"Hold! Hold the line! Trust your formation!"
The sergeants' voices cut through the chaos, raw and desperate, as the armored goblins finally crashed into the defensive line. The first wave met a forest of spears, and for a brief, brutal moment, it worked. Thousands of goblins were impaled in an instant, their momentum halted by disciplined ranks and sharpened steel.
But the victory lasted only seconds.
The moment steel met armor, the balance shifted. Spears splintered against reinforced plates, glanced off crude shields, or drove in too shallow and became lodged, leaving their wielders exposed. The goblins didn't slow—they pushed forward, hacking at the shafts, tearing weapons free, and dragging soldiers down into the crush.
Then came the bolts.
A sharp, deadly hiss filled the air as goblin-held crossbows fired into the human ranks. The soldiers, trained for close combat and accustomed to facing primitive enemies, were unprepared for the sudden storm of ranged attacks. Bolts punched through gaps in armor, sank into flesh, and dropped men where they stood.
Screams rose.
Thousands fell within moments.
The opening clash became a slaughter on both sides.
High above the battlefield, Arin remained in his tree, his breathing steady despite the carnage unfolding below. His bow moved in a constant rhythm, arrows flying one after another as he targeted goblins wielding crossbows.
Each shot drained him.
(Stamina 90/140)
"…At least those new armors have one advantage," he muttered quietly.
He loosed another arrow, watching as it struck a goblin square in the helmet. The force alone was enough to snap the creature's neck; its body flung backward like a discarded puppet.
"With the old ones, you had to aim more carefully."
Before, his arrows often passed clean through goblin bodies, sometimes failing to kill outright due to insufficient internal damage. But now, with helmets and armor absorbing the impact, the force is transferred directly into their bodies.
Best case—internal bleeding.
Worst case—instant death.
Another two arrows left his bow in rapid succession.
Both struck true.
Two goblins jerked violently before collapsing, their bodies thrown aside by the sheer force.
"If this wasn't so serious, I'd laugh," Arin thought, a faint hint of dark amusement crossing his mind.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Focus.
A sharp thunk snapped his attention sideways.
A bolt quivered in the branch just a meter from his head.
"…They found us."
Arin's gaze shifted across the trees. The archers' positions were no longer safe. Every now and then, a scream echoed as someone was struck and fell from their perch—some dying instantly, others landing among goblins below.
Few survived the fall.
Meanwhile, the mages continued their bombardment. Explosions rippled across the battlefield as mana projectiles slammed into the advancing horde, sending dirt and bodies flying. Each blast carved out chunks of the enemy force, killing dozens at a time.
But it wasn't enough.
Time blurred.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into something longer. The rhythm of battle swallowed everything—sound, thought, even fear.
Until—
Something changed.
A strange, crimson wave emerged from the depths of the forest.
It rolled forward like a tide, faint at first, then growing stronger as it spread across the battlefield. Wherever it passed, the goblins reacted.
They changed.
Their movements became erratic. Faster. Wilder.
More violent.
"…Damn it," Arin whispered. "They brought a mage."
The wave swept over the front lines, and its effects became immediately clear.
The goblins went berserk.
They stopped responding to pain. To fear. To reason. They threw themselves at the human lines with reckless abandon, ignoring wounds that should have killed them. Armor shattered under repeated sheer force. Shields were overwhelmed.
Line breaks began to form.
One after another.
A low horn sounded from behind the lines. Retreat. The signal spread quickly, carried by voices and instinct. The front ranks began pulling back toward the secondary defensive line, deeper within the forest. It was the only option. But retreat came with a price. The first lines had to hold.
"Well, this is it, boys!" Sergeant Clem's voice rang out above the chaos. His spear had already been shattered, leaving only a jagged shaft in his hand. With a snarl, he cast it aside and drew his sword. "Take as many of them with you as you can!" He charged. Straight into the goblin horde.
Others followed. There was no hesitation. They knew. If the retreat failed here, everything behind them would collapse.
Clem cut down one goblin, then another, then a third. Blood soaked his armor, his movements fueled by pure adrenaline. A blade pierced his side—he ignored it. Another took his eye—he didn't stop. His leg gave out beneath him, severed by multiple strikes, but still he swung, dragging himself forward to take one more enemy with him.
He should have died three times already.
But he kept fighting.
Scenes like his played out across the battlefield. Soldiers threw themselves into the enemy, buying time with their lives.
Up in the tree, Arin didn't move.
"I'm staying," he thought.
Retreating now would mean abandoning the one advantage he had.
Instead, he pressed himself deeper into the shadows, his gaze fixed on the point where the crimson wave had originated.
"If there's a spell… there's a caster."
And if there was a caster—
He could end it.
Below, the situation worsened.
The first line collapsed.
The second strained under the pressure.
Archers in the trees were hunted down, picked off by goblins with crossbows. Their numbers dwindled rapidly until only a few remained.
The battlefield shifted again as the goblins pushed forward, surging toward the next defensive line.
Then—
A break.
Arin narrowed his eyes.
"…That's it?"
The flow of armored goblins slowed. For the first time since the assault began, there was a noticeable gap.
Relief flickered through him.
But it didn't last.
"Come on… show yourselves," he muttered.
Because the real threat hadn't appeared yet.
The human forces were being pushed further up the hill, losing ground—and lives—with every passing minute. The goblins fought without fear, trading their lives freely for even a single kill.
That exchange rate…
It wasn't sustainable.
Not for humans.
Then—
Movement.
Arin's eyes sharpened.
"…There."
From the edge of the forest, a small group emerged.
At their center—
A goblin.
Dressed… strangely.
"Well," Arin thought dryly, "that's something."
The creature wore an oversized linen shirt, clearly taken from a human, hanging loosely over its hunched frame. Beneath it, what looked like ill-fitting undergarments that threatened to fall with every step.
It looked ridiculous.
Arrogant.
Completely unaware of how absurd it appeared.
"…Yeah, no."
A faint scowl crossed Arin's face.
"I'd rather die than let them win and have to see more of that."
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down.
"Focus."
Emotion would only interfere.
He checked his supplies.
Arrows—enough.
Position—good.
Targets—clear.
Arin placed five arrows between his fingers, resting them along the bow. Another five he laid out within easy reach.
"…Let's end this."
His voice was barely a whisper.
Then—
He moved.
The first arrow flew.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Each one found its mark, striking the goblins surrounding the mage. Confusion rippled through them, but before they could react, more arrows followed.
Precise.
Relentless.
Unseen.
The mage didn't even understand what was happening.
One moment it stood there, smug and confident.
The next—
Darkness.
Within a minute, ten arrows had been loosed.
Ten targets eliminated.
The entire group collapsed before they had even taken ten steps into the open.