaled and laughed. “No. You’re just in time.”

  Peonome was the first to notice it.

  Not the goblin king’s movements—those were minimal—but the stillness beneath them. His breathing was slow. Measured. Calm in a way that had no place on a battlefield drowning in blood and noise. Her instincts screamed, sharp and unrelenting, drowning out every other thought.

  Run.

  She did not hesitate.

  Peonome snapped her staff upward and spoke a single, clipped incantation. Space folded with a sound like tearing silk. In the same instant, Samantha and Arnold were wrenched from where they stood, the world blurring and inverting—

  —and they reappeared beside Illumi.

  A heartbeat later, the goblin king roared.

  It was nothing like before. The sound was deeper, heavier, carrying a pressure that crushed the air itself. The ground convulsed. A wave of heat followed the roar, not a simple blast but a rolling surge, indiscriminate and absolute. Flesh, armor, banners—everything it touched ignited. Men screamed once, then not at all.

  Illumi’s eyes widened only slightly.

  She clasped her hands together, her voice steady and gentle despite the chaos. “Sanctuary.”

  A pale dome of light bloomed around the four Keepers, barely wide enough to hold them. Flames crashed against it like a living tide and were peeled away, unable to pass. Outside the barrier, the battlefield became an inferno—rows of soldiers reduced to burning silhouettes, the ground glowing as if the sun itself had drawn near, yet never melting, never turning to lava. Just endless, consuming fire.

  A chill ran through them despite the heat.

  Peonome bent, picked up a stone, and tossed it beyond the barrier. It vanished instantly, swallowed by flame. She exhaled slowly, forcing her racing thoughts into order.

  “We need to retreat,” she said, voice calm but firm. “We cannot win against this creature.”

  Samantha turned on her with a sharp, humorless grin. “What’s this? The princess finally scared?”

  Peonome met her gaze without flinching. “I am not afraid of dying. I am afraid of dying for nothing.”

  Samantha’s eyes hardened. “Nothing?” Her voice dropped, edged with venom. “You see all those soldiers who burned a moment ago? Are you saying their deaths were meaningless?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “Enough.” Samantha spat to the side. “Illumi, enhancement. If the princess won’t fight, then I will. What about you, old man?”

  Arnold did not answer. He simply stepped forward, boots scraping against scorched earth. Heat washed over him, searing, oppressive—but he squared his shoulders and endured, jaw set, pride written into every rigid line of his stance.

  Illumi opened her grimoire, light flowing outward in soft waves. Strength, clarity, resilience—her blessings settled over them like a quiet promise.

  Samantha rolled her neck once. “Good.”

  She burst forward.

  “Unique skill: Predator’s Paradise—Santilmo’s Breath.”

  An orange glow wrapped around her body, heat shimmering in her wake. She drew a sharp breath, eyes narrowing.

  “Ultimate skill: Godspeed.”

  The world seemed to tear as she vanished.

  In the blink of an eye, she was before the goblin king, daggers flashing in a relentless storm. Steel rang again and again, sparks flying. The king turned too slowly, forced on the defensive by her speed alone. Cuts landed—shallow, but real.

  “Tch.” Samantha clicked her tongue. “Tough bastard.”

  She inhaled deeply. “Corrosive Haze.”

  Purple mist poured from her lips toward the king—only for him to swing his axe in a brutal arc. The wind it created blasted the haze back at her.

  “Shit—” She twisted away just in time.

  Arnold moved, hurling his shield. “Shield Boomerang!”

  The massive disk spun through the air, runes blazing—but the goblin king caught it one-handed.

  Peonome’s unease twisted tighter.

  This is wrong.

  She stepped forward despite it.

  Her staff struck the ground. A beam of condensed light lanced toward the king. He raised Arnold’s shield, blocking the spell, then hurled it back to Arnold with terrifying force.

  Arnold caught it, boots carving trenches in the ground as he was pushed backward, teeth clenched in stubborn defiance.

  Stone erupted from the ground—spears rising to impale the king—

  —and disintegrated into dust inches from his skin.

  Peonome watched her stone spear disintegrate mid-attack, the shaft unraveling into gray dust inches from the goblin king’s armor.

  Her fingers tightened around her staff. “…How?”

  Instinct took over. She pivoted, boots scraping against churned soil, and raised her staff again. Mana surged—clean, precise. A lattice of light spears descended from above, followed by compressed stone lances erupting from the ground, then narrow beams meant to pierce rather than overwhelm. Each spell struck the same invisible threshold and collapsed, mana dispersing like breath against glass.

  Peonome’s eyes widened, calculations racing and collapsing just as fast.

  “Anti-magic armor,” she whispered.

  Her greatest strength—spellcraft refined to perfection—meant nothing here. Her legs weakened, and she sank to one knee.

  A warm hand rested on her shoulder.

  Illumi stood beside her, robes fluttering gently despite the chaos. Her expression was calm, almost tender. “Then this is not your fight,” she said softly. “We will endure. And we will adapt.”

  In front of them, the battle paused for a heartbeat.

  “That explains it,” Arnold growled, beard bristling as he set his stance. He rolled his shoulders, shield forward, hammer low. “So magic won’t crack him. Fine.”

  Samantha had already moved. She slid her daggers back into their sheaths with an irritated click. “Figures. Big, ugly, and overgeared.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “Predator’s Paradise—Dire Wolf Claws.”

  Her fingers elongated, bones shifting audibly as black claws tore free. She exploded forward. The goblin king’s axe came down in a brutal arc, splitting the ground where she’d been a heartbeat earlier. Samantha slid beneath the swing, claws screeching as they raked across the king’s armor. This time, metal screamed in protest. Sparks flew. Deep grooves carved into the plates.

  “Oh?” Samantha smirked. “So you can be hurt.”

  She darted left, then right, never staying still. The king swung wildly, each blow heavy enough to crater stone. Samantha twisted between strikes, leaping off rubble, slashing exposed joints. Blood finally flowed—dark, thick—staining the armor. A precise cut severed the tendon at the back of the king’s ankle. He roared and dropped to one knee, the impact shaking the ground.

  Samantha lunged, claws aimed for his eyes.

  Her body betrayed her.

  Strength drained away in an instant, limbs turning leaden. Her momentum carried her just far enough for her claws to tear the king’s cheek before she stumbled past him and slammed into the ground. She skidded across scorched earth, skin burning, breath knocked from her lungs.

  She tried to rise. Nothing answered.

  Her vision flicked to her status.

  Stamina: 0/20000.

  “Damn it,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I almost had him.”

  This is the side effect of her ultimate skill— Godspeed consumed her stamina faster than usual.

  The goblin king touched his bleeding cheek, stared at the blood coating his fingers, and slowly grinned.

  He jumped.

  “Move!” Arnold roared.

  He planted himself over Samantha, shield raised just as the axe crashed down. The impact detonated the ground beneath them, a shockwave rippling outward. Illumi’s light wrapped around them instantly, soothing, mending, but unable to lessen the sheer force.

  Again. And again.

  Each strike drove Arnold lower, boots carving trenches. Cracks spread across the runes on his shield—runes that had held against siege engines. Arnold bared his teeth and held on, pride burning brighter than pain.

  “Not… falling,” he growled.

  Peonome cast—not to harm, but to disrupt. Light beam, stone spear, everything she could throw. The goblin king did not even turn his head.

  “Peonome,” Illumi said evenly, “bring them back. Now.”

  Space twisted. Air folded inward.

  Too slow.

  The shield shattered with a sound like breaking bones. The axe punched through Arnold’s armor and bit deep into his chest. Blood sprayed across the ground. Arnold gasped, knees buckling.

  Space snapped.

  They reappeared beside Illumi in a rush of displaced air. Arnold collapsed to one knee, breathing ragged. Samantha lay still, barely conscious. Illumi knelt instantly, hands glowing, expression serene even as she poured healing into them.

  The goblin king turned, eyes locking onto them.

  Peonome was already moving.

  Space warped again as the king leapt. His axe descended—into empty ground. Stone shattered. Dust billowed.

  The battlefield was suddenly silent where the Keepers had stood.

  The goblin king straightened slowly, scanning the empty space. After a moment, he turned away, returning to his fortress—armor scarred, bloodied, but still standing.

  The Keepers reappeared far from the battlefield, at the abandoned forward camp they had used the night before. A handful of wagons still stood crooked in the dirt, canvas tents sagging under the weight of dew, horses tethered and restless. The sudden flare of mana made the few soldiers left on guard jolt awake, hands flying to weapons—then freezing in shock.

  Samantha and Arnold lay sprawled on the ground.

  “By the gods—” one soldier breathed.

  Samantha was conscious, eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched in irritation rather than pain. Every muscle in her body felt like stone. Even lifting a finger was beyond her. Arnold lay beside her, massive frame heaving shallowly. Blood soaked through the broken plates of his armor, pooling dark beneath him.

  Illumi was already kneeling, calm as a still lake amid chaos. Her hands glowed with steady light as she worked, weaving layer upon layer of stabilizing spells into Arnold’s chest. “No sudden movements,” she said gently, more command than request. “You’re safe for now.”

  She glanced up at the soldiers. “Prepare a wagon. The fastest horse you have. We leave for Hallosbel immediately.”

  “Yes, Priestess!” They scattered at once.

  Samantha exhaled slowly. “Damn it… can’t even flip him off.” Her lips twitched. “Stamina’s empty.”

  Illumi smiled faintly without looking away from her work. “Rest,” she said softly. “Stamina returns on its own. Even you are not exempt from that law.”

  Samantha turned her head toward Arnold. “Is he…?”

  Illumi hesitated—just a fraction of a heartbeat too long. “He will live,” she said evenly.

  Samantha snorted weakly. “You’re a terrible liar, Illumi.”

  Arnold’s cracked lips pulled into a grin despite the blood. “If I die,” he rasped, pride undimmed, “I regret nothing. Standing my ground… with comrades… that’s a good end for a warrior.”

  “Do not waste your breath on speeches, Sir Arnold,” Illumi replied, voice warm but firm. “Even if I cannot heal the wound, I can keep you from dying until we reach Hallosbel.”

  The soldier returned at a run. “Wagon’s ready!”

  Illumi glanced toward the tree line.

  “Peonome,” Illumi called gently. “Will you come with us?”

  Peonome sat beneath a withered tree, staff resting uselessly across her lap.

  She had not moved since they arrived.

  Her shoulders were rigid, back straight, but her hands trembled faintly where they gripped the wood. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring at the dirt as if it had betrayed her. The battlefield replayed behind her eyes—spells unraveling, certainty shattering, power rendered meaningless.

  For the first time in her life, magic had failed her.

  “I couldn’t do anything,” she said quietly, not looking up. Her voice was steady, but hollow.

  Illumi approached and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You did what you could.”

  Peonome flinched.

  “No,” she said, finally lifting her gaze. “I did everything right—and it still wasn’t enough.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then she rose, movements precise, almost mechanical. “I’m coming.”

  With a flick of her fingers, space bent. Samantha and Arnold were transferred gently into the wagon. Illumi climbed in after them, resuming her vigil.

  Peonome took the rear seat as the wagon began to move.

  She stared at the road ahead, jaw tight, eyes glassy but unblinking—already dissecting her failure, already rebuilding herself around it.

  Broken, but not defeated. Neither Hevert Alkantel, nor the slaves who escaped, none of them matters anymore.