The message from central command arrived without ceremony, a simple sealed document that nevertheless carried the weight of countless lives. Commander Eloi held it between his fingers, turning it idly as he leaned back in his chair, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. "What do you think it is?" he asked, glancing at Selvijs. "Orders to retreat, perhaps? Even with everything considered, we came out better than most legions. That deal with Karl's family… generous, but effective. You should have seen his face when I assigned twenty men as bodyguards—priceless." Selvijs exhaled slowly, arms crossed, his posture reflecting the same fatigue. "Retreat would make sense," he admitted. "We're down to a hundred thousand. Staying here any longer doesn't. But knowing what went wrong in that forest… I wouldn't be surprised if they told us to advance instead." Eloi gave a quiet snort, though the humor never reached his eyes. "You and I both know how this goes." Selvijs gave a tired smile. "Unfortunately. And I could really use a break. Two years without rest… I'm about ready to kill someone just to get a vacation." "Get in line," Eloi muttered, his shoulders sinking further as silence settled between them, heavy with shared dread.
When Eloi finally broke the seal and read the contents, whatever faint levity remained vanished instantly. His face hardened, the lines of fatigue deepening into something far more serious. Selvijs didn't need long to understand. "That bad?" he asked quietly. "Worse than advancing?" Eloi lowered the paper slowly. "We're advancing," he said. "No fallback. No delay. We push until we reach their portal and destroy it. High command believes we can't win a prolonged war—not with the casualty exchange we're seeing." Selvijs closed his eyes briefly, as if hoping the words would disappear if he didn't acknowledge them. "That's a death march," he said at last. "And how do you plan to motivate troops who can barely stand?
They've already gone beyond their limits." Eloi's gaze sharpened. "We tell them the truth," he said. Selvijs frowned. "What truth?" Eloi leaned forward slightly, voice steady but cold. "That if they don't destroy that portal, they lose the trial. And if they lose, they become slaves for the rest of their lives." Selvijs stiffened immediately. "You can't say that. They'll panic. They'll break." Eloi's expression darkened. "Or they'll finally understand what's at stake. They're not machines, but they're not fools either. They've been fighting without purpose, without clarity. If we send them out again without telling them why, then we're the ones failing them." Selvijs opened his mouth, searching for an alternative, but nothing came. After a long pause, his shoulders slumped. "...I don't have a better idea. Do what you think is right."
Eloi did exactly that, and the consequences spread faster than anyone could have predicted. There were no recordings, no official announcements beyond his own legion, and yet by the next day, every soldier across the forest had heard his words. The message passed from mouth to mouth, translated across languages and cultures, carried by survivors and officers alike until it became a shared truth. Push forward, or be enslaved. Not all commanders were pleased. Some were furious that such a volatile message had spread unchecked, fearing panic or rebellion, while others quietly acknowledged that they had struggled with the same problem: their troops no longer understood why they were fighting. For many, the reality of the trial had never fully settled in. At the beginning, it had felt like a game—dangerous, perhaps, but manageable. Death wasn't permanent, and the promise of wealth and power had drawn civilians in droves. To them, it had been something like a living simulation, an opportunity rather than a burden. That illusion shattered the moment they faced goblins in real combat. The brutality, the unpredictability, the sheer violence of it stripped away their fantasies almost instantly. Many who believed they could cut down dozens of enemies found themselves barely surviving a single encounter.
What followed was worse: the realization that there was no escape. Death did not free them; it only reset their suffering. The only way out was forward—either by completing the trial or by enduring endless cycles of death until their minds gave way. Deserters learned that lesson quickly, as there was nowhere to run and no mercy waiting beyond the lines. So when Eloi's words spread, they struck deep. This was no longer a game. This was survival, and failure meant something far worse than death. Rumors quickly amplified the fear, filling in the unknown with vivid, horrifying possibilities. Whether or not all of it was true didn't matter; it felt real enough. For many soldiers, especially the women among them, fear turned into something sharper, more focused. The mere thought of falling into enemy hands ignited a fury that replaced hesitation with resolve. If that was the alternative, then the goblins had to be eradicated completely.
The change in morale was immediate and profound. Where hesitation once lingered, determination now took its place. Soldiers who had dragged their feet began marching with purpose, their exhaustion overshadowed by a newfound clarity. Legions that had struggled to maintain formation now advanced with grim resolve, driven not by hope of reward but by fear of what awaited them if they failed. Even high command had not expected such a transformation. They had anticipated resistance, perhaps even collapse—but not this sudden surge of unity and determination. Yet, in their calculations, they had overlooked one crucial detail.
Rations.
When supplies finally arrived, the veterans were the first to notice something was wrong. They didn't even need to taste it. The moment they saw the dull, grey bars labeled Multi-Bar, their expressions darkened with immediate understanding. Around them, newer soldiers picked up the rations with curiosity, turning them over as if expecting some hidden feature. "What is this?" one asked. "Food," a veteran replied flatly. The recruit frowned. "That's food? Looks like concrete." "It tastes worse," came the dry response. Naturally, they didn't believe it—not until they took a bite. The reaction was instantaneous. Faces twisted in disgust, some choking, others spitting it out immediately. "What the hell is this?!" someone shouted. "It's like chewing sand!" Complaints erupted across the camp, spreading almost as quickly as Eloi's speech had. Soldiers who had just accepted the reality of their situation now found themselves united by a far more immediate outrage.
Within minutes, groups began forming, all heading in the same direction: toward their commanders. The veterans, already moving ahead, simply shook their heads in quiet resignation. "Welcome to the real war," one muttered under his breath. Because in the end, no matter how dire the situation became, no matter how close they stood to annihilation or enslavement, some things never changed—and among them was the simple, undeniable truth that even the most hardened soldiers could not fight on an empty stomach, especially not when what little they were given tasted worse than the battlefield itself.