The brush dragged at armor and boots, heavy with dew, vines clinging to greaves and spear shafts as the army pushed forward. The sun was still low, filtering through the canopy in pale streaks, but the column had been moving for hours already. Harold could smell the damp earth, a scent that clung to his senses and mirrored the weight of anticipation in his chest. Each step brought a squelch of mud, a reminder of the struggle ahead and the tension tightening in his gut.
They were leaner now. The two battered Centuries had been folded into one, forming a Prime Century. By doctrine, this meant their numbers should reflect double the strength, typically around 160 soldiers, but due to attrition and casualties, they were operating with barely 120. This vulnerability weighed on them heavily. Nearly all of them now carried spears, long, solid shafts taken from fallen hobgoblins. The extra reach would matter today.
The wagons struggled as Tatanka teams snorted and strained through the undergrowth. The forest tightened, forcing the Century to halt and clear a path just wide enough for the wagons without breaking axles or panicking the beasts.
It slowed them — but no one complained. No one wanted to leave the food or potions behind.
The night had been short, but it had been a real rest.
Tatanka meat had been roasted low and slow, filling bellies that had gone too long on rations and thin stew. Soldiers ate until they were full, then slept hard — wrapped in cloaks, armor loosened, weapons within reach but hands finally still.
Harold hadn't slept much.
He'd worked instead, seated near the supply crates long into the night, sorting, measuring, preparing. He hadn't shared what he was making, and no one bothered him.
He had made sure the troll remains were secured.
"Nothing gets wasted," he'd said to Tribune Tran. "I'll need those parts when we're back at the Landing."
Hale had noticed it sometime after midnight.
He and Garrick sat near the edge of the cookfires, boots stretched out, weapons laid close. Around them, the camp had settled into that rare quiet that only came after survival.
Harold was moving through it. He knelt beside wounded men, shared meat, listened, and laughed when someone cracked a too-dark joke for anyone else to admit was funny. His presence was something remarkable. Hale watched for a long moment.
Harold stood in the center of the camp, talking with the wounded legionaries. Just there. Listening to their stories. Laughing with them and sitting on logs like one of them.
Hale paused to see the effect Harold had. Men relaxed their shoulders, a corner of despair lifted away by Harold's easy camaraderie. Garrick looked over at him.
"Man's got gravity," Garrick said. "Like something pulling people in."
Hale didn't answer right away.""He shouldn't be this good at it," he said finally. "Didn't come from command, even in his last life. Didn't train for this. But… out here? People follow him."
Garrick gave a tired smile. "Because he's in the suck with us, and the guy killed that Hobgoblin Commander. That isn't a fight I wanted."
Hale looked like he had an idea…"Think that's a perk?" he muttered conspiratorially.
Garrick didn't look away. "Nah."
Hale frowned. "You don't think so?"
Garrick shook his head. "Look at the forums. Lords everywhere. Half of them can't get their people to listen at all. If it was a Lord thing, they'd have it too."
Hale exhaled slowly. "Yeah. But we both know he's not a normal Lord."
That earned a pause.
"…Yeah," Garrick said thoughtfully. "That is true."
They reached the site just before the sun broke fully overhead.
The clearing stretched wider than thirty paces across, closer to sixty at its longest point. Enough room to maneuver, but barely enough to cover. The Prime Century, even at double strength, would be forced to thin its own line to hold it. No chance of a classic shield wall holding from flank to flank. They would need anchor points and contingencies.
But there were advantages, too.
The brush on both sides of the clearing was thick — near-impenetrable without tools or fire. The kind of tangle that made turning their flank difficult, even for creatures that preferred the trees. It wasn't a true cover, but it was close enough to secure the flanks.
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The ground dipped gently in front, a shallow bowl from some long-dead streambed. Rain had carved narrow furrows, and roots ran just beneath the surface — not enough to block digging, but enough to trip someone charging in the dark.
Harold stood at the crest of the bowl, staring down into it. The air was still. Birds had gone quiet.
"It'll have to do," he said, finally.
He turned back toward the assembled soldiers. "Shovels. Get to work. We want a trench, waist-deep, full arc across the front. Wagon's back two lengths behind. He turned to Hale, I think we put more spears on the flanks to keep them from folding. Keep some in the center to make them uncomfortable."
Hale nodded in agreement, and Carter barked the relay. Garrick was acting as the centurion for the Century, while Carter joined Harold's guard and made sure his commands were relayed.
Legionaries moved fast — not with the adrenaline of battle, but the rhythm of practiced routine. They dropped packs, shrugged off cloaks, and began cutting dirt like they'd done it a hundred times. Some found broken limbs from nearby trees and began shaping them into stakes. Others dragged debris into loose walls behind the trench line — rough cover, enough to buy a breath or block an arrow.
It was quiet, save for the sounds of labor.
But all of them felt the weight in the air.
It had started before they even reached the clearing.
A flicker. A hiss. A flash of motion between trees.
Goblins, at first.The leaner, darker-skinned. Scout variants. Arrows loosed from angles too far to return fire. One bolt skipped off Garrick's shoulder plate. Another was buried in the thigh of a soldier beside Carter, who barely stumbled before being pulled out of formation.
Then came the others. Kobolds.
Roughly the same size as the goblins. Maybe a little bigger —but stronger. Their scouts didn't cackle, charge, or bait. They watched. Moved like ghosts through the underbrush. Where goblins were wild, these things were disciplined.
A legionary described one later: scaled hide, mottled green and gray, tight armor over shoulders and chest — piecemeal but well-fitted. Their bows were curved, thicker than goblin ones, and their arrows had flint heads fletched with dark feathers.
Three more soldiers were wounded before they even knew the kobolds were there.
No fatalities yet. But the message was clear. These weren't pests or a disorganized swarm.
Harold crouched at the edge of the trench line, jaw tight, eyes on the forest.
Most kobolds were nuisances. Tunnel rats. Sneak thieves. Fire-trap builders and trap-makers who scuttled off the moment anyone showed a blade.
But not these.
Only ever heard of kobolds like this in two places," Harold murmured to Hale, who was overseeing the ditch. "One in the West. One down in the Southern Range across the ocean." Both were war-zone levels of threat. The Southern ones were very mobile and had their own cavalry. Some kind of raptor they rode on. This jungle reminds me of them. They were organized."
Hale didn't look surprised. "You think we're seeing that strain of kobold?"
"I don't know," Harold admitted. "But they're better than they should be. The relics defend themselves in strange ways."
Garrick walked up, a faint limp in his step from a bruised calf. "If they've got a variant like the goblin berserkers, we're in for a real fight."
Harold nodded once.
"That's why we dig."
He glanced at the dense forest hemming them in. If anything was going to save them today, it was the funnel — the way the brush forced enemies into a tighter line. They wouldn't be able to swarm from the sides. Not easily.
He took a breath. If we had a watercrafter, we could have soaked the ground in front of us and played the fight out as the battle of Agincourt did. Or a stone crafter to help make some real fortifications. Or a fire crafter, and he could soak the ground in oil, set it on fire, and the crafter could make it a real inferno, burning away the kobolds. Or this dam forest.
It just made Harold more convinced he would need to have a section of battle crafters that he guarded as his life depended on it. He could make sure the Crafters had their own section of guards as he did. If it helped keep them alive, he would do it.
By the time the trench was halfway carved and the makeshift defenses were starting to take shape, Harold called Sarah and Vera over.
The two women approached from different angles — Vera light on her feet as always, her half-cloak now traded for a tighter wrapped scarf to keep from catching on the trees. Sarah had dirt on her boots, a fresh scab above her left eye, and a grim readiness in her posture.
"You both know your roles," Harold said quietly, once they were close enough. He didn't speak it like an order — more like a confirmation between professionals. "Find their main force. We need to know when they're coming, how many, and what they're bringing. I want you to lure them back here into a fight with us. Make them pissed off enough to give us a straight fight."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small pouch — worn leather, heavy for its size — and pressed it into Sarah's hand. "Your supplies."
She glanced down at it, then up at him.
He didn't elaborate, and she didn't ask. But his hand lingered.
Before she could step back, Harold leaned in and hugged her close — too long for comfort for a fiercely independent seventeen-year-old.
"Please," he said, voice low. "Be careful. Watching you fight that troll scared the hell out of me."
Sarah stiffened in the embrace. "Ew. Not here." She tried to squirm free, her face going red.
But Harold didn't let go until she gave him a quick, embarrassed hug back.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Before anything else could be said, a voice rang out across the trench line.
"I'll give you a hug, Lord Harold!" Mira shouted from a dozen paces away, one hand cupped to her mouth and a dramatic sway in her voice.
There was a beat of silence — and then laughter exploded from the nearby legionaries. A few of them whooped. One wolf-whistled. Another raised his shovel in salute.
Jace just covered his eyes in frustration while Theo smacked Mira, embarrassed by her behavior.
Harold groaned and ran a hand across his face, smearing sweat and dirt.
"Goddammit," he muttered.
But he was smiling — and for a brief, shining moment, so was everyone else.
The tension didn't disappear. But it bent and eased.
Sarah had always thought about visiting the jungle, but her thoughts were more on visiting Hawaii or some nice beach in Asia. Not…this…
The forest changed as they moved deeper into it.
It had already been dense — thick with brambles, roots, and low branches that snagged at sleeves and clung to boots. But now it felt like something else entirely. It was older, more alive.
The trees towered overhead — thick-trunked giants draped in curtains of moss and vine. The air grew heavier, more humid. Insects buzzed and whined in droning clusters, crawling across leaves the size of shields. Every few steps brought a new scent: rot, sap, strange flowers blooming in impossible colors.
Sarah adjusted her grip on her sword, feeling the familiar weight and balance of it in her hand. She remembered the countless hours spent practicing swings and parries in her backyard, her brother's teasing jabs about her being 'battle-ready.' Yet, each practice swing also carried the memory of that first skirmish, when doubt and fear had nearly overtaken her, and how the stupidly sharpened wood had felt like an anchor in chaos. With a slight nod to her past, she ducked under a vine the width of her arm.
Mira, behind her, swatted at something near her neck and whispered, "Swear to god, if a spider drops on me, I'm quitting this campaign."
"You better believe you'd respawn with that spider on you," Jace said with a laugh that hinted at the usual sarcasm in his voice, not missing a beat.
Mira froze. Slowly turned toward him. "You take that back."
Jace just grinned, his favorite phrase ready on his lips. "Gotta roll with the quest, dude. You'll respawn by the Stele, and it'll still be there."
Mira's face went pale. "Why would you say that?"
"Quiet," Vera's voice drifted through the woodline, calm but firm. "Movement up ahead."
The joking stopped instantly.
Sarah raised a fist, signaling a halt. They crouched low between the roots of a tree as thick as a small tree from earth, each person slipping into practiced silence.
Ahead, through the hanging leaves, Sarah searched for what Vera had seen. She didn't have whatever made Vera good at spotting, but then… she spotted them.
Kobolds.
Two of them, nestled into the trees like scaled statues. Camouflaged armor. Curved bows. Eyes sharp and alert.
Vera was already moving. Her team fanned out silently, taking angles. One of her people loosed an arrow — quick and clean — and the first kobold dropped. The second spun, bow half-raised, but a javelin speared through its chest before it could fire.
The jungle swallowed the sound.
Sarah exhaled slowly. The way the scouts had been dug in wasn't random; it was deliberate. They were protecting something. The air felt thick with danger.
Sarah and Vera did not need to talk, and they pushed deeper.
Another fifteen minutes of cautious movement, and the trees began to thin just slightly ahead. A strange glow danced on the edge of Sarah's vision — not light exactly, but something that shimmered just wrong.
She stepped to the edge of a wide, moss-covered root and looked past it.
Her breath caught, and she immediately ducked, hiding even more.
A clearing opened up in front of them — no more than sixty feet across, shaped like a natural bowl in the land. The jungle canopy broke here, letting shafts of sunlight filter through like spears of gold. At the center stood something massive and strange:
A tree-sized mushroom — ten times the size of anything they'd seen so far. Its cap was wide and domed, like a leather parasol. The stalk beneath it was as thick as a tower, with bark that peeled in strange whorls and pulsed faintly with a greenish light.
And nestled at its base was a small shrine.
Made of old stone and weathered. Covered in faint carvings that looked worn by time and moss.
Set in the center of the shrine — half-wrapped in roots and vines — was a single icon. Small and faintly glowing. It was shaped like a simple mushroom but intricately carved — too far to make out any details, but it was clearly crafted rather than grown. It was a little too large to carry comfortably in one hand, and it practically buzzed with importance.
Jace let out a low whistle behind her. "Okay… that's gotta be something."
Theo slapped him on the shoulder, "Quiet, you idiot."
"It's the Relic," Sarah said softly, voice flat. As the word left her lips, her heart gave a sudden, powerful thud in her chest, sending a chill racing down her spine. The weight of its significance pressed against her, almost tangible in the heavy jungle air.
Mira blinked. "Wait, seriously? We were just supposed to find their main force — not this."
"Well," Sarah muttered, crouching lower, "guess we found it."
Vera emerged beside her, equally quiet. "We only found this by searching for their scouts. We got lucky. They've hidden it well."
"It's beautiful," Mira whispered. "Creepy. But beautiful."
Vera pointed across the clearing. "They've set up sentries. Defensive positions. Construction crews, too, and those are kobold variants we haven't seen before."
Sarah followed her gesture. She saw them now — kobolds stationed in small groups. Some were sharpening spears. Others carried planks and rough lumber. One group looked to be building a low platform. They weren't playing around.
"If we were two days later…" Vera trailed off.
"We wouldn't have a chance; they're fortifying this. They would have settled into this and not moved." Sarah finished.
Sarah squinted at the relic, then at the sentries. Then down at the pouch Harold had handed her before they left — still tight at her side. She hadn't looked inside, but she knew what was inside. She smirked slightly.
"What if we just take the damn thing?"
They hadn't come here to take anything.
The mission was supposed to be simple: locate the kobold main force, scout their numbers and equipment, and lure them back to the army.
But that plan hadn't accounted for finding this.
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Sarah crouched with the others on a ridge just above the clearing, watching kobolds move in precise patterns around the mushroom shrine. Vera was beside her, jaw tight, sketching out a rough layout of the sentries and patrols in the dirt.
"They're guarding it like it's already theirs," Vera muttered. "And those aren't your run-of-the-mill kobolds."
Sarah nodded, eyes narrowed. "We're not getting another chance like this."
Mira, adjusting her bowstring, squinted down into the clearing. "Sooo… new plan?"
Sarah glanced behind them. "Yeah. We hit them. Grab it. Fall back as fast as we can."
Theo gave a quiet laugh. "That's not really a plan. That's a punch and sprint."
"It's a very us plan, though," Jace added, smiling already. "And we're very good at running."
Vera's hand stilled. "You sure you want to escalate this?"
"We found their crown jewel by accident, the thing we are here to get," Sarah said. "We can't leave it here. They'll bury it in fortifications in a day or two. We'll never dig it out."
A long silence. Then Vera nodded. "Alright. We've got one shot."
"We'll do it like this…"
Vera's team slipped out first — archers ghosting through the brush, positioning in the flanks. Sarah stayed low, waiting for the signal.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Then an arrow flew — fast and silent — and a kobold picket crumpled beside the half-built wooden platform. A javelin followed, pinning a second to the roots of a tree before it could shout.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Vera move up and begin to throw another javelin. It shot from her hands like a rocket, crashing into another kobold.
"Go!" Sarah barked — and their team surged from the undergrowth.
Jace and Theo were the first into the fray, blades flashing. Kobolds shouted, horns blaring — the clearing exploded into motion.
Vera's archers loosed a volley, dropping three more. Sarah weaved through the chaos, her eyes fixed on the shrine.
Two kobolds lunged — one carrying a short spear, the other a long-handled blade. Sarah ducked beneath the first, stabbed upward through its ribs, left it, and kicked the second aside, and sprinted on.
She drew another sword from her side while ducking an arrow from the archer tracking her.
More horns now. Louder and deeper from deeper in the jungle.
She saw the tower-shield kobolds too late.
Three of them — armored, their spears braced and already tracking Sarah as she moved towards them. They moved to block her path, shields set like a wall.
Sarah didn't even think.
She angled hard to the side, leapt onto a low stone running along it until she jumped again, then kicked off one kobold's shoulder and, channeling every forgotten gymnastics class she had taken, vaulted over their line. Her boots skimming the edge of their shields, a breathless yell tearing from her throat.
She landed in a roll beside the shrine. She lost her sword in the jump and had to skid to a stop, but she seized the relic.
It was heavier than she expected. Warm and humming with something deep — like it didn't want to be taken, but it didn't resist either. She yanked it free from the roots and spun back.
She had a notification blinking in her eye that she hurriedly dismissed and kept running.
The kobolds were already turning — roaring, slamming their spears against their shields.
But Sarah was faster.
She ducked between two of them,pulled an extra short sword and slashed across a leg that the scales stopped, and sprinted full-speed back toward the treeline. Behind her, the kobold horn blasts changed tone — longer, deeper.
"daaaammmmit—gotta run," Sarah hissed, tearing the ground between her and the rest of the team. "Sure, brother dearest, I'll go on this perfectly reasonable scouting trip. What the hell is happening right now?!"
The jungle was eerily quiet for a moment. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting, building a tension that wrapped around them like a living thing. The silence was sharp, a stark contrast to the chaos Sarah tried to run through. Then, without warning, the jungle came alive with warhorns.
Deep, guttural notes echoed through the trees, not chaos, but coordination. Sarah didn't need to speak Kobold to know what they meant.
She didn't stop to think. Didn't look back. Just sprinted from the clearing back to her team, the relic tucked tight under one arm like a stolen trophy.
"Fall back! Move!" Vera's voice rang out from behind her.
Theo and Jace were already at her side — blades drawn, breath ragged. Mira raced beside them, her bow clutched tight in one hand.
"They're gaining!" Jace shouted. "I hear them behind us!"
"They're everywhere!" Mira added, snapping off as she raced to keep up. "Keep moving!"
The forest blurred around them. Thorns tore at their sleeves. Vines snagged their legs. Roots threatened to trip every step.
Sarah didn't care. She shoved through it all, lungs burning. The relic pulsed against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
Behind them, shrill barking cries rose through the trees — kobold voices howling in fury. Metal clashed. Arrows thudded into trunks. One zipped past her ear and embedded in a tree ahead with a thunk.
"Too damn close," Theo muttered, adjusting his shield as they ducked behind cover. Sarah panted, her heart still racing from the chaos. "Really. Excellent day." Her voice carried a sarcastic edge, a thin veil over the nerves crackling beneath.
Jace flashed her a crooked smile. "You stole a god-shroom. I think you voided the warranty on 'uneventful.'"
More crashing in the brush behind them.
A scream — not from their team. A kobold? Or someone else?
"They've got cavalry!" Mira yelled. "I saw one behind us — raptor thing!"
"Fast?" Sarah asked, already knowing the answer.
"It's a freaking raptor, Sarah! What do you think?"
The pounding of clawed feet on soft earth followed — closing in.
"We can't outrun them on foot!" Theo snapped. "Turn and fight!"
Sarah skidded to a halt, breath tearing from her lungs. "Fine! Brace!"
The team spun, planting heels. Vera's archers spread out again, bows rising in almost perfect sync.
Sarah turned and watched Theo as he stared at one of Vera's archers with something like worship in his eyes. While he was distracted, his grip slipped on the hilt of his sword, letting the tip drag against a rock, which gave out a faint but telltale metallic scrape. Sarah turned and backhanded him upside his helmeted head, "Are you kidding me right now? Now! Of all times!" The sound echoed slightly through the forest, drawing a few eyes their way and giving away their position momentarily.
Then the first rider burst through the undergrowth — a lanky kobold atop a reptilian mount with long talons and darting yellow eyes. The kobold's spear was raised, aimed straight for Mira.
Then Vera moved.
She hurled a javelin with perfect timing — it speared straight through the rider's chest, knocking him off the saddle. The raptor shrieked and reared back, blood splattering the trees.
It paused, confused — then sniffed the air.
Another wounded kobold nearby had collapsed, clutching his leg. The raptor turned and lunged at the easier target.
"Oh gods," Jace said, watching as the beast started eating the fallen kobold. "That's horrifying."
"But helpful," Sarah said. "Move! Before the next one catches up!"
Theo tried to whisper to Jace as they ran, "Did you see her when we stopped there? I call dibs!"
Before Sarah could slap him again, Mira was already on top of it and pushed him into a bush; he had to fight through it to run and keep up.
"Come on!"
Their route twisted through thicker jungle, easing back into more normal forest. Vera led now, cutting a path with a short blade, guiding them along any opening she could. They were trying to keep ahead of the cavalry, but they were losing ground. The forest slowed them a lot, but they were still faster.
More horns. More howls. And now, the thudding rhythm of multiple raptor mounts echoes through the trees.
"Two more riders behind us!" Mira shouted.
"Three to the left!" Vera called.
Sarah ducked under a low branch, then crashed through a curtain of vines. "We're not gonna make it at this pace—"
"Just keep going!" Theo said. "We're only a mile out!"
"How do you know?" Jace barked.
"Because I marked landmarks when we left, you chaotic mess!"
Sarah laughed — wild and breathless. "You would."
They burst into a wider section of trail — a break in the trees where the canopy thinned. Vera skidded to a halt and pointed. "Up there. Cliff shelf — if we get across that, we can see the field. The other scouts have already noticed us!"
"Go!" Sarah said. "I've got the rear!"
"No way in hell," Jace growled, falling in beside her. "We're all going together."
He stopped and grabbed Mira as she tried to follow Vera's team as they scaled the small cliff.
Behind them, a kobold bark turned into a screech.
The chase wasn't over. But the field — the trench line, the legion — they were close.
Harold crouched beside Hale and Garrick, feeling the mud squelch between his fingers from the recent work on the trench. The metallic scent of sweat mixed with the earthy aroma of the churned soil filled his senses, grounding him in the gritty reality of the battlefield. Suddenly, a scout came sprinting from the treeline.
"Contact!" the soldier gasped. "It's them! The scouting teams are back — and they're being chased."
Hale sprang up, his voice booming over the chaos. "Form the line! Drop tools! Weapons up!"
In an instant, legionaries were on the move. Shovels hit the ground. Shields clattered into place. A rush as spears were yanked from where they stacked them. Orders barked. Ranks filled. The sound of soldiers scrambling to their positions echoed through the clearing.
The banner of the First Century unfurled to the left, scarlet against the dark trees. The second century flew their banner on the right — patched but proud. And in the center, rising above it all, was the black and silver banner of Harold's banner, still stained from the last battle but held high. His position marked for everyone to know.
"Make ready!" Hale shouted. "Shields tight! Eyes forward!"
As the legion snapped into place, Harold could already hear it — the crashing underbrush. Shouts and footfalls. Then they saw them:
Vera's team broke through first, emerging at a sprint, bows in hand and blood on their cloaks. At a sharp whistle from Vera, her team turned on the run — planting their feet just long enough to loose a volley of arrows behind them before continuing their retreat.
Right behind them came Sarah's team — faster, rougher. They were half-dragging Theo between them, the big man limping hard, one arm slung over Jace's shoulder. Harold took a moment to wonder why he was always the injured guy.
And at the center, streaked with dirt and sweat, was Sarah. Her eyes locked with Harold's across the clearing. She was panting, wild-eyed — but smiling.
She lifted something above her head. "We got it!" she shouted. In her hand, the relic gleamed — faintly pulsing with its own light.
Harold felt something rise in his chest — pride, relief, fury at what was about to come — and he turned toward his soldiers.
"Alright, boys!" he roared. "The adventurers had their fun— now it's our turn!"
He unsheathed his sword and pointed toward the treeline, his voice steady and loud.
"This is our line! Not one step back!"
All along the trench, legionaries echoed the cry — shields slamming down into the earth, spears braced forward, the clatter of discipline. Spears were angled out, the line bristled with spear points ready to make anyone who approached pay. The Prime Century was ready.
And just in time. Because from the trees ahead, the first wave came.
Raptor cavalry burst out of the jungle — six of them at once, bounding across the ground at a dead sprint. Their riders leaned low, curved blades in hand, not slowing for anything.
Sarah's team had just cleared the makeshift plank bridge across the trench when the riders hit it.
The legion pulled the board back at the last second, and the cavalry launched itself.
They leapt — mounts and riders alike, clearing the trench in flying arcs. But they were met mid-air by a forest of spears.
One rider flew from his saddle and was impaled mid-jump. Another had his raptor drop out from under him, skewered by two spears in the chest. One rider made it through — only to be cut down by a backline legionary with a short sword.
Garrick, in the center front of the century, barked out, "Well, that's one way to deliver dinner! Never had raptor before!"
Laughter answered him — brief, sharp. And then more movement came from the trees.
The first wave fell back into the undergrowth, broken and bloodied. Raptor corpses twitched in the trench. But no one relaxed.
Because now, the forest itself seemed to breathe.
Shapes moved in the shadows — scores of them. Dozens became hundreds, slinking through the underbrush. Kobolds, armored in dark leather over their natural scales, emerged in loose skirmish lines.
Archers first.
They crept to the edges of the treeline, bows drawn and watching. Their eyes glinted yellow in the dim light. Then — just as quickly — they melted back into the trees.
"They're testing us," Hale said grimly. "Feeling out the line."
A horn blew, low and long. And then they saw him.
From the brush emerged a knot of taller kobolds — these heavier, their leather armor reinforced with bone and chitin. Shields locked, formation tight.
At the center of their cluster was a massive, scaled beast — a komodo-like creature the size of a small wagon. Atop it rode a smaller kobold, gaunt and swaying in his saddle. One claw held a carved staff of gnarled wood. The other clutched the reins.
He was surrounded by a personal guard — the same tower-shield bearers that had tried to stop Sarah.
"That's him," Harold said. "Their commander."
"And he's looking right at you," Hale muttered.
Harold stared back. The two leaders locked eyes across the field — no words, just the charged silence of knowing. Then Harold held up the satchel Sarah had returned and began handing out its contents — small, heavy bottles. The explosive potions. Not as many as last time, but it would have to be enough.
He passed them to runners, who hurried them down the line.
The kobold commander raised his hand.
Dozens of archers stepped forward.
"Testudo!" Hale barked.
The front line of legionaries dropped to a knee, shields locking in front. The second line raised theirs over the first — a shell of overlapping iron. The third rank angled theirs above.
The volley came.
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Arrows hissed through the air, slamming into shields. Some bounced, some stuck. A few punched deep enough to wobble. But none made it through.
When the volley paused, Hale raised his voice.
"First rank — hold! Third rank, javelins ready!"
The third line lowered their shields behind the front, javelins in hand.
"Loose!"
The javelins flew — thick, the makeshift javelins built for punch, but barely enough to punch through the light scales. They crashed into the kobold lines with a forceful clap, slamming shields aside and punching through leather. Dozens dropped, snarling, some still trying to crawl.
The kobold commander gave no signal — he didn't need to.
The second wave charged.
The archers dropped back. The shield-line advanced. And now they were close enough that arrows became a hindrance.
The trench was the only thing between them and the legion.
Hale shouted, "Spears! Lock shields! HOLD THIS LINE!"
The kobolds came.
They didn't stop. They leapt across the trench, trying to clear it entirely — trying to land in the line, not on it.
And some did.
Spears caught the first few mid-air, impaling them. But others used their shields to deflect, crashing into the ranks. One smashed into a legionary and rolled, stabbing wildly before being cut down.
Breach points.
Harold's eyes tracked them automatically — two left, two center, one right.
"Hale! Get them ready for another throw!"
Hale was already shouting — "Pattern Blue!"
Second and third ranks reached for satchel pouches, pulling the bottles free.
Only a handful this time.
They threw.
The explosions rocked the trench — fire, heat, shockwaves that slammed into the kobolds packed tight in the ditch and beyond. Bodies flung into the air. Smoke filled the gaps. The legion reset.
The breach lines were bloody. But they were holding.
Then — from the rear — the kobold commander raised his staff again. The lizard roared, low and guttural.
Harold watched as a runner handed him a horn — and blew.
Another wave surged from the treeline. Another jump.
This time, the whole field shook.
"Pattern Blue again?" Garrick called.
Harold's grip on his sword tightened involuntarily, the slickness of sweat making him almost lose his hold. His voice was rough, edged with weariness. "No, we're out," Harold growled. The toll of battle lingered in every strained word.
He stepped forward, toward the trench — his Carter tried to stop him, but he raised a hand.
"Stop, he's being too smart, we need to stop this momentum," Harold shouted.
He lifted the glowing mushroom relic high above his head.
The kobold commander's eyes snapped to it instantly.
Harold shouted, voice raw with fury:
"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? THEN COME TAKE IT!"
For a second, the entire field went silent.
And then Hale roared, picking up the cry.
"KILL THESE LIZARDS! HOLD THE LINE!"
The kobolds screamed back — high, shrill cries of rage — and the discipline they had was gone.
They charged.
The kobolds surged as a tide unleashed — no more formations, no more coordination. Just fury.
They came screaming, weapons raised, crashing into the trench with wild, reckless energy. Shield or not, it didn't matter now. They meant to tear the legion apart with claw, blade, and numbers.
"On my mark!" Hale shouted. "One step back — just one!"
His voice carried, taken up by the optics and repeated down the line.
"One step back!"
"One step back!"
"Mark!"
The legion mostly moved as one, shifting a single pace back from the trench line.
It was just enough.
The kobolds, mid-jump, didn't adjust. Their momentum carried them over the trench and into space — expecting to crash into men, into shields — and instead landing in the open.
Spears met them midair. Swords slashed as they landed.
Kobolds dropped in waves.
"Hold!" Hale bellowed. "This is our ground!"
The legion dug in, planting boots and shields. Spears stabbed through gaps. Shields slammed into faces. Blades swung from the second rank, catching exposed arms, legs, throats.
The trench became a killing zone. Kobolds clawed at the dirt to get up and over, but every time they rose, they were cut down by the mass of spears.
Still, more came.
One wave. Then another.
The line began to groan. Shields cracked. Blood sprayed. Legionaries grunted and shouted — pushing back, bracing, stabbing in rhythm.
"Push!" came the call.
The front rank surged forward, shoving shields into the enemy. The second line stabbed over their shoulders. Then:
"Shield!"
They reset. Stepped back. Let the next wave hit. Repeated.
Push!
Shield!
Kobolds were cut down in their mindless rage.
Push!
Shield!
And then — from the center — something massive moved.
The lizard was coming.
It smashed through the brush, snarling. Its scales were a dull, rocky grey, but its mouth glistened red. A kobold sat atop it, clutching the reins, shrieking something in their strange tongue.
Around it came the commander's personal guard — the tower-shield kobolds, forming a wedge.
They hit the trench like a hammer and flowed over it.
The line buckled.
The lizard leapt, jaws wide, and landed in the center ranks. Men screamed. Blood splashed. The commander on its back howled, stabbing downward with a hooked spear.
"Pattern Red!" Hale roared.
From the rear, mana users surged forward — blades glowing, limbs crackling with their mana. They crashed into the guards' flanks.
They were working to cut through anything the guard had left exposed. They would cut through shields and flesh in one strike. In moments, the guard was decimated. They would try to hold, but there was no blocking the mana-clad blades.
But the lizard spun — tail whipping, smashing three legionaries into paste. That he crushed one of his own guards, too, didn't matter.
Harold stepped forward.
His guards tried to block him, but he shoved past.
"We go now!" he barked.
Hale stepped back from the fight and met Harold's furious gaze. "Stop, my lord, let us do our jobs. We can't rely on you to do everything."
Then — from behind — a high, piercing whistle.
A javelin screamed through the air — no ordinary throw.
It struck the kobold commander square in the chest — exploding with a familiar force. How she attached that potion to her spearhead was a mystery.
The beast reared, shrieking — and the kobold rider fell backward, lifeless, his body tumbling from the saddle into the ditch.
Harold's eyes snapped to the treeline.
He caught just a glimpse — Vera lowering her arm.
The impact shattered the kobolds' coordination.
Where before they fought in a formation, now they scattered, snarling and snapping — no longer a warband, just angry individuals.
Hale didn't hesitate.
"Advance!"
The call echoed.
"Forward!"
The legion pressed forward, not in a wild charge, but with a calculated, brutal march. Step, strike. Step, strike. Shields up. Blades stabbing low. Each movement was deliberate, driven by a muscle memory carved from unyielding discipline.
The trench was theirs now, the taste of victory bitter under the metallic tang of blood and sweat. Kobolds fell by the dozen, the remnants of chaos left behind.
But for a brief moment, as the dust settled, the legion paused. The air hung heavy, cradling a collective breath.
And then — just like that — the last one broke and ran.
The battlefield was quiet now, save for the crackling sound of burning kobold corpses. The acrid scent of charred scales hung low in the humid jungle air, mixing with blood and wet earth.
Only the kobolds burned.
Their own dead were wrapped carefully in cloaks and laid in ordered rows, covered where possible, watched over by surviving squadmates. The kobolds, though, were stripped for parts first — carefully and methodically. Darkvision potion ingredients were rare and would be needed; the glossy black eyes of the larger kobolds shimmered with potential. Scales were being cut from their corpses, especially from the bulkier variants — materials that could be repurposed for light armor or crafting projects.
Harold crouched next to one of the bigger corpses — the kobold commander. His armor had been fitted better than most, stitched together from scavenged leather and reinforced bone. Beside him, the great lizard mount lay like a collapsed wall of muscle, its hide tough as old tire rubber.
He ran a hand over its flank, muttering to Carter, "This thing alone's worth a dozen crafting recipes. Bones, hide, even the teeth." Harold picked up the staff the Commander used and placed it into his bag at his side.
Carter nodded. "We've got the adventurers marking what to salvage. Won't be quick. What's the staff?"
Harold stood and dusted his hands off. "Don't be quick. Be thorough; people died for all this. I want everything we can carry."
"I'm not sure what the staff is; there were rumors last time about some of the items you could get from highly ranked enemies. I'm curious to see if they're true. If nothing else, I'm sure it can be used to infuse something. If we can ever get the Smiths trained on how to infuse what they make."
Carter just raised an eyebrow but accepted the non-answer for what it was.
He found the others gathering near what Tribune Tran called the command crate — Hale with his helmet tucked under one arm, Garrick limping slightly, and Vera just approaching from the edge of the field. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, but she moved as sharp as ever.
Harold moved toward her immediately and offered a quick smile. "Hell of a throw."
Vera grunted, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Decided to take it when I saw he wasn't hiding behind those shielded kobolds. Glad it worked out."
He raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you get the perk to throw a javelin like a damned ballista?"
"Speed Perk from one of the forest cats," she said. "Got it back at the Landing. But if I push mana through it and focus it—" she made a gesture like a flare through her arm, "—I can spike and focus the effect. It took me a while to get the timing right, though."
Harold whistled low. "I didn't know you could feel and manipulate your perks that way... Huh. I always knew adventurers had a way to use mana, just never got how. That's actually a really interesting conceptually…."
Hale slapped Harold on the back and looked at Vera. Don't get him started, or he will go down a rabbit hole about some technical potion stuff.
She looked at Hale, surprised. "He does that often?"
Harold "Nope."
Hale "Yes"
Harold just glowered at him.
Behind them, Garrick added, "Mana users are mostly done. Everyone's spent. Burned through all the potions you made."
Harold nodded. "Figured as much. Ingredients are low too."
He looked over the field. Legionaries worked in slow, tired groups — pulling supplies from the kobolds, hauling bodies, wrapping wounds. What gear they didn't need was getting stacked for later appraisal. One of the wagons was already filled with bundled loot and sorted salvage.
"Make sure it's all recorded," Harold said. "We'll appraise it at Dalen's Hold."
Carter gave a small nod. "You sure about heading there?"
"I am." Harold folded his arms. "I said it in the letter I sent. If we had to fall back after the battle, we might regroup there. Not safe, but safer than staying out here. Carter, do me a favor and check the forum for that post, please."
Hale glanced toward the treeline. "And if they think we're limping?"
"They won't," Harold said. "Have the legion look sharp. I want them upright and in formation when we approach. We may be bruised, but I want them to wonder if we brought reinforcements."
Sarah approached him as he turned, her gear still stained and half-torn, a smear of dried blood on her temple. Her face was pale with exhaustion, but her eyes were alight.
"You did better than I ever expected," Harold said, his voice softer now. "Hell, I'll be surprised if you didn't get a perk for being the first to touch that relic."
Sarah offered a tired shrug. "I did, I haven't checked yet though."
"You should," he said with a grin, then his tone grew more serious. "I won't get anything until it's back at the Landing."
She just gave him a tired nod and a hug, then turned back to the team.
Harold stepped toward one of the wagons, opened a reinforced crate, and placed the relic inside — carefully wrapped, sealed tight, and handed off to a detail of a full squad of legionaries. They saluted and stood guard, unspeaking.
"Twenty-four-seven," Harold said to the Optio. "This thing doesn't move without Centurion Carter or me signing off on it."
The Optio saluted him, " Yes, My Lord, no one will be stealing this relic."
Harold just looked at the man, trying to decide if he was jinxing them on purpose.
Harold spent some time cataloging which ingredients he actually had and which potions he could make with them. It wasn't a lot; he could make 2, maybe 3 healing potions, but they wouldn't be very strong. The troll ingredients would work for some of the more powerful potions, like regrowing limbs, but he needed other ingredients for that.
Vera came back not long after, slipping in from the perimeter. Her scarf was damp with sweat and blood.
"Still some scouts out there," she said. "Stragglers. We'll clean them up. Give us an hour."
Harold nodded. "Good. And keep your eyes out for potion ingredients. We're dry. Anything fungal, mossy, glowing — bring it in."
"Yes, sir," She turned and vanished again into the green.
Eventually, the victorious legion left the spot of their most costly battle yet; it was easy to say we lost 40 legionaries. But it was different to leave their bodies in a grave in some unknown part of the jungle forest. Harold stayed for a moment as everyone left, looking out over the field.
Eventually, Hale found him — still surrounded by his guards, with Carter standing silently beside him. The old Centurion caught Hale's eye and gave a short nod, motioning him forward before Harold could notice.
Hale approached and found Harold staring dazedly out. The bodies of the kobolds were burning in distant piles — fire flickering low and red — while freshly filled graves marked the cost of the fight.
Harold didn't look over at first. But when he did, Hale saw it in his eyes. The weight and the grief. The kind of pain that carved deep and stayed there. Harold had always been an emotional man — quick to laugh, easy to smile, quick to darken. Anger came fast, but so did forgiveness. But this…was different.
"It doesn't get any easier, Harold," Hale said quietly, his voice low and even. "Not if you want to keep your humanity."
He stepped up beside him.
"All we can do is make the most of the time that's given to us. Do right by the people walking out of this clearing… and do right by the ones who didn't. The fact that it weighs on you — it speaks well of you. It should hurt."
Harold turned, jaw tight, and pointed to a grave on the far right.
"That's where Max is buried. He helped with that potion ruse back in the marching camp." His voice cracked a little. "He's got a family back at the Landing. Wife and a six-year-old kid. They came through the portal with him; it was strange because he was the first soldier to bring a family through. I saw the arrow tear right through his throat."
He pointed to two graves over.
"That's Optio Ingrid. She joined up to escape the orphanage she grew up in. She wouldn't eat the Tatanka we roasted... said it was the one she used to feed when she was in charge of kitchen duty. Wouldn't touch it…she was kind."
A pause.
"I don't know any of the others' names, Hale." His voice lowered. "I feel like I should. But I'm glad I don't."
Hale nodded slowly. "You don't need to know every name to honor their memory. You gave them purpose. A chance to fight for something more, and they know these fights mattered. That it was worth spending their lives for. The people understand what you are trying to build here, and they believe in it. With these times, people need something to believe in... that's you and what you are trying to build."
Harold didn't answer right away. His eyes were still on the graves. Finally, he said, "I knew this was going to be hard. I don't know why I lucked out and got sent back like this."
Hale clapped a hand on his shoulder — not as a soldier, but as a friend. "Come on, let's go see if this Dalen fellow has any coffee, or a good cup of tea."
Harold looked at him uneasily. "You know this guy's "Hold" is going to be a mess, right?" He said with finger quotes.
Hale didn't look at him, but Harold could see the smile. "I'm an optimistic man."
Harold looked at him as he strolled away. "Optimistic? You?!"
Hale just hid his smile and kept walking. Harold walked to catch up.
The wagons rolled slowly at first, creaking under the weight of supplies and the wounded. Not everyone could ride — there simply wasn't room. Those who could still walk did. Some leaned on their comrades; some limped silently, their shields still strapped to their backs.
The jungle pressed close again, the trail barely wide enough in places to fit the wagons. They were moving slow — too slow, maybe — but they were alive.
Lord Dalen sat on the edge of the watchtower, legs swinging over the side like a kid too tired to care if he fell. A faint, rhythmic thud echoed from the distance, like distant drums signaling an unseen threat. From here, he could see almost everything: the trench that ringed the hold, the earthen berm behind it, and the low sprawl of rough shelters spread out in the clearing like a refugee camp that never left.
He chewed absently on a bit of smoked meat. It tasted like wet leather and regret.
No stone walls. No gleaming keep. No polished banners fluttering proudly in the wind. Not really a lord at all.
Just dirt, desperation, and a trench deep enough to break an ankle if you didn't see it coming.
When he'd been offered the choice when the world ended — Crafter, Adventurer, Lord — it hadn't been a choice at all. Dalen had spent a decade dying under flickering office lights, answering emails about toner cartridges and end-of-quarter reports, his soul slowly dissolving in a gray cubicle.
So when the system offered him a clean slate and a title?
Hell yes, he'd thought. I'll be a Lord. My own boss. No middle management. Maybe some meetings, sure — but with myself and the open sky.
He hadn't realized it would mean four hundred terrified people looking to him for every answer... half of whom couldn't swing a stick straight — or that he'd be the one expected to fix everything when things went wrong, which they did. Constantly. He realized how naive he was then.
Half of them wouldn't even listen to him.
The only brilliant thing he'd done, looking back, was dig the trench.
It circled the entire settlement like a scar — six feet deep, 4 across, reinforced on the inside with a low berm of packed dirt and salvaged timber. Behind that, four wooden watchtowers loomed on rough platforms — squat, ugly things with no roof, but built solid.
He'd made damn sure of that.
They were manned day and night, each one with archers and a lookout. Because the only thing keeping the kobold and goblin raids from overrunning them was the fact that Dalen had scavenged a lot of bows and arrows from early skirmishes. He didn't have a stone. He didn't have healers. But he had enough firepower to make attackers bleed before they got close.
And so far, that had been enough.
He thought picking a starting area right next to a couple of rivers and the forest would allow him to get the best of both worlds, and for the first week, things had been going great. But the twin rivers, while offering natural resources, also acted as barriers, limiting the movement and strategies of both allies and enemies as conflict escalated. Navigation issues had slowed potential reinforcements and complicated supply routes, while also creating a perfect trap that confined raiding parties to predictable paths. Namely...him. Soon enough, the raids started.
He glanced down into the makeshift camp. People moved between cookfires, hauling buckets, mending gear. Some of them were still sleeping in their shelters. They were supposed to be working, but he didn't have the heart to make them get up. They were tired. Others had dug burrows into the berm wall and built a roof of wood.
Half his soldiers were wounded. Food was low again — hunting parties rarely returned with much, thanks to kobold patrols.
He'd posted on the forums for help three times in the last week. One reply offered 'thoughts and prayers.' Another told him to grind better drops. The third was just someone trying to sell him fake upgrade tokens. Dalen had laughed at the absurdity of it all. But, as he reread the replies, the laughter caught in his throat, turning into a tight knot of fear. Beneath the veneer of sarcasm, a chill of despair crept in, whispering the unthinkable—what if this was all there would ever be?
He rubbed his eyes.
"I'm not cut out for this," he muttered. "A meeting-minutes guy. I didn't sign up to be a warlord."
Boots thumped up the ladder behind him.
"My lord!"
Dalen turned as a scout clambered up, breathless, holding a sealed envelope in one hand.
"What now?" Dalen asked.
The scout handed a letter over.
"Who is this from….?" Dalen trailed off questioningly, waiting for his name.
"Toren, my Lord."
"Ok, Toren, who is this letter from?"
"Sir, I'm assigned to scout the western side of the forest. I was scouting there yesterday and found a marching camp. With an army in it! I tried to get close to see who it was, but…Well, I got captured, sir. They made me spend the night with them. I tell you, it was the best food I've had in a while, but they asked me questions about the situation in the forest and told me they are going to fight! Then the next morning, their Lord gave me this letter to give to you. My lord, they had healing potions!"
This all came out as fast as Toren could say it, a stream of words Dalen had a hard time hearing, much less understanding.
'Wait, say that again," Lord Dalen said. "There's an army marching into the forest to fight the Kobolds and Goblins? How many?"
Toren just nodded his head excitedly, "There musta been two hundred of them, my lord! They were grand folk, treated me nicely right after they caught me sneaking around their camp."
Dalen cracked the wax and scan the message, his brow furrowing. Then he slowed. Reread it. Then once more, just to be sure.
To Lord Dalen,
Harold of the Landing, writing from the field.
I command the expeditionary force currently operating to your east. We come from the east of you if you follow the river towards the mountains. I have cleared the hostile forces en route— primarily goblin dens and assorted variants.
I've read your postings on the forum. I know things haven't been easy for you. I understand supplies are short. You have wounded yourself; you can't heal. And they are under unrelenting attack. You've held your ground despite it all. I have secured my village, and I am marching my forces to relieve you, if possible.
Your hold is the closest viable defensive position. If our situation becomes untenable, expect us to fall back on your hold. We'll be coming in strength.
I hope we won't need the hospitality. But I plan for the worst-case first. When you receive this letter, please make another forum post titled "Annoying goblins?" Then write a short post asking if anyone's figured out how to make swords that glow near monsters. I know it's silly, but we need to practice operational security. If we're headed your way, someone will reply that it's not that kind of game.
If we do arrive, expect us to stay a few days to heal our wounds and recover enough to march home. I will, of course, do what I can to improve your situation.
Until then, hold fast. You're not alone out here, no matter how it feels. Humanity must stand together.
— Harold of the Landing
Dalen just stared at the words.
"…No way," he said quietly. "There's no way this is real."
He reread the letter, slower this time, lips moving as if that might change what it said—an army. Relieving pressure on his Hold. And then, almost casually, the possibility of retreating here.
Here.
Dalen lowered the parchment and looked out over his settlement.
The trench was visible from where he stood — deep, wide, and ugly, dug by tired hands with borrowed tools. Beyond it, the earthwork rose just high enough to give archers cover. The watchtowers stood solid and practical, the one thing he was proud of. Everything else was temporary. Too little canvas. All wood and hope nailed together, and praying it held.
An army like that didn't come knocking on places like this.
He turned the letter over, rechecking the seal—plain wax. No flourish. No bragging. The words weren't boastful either — just direct. Matter-of-fact. Someone is planning for things to go wrong.
That made it worse.
He hadn't heard of Harold. No forum arguments. No advice threads. No loud claims or recruiting posts. Just… this letter. From the field. From someone already fighting.
Dalen swallowed.
"If he's lying," he muttered, "he picked a hell of a way to do it."
He folded the letter carefully, smoothing the creases with his thumb, as if it might tear if he wasn't gentle. Then he leaned both hands on the rough railing of the tower and stared at the trees.
If Harold was honest — if any of this was real — then someone out there had looked at the mess Dalen was in and decided it was worth helping. Not out of obligation. Not because of some alliance.
Just because.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
"My lord?" Toren asked hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"
Dalen took a breath and straightened.
"No," he said, then corrected himself. "Yes. I mean—no. Get the word out. Extra watch tonight. Fires on every tower. I want the trench checked for collapses, and I want the archers rotating every four hours."
The guard blinked. "Are we expecting an attack?"
Dalen hesitated, then shook his head.
"…Maybe not."
He looked back at the letter one more time before tucking it inside his coat.
"But we might be expecting guests."