Two weeks had passed since Eloi's speech shattered the fragile illusions of the troops and forced them to confront the true stakes of the trial. In the beginning, the effect had been immediate—morale surged, determination burned brightly, and soldiers marched forward with a singular purpose. But time, as it always did, dulled even the sharpest resolve. What remained now was not the fiery will to survive, but something far more mundane: routine. The soldiers still marched, still fought, still followed orders—but it felt less like a desperate struggle for survival and more like a job they could not quit. Much of that erosion came down to something painfully simple: food. Or rather, the lack of proper food.
The so-called rations were functional, undeniably so. The grey bars—officially labeled as multi-nutritional compression blocks—provided everything the body needed to survive and fight. They were dense, efficient, and easy to transport, which made them perfect for strained supply lines. Unfortunately, they were also utterly revolting. Their texture resembled damp chalk, their taste something indescribably bitter and stale, and worst of all, the aftertaste lingered for hours, clinging stubbornly to the tongue no matter how quickly one swallowed. Even the most disciplined soldiers found themselves dreading mealtime more than battle. The issue wasn't lost on command, but there was little they could do. Traditional rations like MREs were too bulky to transport in sufficient quantities, and fresh food was simply impossible given the scale of the operation. So the grey bars remained—the only option in a war where logistics mattered as much as steel and blood.
Ironically, the solution to this problem came not from engineers or quartermasters, but from observation. It began with Legion 23, when a few particularly attentive soldiers noticed that members of the special unit, the Moonhawks, always consumed something immediately after eating their rations. Curious—and desperate—they investigated. The answer turned out to be almost laughably simple: lemon drops. The sharp, sour burst of flavor cut through the lingering aftertaste of the grey bars almost instantly, offering a small but invaluable relief. Word spread quickly, as such things always did, and soon entire companies were clamoring for the same remedy. Requests flooded up the chain of command until they reached Eloi himself, who needed little convincing. Having endured the same rations alongside his troops, he approved the request without hesitation and forwarded it to central command.
The response from high command was swift, if slightly bewildered. While they found the request unusual, they also recognized its importance. Morale was a fragile thing, and if something as simple as hard candy could ease the burden even slightly, it was worth pursuing. More importantly, they couldn't afford to show favoritism to a single legion. If one received such a benefit, all had to. Within days, orders were issued, and shipments of hard candy—particularly lemon drops—began making their way to the front lines. For once, the letters sent back from the troops were not filled with frustration and veiled threats, but with something approaching gratitude. It was a small victory in an otherwise bleak campaign.
Still, even small comforts couldn't mask the growing unease among certain soldiers—particularly those like Arin and his companions, who had grown accustomed to action. Two weeks of marching without encountering a single goblin was enough to test anyone's patience. "I still find it strange," Tom said one afternoon as they moved beneath the canopy of a small forest. "We've gone farther than the Great Lakes, and still nothing. Not a single goblin." To his right loomed a massive mountain range, its jagged peaks stretching endlessly into the sky. It was an impassable barrier for any large force, forcing their legion to veer left in search of a viable path forward.
Bertho glanced in the same direction, his expression thoughtful. "It will remain a mystery for now," he replied. "We were told we'd get answers once we reached the main battlefield." His tone shifted slightly, a hint of fascination creeping in. "Still, you have to admit—the communication towers are remarkable. To think they were abandoned after the Napoleonic wars, and now they're essential again. We're two thousand kilometers from high command, and yet we received instructions within a day." Tom nodded reluctantly. "I'll give you that. They're impressive. But I'd still prefer to actually fight something. We need more points if our faction is going to survive."
Arin, who had been walking slightly ahead, let out an exaggerated sigh. "Exactly. All this marching through empty hills and forests is driving me insane. I didn't come all this way to sightsee." His tone carried the unmistakable edge of boredom, though those who knew him well recognized it for what it was: restlessness. Bertho chuckled softly. "You'll have to endure it," he said, his voice taking on the patient tone of someone humoring a child. "No one expected the mountains to block the path like this. After the highlands, everyone assumed the route would stay clear." Arin pouted briefly, then, as quickly as the mood came, it vanished. His expression sharpened, curiosity replacing irritation in an instant. "So how do we break through their defenses?" he asked. "It's still a long distance to the main battlefield beyond the Sea Fortress."
Neither Tom nor Bertho found the sudden shift surprising. Arin had always been like this—his emotions tied closely to whatever captured his interest at the moment. Bertho, in particular, seemed pleased by the question. "It's not simple," he began, slipping easily into a more analytical tone. "Last estimates put the distance from the portal to the nearest fortress at around a thousand kilometers. That's a long stretch of contested ground. They'll have to fight every step of the way. It's going to be a slaughter." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "In my opinion, there are two key objectives. First, they need to punch straight through the defensive line as quickly as possible to reach the portal. That part is obvious." He glanced at the others, who nodded in agreement. "Second, they need to limit the size of the battlefield. If they allow too much space, reinforcements will keep pouring out of the portal. The goblins need ground to organize, to form ranks. If we deny them that space, we limit their advantage. Otherwise… we lose. Their numbers are simply too overwhelming."
A slow clap echoed from behind them. "Well said," Johny remarked, stepping out from the shadows with an amused grin. "Our resident strategist has been busy, I see." Bertho ignored the teasing, maintaining his composure. "It's not complicated," he replied. "The situation itself isn't complicated. It's just… unforgiving." Before Johny could respond, another voice joined them. "He's not wrong," Karl said, approaching with a thoughtful expression. "I just came from a discussion with Eloi. The overall plan is more detailed, of course, but the core idea is the same."
He reached out and ruffled Bertho's hair, earning a brief look of irritation before continuing. "Speaking of which, be ready. We've been informed that we'll likely move beyond the mountains tomorrow. The first defensive line of the goblins forms a natural bottleneck. Once we hit it…" He paused, his expression turning serious. "It won't be pretty."
The weight of his words settled over the group, replacing the earlier lightness with a quiet tension. The lull was over. The march through empty lands, the strange absence of enemies—it had all been leading to this. Ahead of them lay the true battlefield, and with it, the kind of fighting that would decide everything.
For Arin, the boredom vanished completely, replaced by a sharp, focused anticipation.
At last, there would be something worth shooting.