Milo walked in formation, keeping pace with the rhythmic trudge of the army. He didn't miss the judgmental side-glances from the other troops of the Lofty Wolves. It seemed the unit was a catch-all for those who didn't exactly belong anywhere else, and Milo figured his recent mutilation and the clunky prosthetic at his side were his tickets into this band of outcasts.
It was a minor detail in a major operation. Milo couldn't care less if these bastards died, well, except for that lady and her dog. They deserved to live.
'Speaking of the battle, when will it begin—'
Milo's eyes snapped from disinterested to razor-focused. He halted mid-stride, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. The soldier directly behind him slammed into his back with a grunt.
"What the hell was that for, handy boy?"
Milo turned to apologize, but before he could speak, a metallic click echoed through the air. A split second later, the world erupted. An explosion roared, and a spray of hot blood and shredded flesh splashed across Milo's chest plate and face.
'Eh?'
Similar blasts detonated in a terrifying chain reaction around them. Click, boom. Click, boom. Milo threw himself backward, his ears ringing.
"There are traps! Watch your step!" someone screamed.
'Landmines?! How the hell does Carmen know about these?! Is he some sort of genius inventor or a transmigrator?! This is bullshit!' Milo took ragged breaths, the copper scent of fresh blood wafting into his nose. It was a violent reminder of his own recent brush with death. He forced himself to inhale, trying to settle his racing heart.
'Just breathe...'
His body tensed, locked in place by a sudden, paralyzing rigor.
'Remember to breathe!'
His left hand began to shake involuntarily.
'This isn't like the webcomics at all!'
He had known it wouldn't be easy, but the visceral reality of it was staggering. Milo forced his limbs to move. Inch by inch, he crawled toward a fallen soldier and began stripping the man of his equipment. The soldier's legs were gone, erased by the landmine's blast. Milo snatched a leather tool belt from the waist, noting the various pouches and a sturdy dagger attached to the strap.
After buckling the belt to his own waist, Milo knelt by the man's head and removed his helmet. The soldier's eyes were dull and lifeless, he had died before he even realized the ground had betrayed him. Milo hesitated, then gently swept his fingers over the man's eyelids, closing them.
'Your nightmare is over.'
Milo donned the helmet, a simple visored sallet. Since he was already wearing a gorget, his entire face was now encased in steel. His vision was partially obscured by the narrow slit, but it was a small price to pay for the protection.
He moved forward with grueling caution. The initial mine seemed to have triggered a chain reaction, suggesting that Carmen, or perhaps his constructs, had been rushing to lace the field. It was further confirmation that the man was indeed here.
"So, I might have to really kill that guy."
Ahead, the mechanical whirring of machinery rose above the cries of the wounded. There were dozens of them, judging by the cacophony.
'Damnit. I really want that dog back.'
Milo readied his blade. As the constructs crested the ridge, he realized they were different from the sleek, slender assassins he had faced before. These were bulky, armored behemoths. Some carried massive shields with central notches, while others carried large, multi-barreled...
'Machine guns?! Come on!'
Milo ducked his head instinctively. "Get down!"
Bullets whizzed overhead, shrieking as they deflected off stone and armor. How much more ridiculous could this Nightmare get? Milo stayed low, using the corpse of a fallen soldier as a grim sandbag. He prayed they would run out of ammunition soon. They had to.
He lay in wait, suppressed. For someone who had laid such elaborate traps, Carmen had forgotten the golden rule of drawing an enemy out of cover. That was the basics, deprive the enemy of their safety, right?
Milo tilted his head, listening for a lull in the rhythmic thumping of the guns. Instead, he heard a distinct clink. Something round and heavy rolled into his peripheral vision. Milo didn't need time to process what it was. He lunged, snatched the object, and hurled it back with every ounce of strength he possessed. It cleared the immediate area just as it detonated, sending sharp shrapnel biting into the surrounding corpses.
"Just had to open my mouth," he spat.
Looking around, he saw that most of the soldiers in his immediate vicinity had been shredded by the initial gunfire or the blast. Keeping his head low, he crawled across a slurry of mud and viscera toward a larger group. The stench was overwhelming, this felt all too real.
'It's fake. None of this is actually real.'
He finally reached the front line. Tall ogres wielding tower shields nearly five meters high were holding a desperate formation. Archers and those with ranged utility darted out to loose their volleys before retreating behind the wall of steel.
'What about the grenades?'
His question was answered almost instantly. Two more grenades rolled into the gap of the shield wall. Before they could detonate, a three-headed dog snatched them up in its jaws and tossed them back at the construct line with a flick of its necks.
'She's such a good girl!'
Through the chaos, Milo spotted a familiar set of armor. Corinne was crouched behind a tower shield, waiting for the leaden rain to cease. Milo slid into the space beside her.
"So, you survived that metal hell, did you?" she asked, her voice tight.
Milo nodded. "Got lucky. I've seen things like these before. I worked as a forge master's apprentice before this, after all."
Corinne paused, muttering something about truth under her breath that Milo couldn't quite catch.
"What?"
Corinne's helm snapped toward him. "Nothing. Just thinking about something someone told me. The bullets should stop any moment now."
She was right. The thunderous mechanical fire sputtered and died. High above the din, the commander's voice rang out like a clarion call.
"Charge!"
The line surged. Milo went with them, feeling a strange surge of empowerment that clashed violently with the survival instincts enhanced by [Rookie's Nerves].
The commander led the fray, wielding a blade of brilliant, golden light that sheared through the constructs as if they were parchment. Milo stared, captivated by the display, before shaking himself out of the daze.
'You're on a battlefield. Now is not the time to be ogling cool people.'
The heavy constructs began to retreat, replaced by smaller, more agile units. These were heavily armored and carried traditional swords and shields. Milo gritted his teeth and looked around for a more effective tool. He spotted a spiked mace lying in the blood-soaked grass, a piece of lustrous black steel that glinted under the moonlight.
'I never used a blunt weapon in combat classes.'
He hesitated, then abandoned his sword in favor of the mace.
"You'll have to do."
Milo was surgical about his engagements. He was a small human in a land of giants, his only real edge being his prosthetic arm and the warnings provided by [Rookie's Nerves]. He felt a subtle shift in the air, a chill down his spine, and found his target: a construct distracted by another soldier.
Milo sprinted. The machine's back was turned, its head positioned too high for an easy kill. He would have to bring it down to his level. He swung his right arm with everything he had. The heavy mace collided with the construct's knee joint with a satisfying crack. The machine buckled, falling to its knees.
"It's obvious this guy is human... how foolish of you to make your constructs function like one."
Humans had predictable weaknesses, and Milo knew them all thanks to his grueling hours in the Dreamscape, and the instruction of combat classes. He swung the mace at the back of the construct's head, shattering the casing just as his ally stepped in to lop the entire head off.
[You have slain a Dormant Beast, Metal Shell]
Milo froze. Why hadn't he thought of this before? The Spell was counting the kills. If they were beasts, they had to have shards. He pried the shell open, ignoring the useless gears and wires until he found what he was looking for in the left side of the chest: a sizeable, humming sphere.
'Too predictable.'
Milo gripped the core. He could feel the resistance of the various tubes and wires connecting it to the chassis, but his grip was unyielding.
[Tempered Grip] Attribute Description: "A forge master's apprentice has plenty of experience hammering down steel. Your grip is strong and one forged in fire."
With a violent yank, he tore the sphere free. Sparks showered his armor as the Metal Shell went dark. Milo inspected the core, noting the intricate, plate-like layers. He brought up his prosthetic hand, the mechanical fingers clicking into place before piercing through the plating and pulling out a glowing, gem-like stone.
'Jackpot!'
He crushed the soul shard in his palm.
[Your soul grows stronger.]
A satisfied grin spread across Milo's face. Nearby, the Ascended commander and the remaining soldiers were finishing off the last of the local constructs. Despite the victory, Milo remained wary, since his side ended up losing one way or another.
"Hunt for me, my wolves!" the commander roared.
The soldiers howled and charged into the darkness. Milo resisted the urge to follow blindly this time, as he felt something was bound to happen. The commander noticed Milo's hesitation and walked over. Milo tensed, expecting a reprimand for his lack of zeal.
Instead, the Ascended smiled and patted Milo's shoulder with surprising gentleness.
"Do not worry. You might have been mistreated by that man, but I promise you: we will protect you and hang him where he stands."
Milo feigned a look of worried relief and nodded, though his eyebrow rose behind the safety of his visor.
'So, this body has a history with Carmen, is that it?'
He tightened his grip on the mace and began a measured trot toward the front line.
"Might as well hunt with my fellow wolves."