Arin sat perched high on the thick limb of an ancient oak, his legs dangling freely over the edge as if he were sitting on a park bench rather than suspended in the air over a battlefield. The tree creaked faintly in the wind, the dense canopy whispering as leaves brushed against each other. From his vantage point, he had a clear line of sight over the front lines. Below, soldiers and goblins clashed in a grinding, brutal stalemate. He scanned the chaos below with a practiced eye, searching for the evolved goblins directing the others. It didn't take long to find them. A few were already in sight, hiding behind thick trunks, gesturing wildly and barking commands. They were brazen about it, confident in their position as they used the bodies of ordinary goblins as living barriers. The lesser goblins surged forward, dying in droves to create a wall of corpses in an attempt to halt the human advance.
The tactic wasn't working nearly as well as they seemed to hope. The human soldiers had already adapted. The frontline moved like a machine, shields locking tightly together as swords thrust forward in unison, supported by the spears of the backline. Every movement was practiced and coordinated. When the line surged, it did so with deadly precision, and when it held, it did so with unyielding discipline. Bodies—both human and goblin—were dragged away from the front in an organized manner and passed to the rear, where designated crews handled them. Nothing was wasted, and nothing was left to rot where it could impede the advance. It was brutal, methodical, and efficient. War had been refined into a grim process.
A faint rustle from behind drew Arin's attention, but he didn't turn. "You're late, Bertho," he said lightly. "What did the line commander say?"
Bertho emerged from the foliage with practiced silence, crouching low on a nearby branch. "He's adjusting their division. They've got three hours left before they rotate out, and he's passing the instructions to the next shift. They're ready for us."
Arin pointed toward the distant trees where several evolved goblins were clearly visible. "Good. I've already spotted a few. They're bold, hiding just enough to think they're safe. It's almost like they're coaching their troops from the sidelines."
Bertho followed his gesture and nodded. The signal came from below—one of the commanders waving the line forward. That was their cue.
"You take the left," Arin said as he drew an arrow. "I'll take the right."
Without another word, the two split and began firing in unison. Arin's first arrow flew straight and true, burying itself in the skull of an evolved goblin. The reaction was immediate. The moment the commander dropped, the nearby goblins lost cohesion. Some hesitated, others panicked, and a few even turned as if to flee, confusion washing over them now that the controlling presence was gone. That moment of disarray was all the frontline needed. The human soldiers surged forward three full steps in unison, cutting down confused goblins with ruthless precision. Then they halted, shields snapping back into position. Advancing too quickly would shatter their formation, and even in victory, discipline had to be maintained.
The effect wasn't permanent. Within moments, newly evolved goblins began issuing orders again, forcing the mindless hordes back into their rhythm. "That was slow," Arin muttered, leaping across branches to another tree for a better angle. "They usually react faster."
And so it continued for six long hours. Find a new position. Identify the evolved goblins. Shoot. Watch the line advance five, maybe ten meters. Repeat. The rhythm was relentless, draining both stamina and focus. Every shot counted. Every missed target meant more human lives lost below.
When their shift finally ended, Lillian appeared in the trees behind them, accompanied by her mother. Her eyes flicked between the battlefield and Arin. "We're relieving you. Anything we should know?"
"Nothing unusual," Arin replied, rolling his shoulders. "Advance after each group of evolved goblins is eliminated. Watch the frontline closely. They slow down near the end of their shift. We noticed their movements get sluggish in the final hour, so fewer goblins get taken out during that window. Other than that, it's straightforward. Good luck."
Bertho and Arin disappeared back into the forest without fanfare, hopping from tree to tree until they reached the ground. The forest floor felt strangely calm compared to the chaos behind them.
"That was something," Arin said, exhaling as they walked. "How far do you think we pushed?"
"Roughly five hundred meters," Bertho answered with satisfaction. "We hit the target, Grandpa set."
They emerged from the treeline and froze. The clearing before them was unrecognizable.
"I could have sworn this was still forest when we left," Arin muttered.
"It was," Bertho replied. "Looks like they decided to start clearing it for easier access and firewood."
Where dense trees once stood, now only stumps remained. Workers moved with grim efficiency, dragging trunks away and hauling goblin corpses in wheelbarrows. At the edge of the ravine, bodies were dumped over without ceremony, disappearing into the abyss below. The piles didn't seem to shrink, no matter how many bodies were hauled away.
"Do you think they'll actually fill the ravine?" Bertho asked, almost fascinated.
"Not a chance," Arin replied. "But we might finally see the bottom if enough corpses go in. This will be the main dumping site for a while. We don't have nearly enough fire to burn this many."
They walked toward the camp in silence. The day's fighting weighed heavily on both of them, and the strange, almost mechanical nature of the operation only made it feel more surreal.
"So… what now?" Bertho asked eventually. "Twelve hours of nothing. And if Tom starts whining about boredom again, I might throw him off a cliff."
"If anyone has cards, maybe we'll get lucky," Arin said dryly. "Otherwise, I'm meditating. These supply camps are the worst. No games, no distractions, nothing."
Bertho snorted. "Then meditation it is. Not like we have better options."
And so they returned to camp, surrounded by the eerie calm that always settled after slaughter—a calm that felt temporary, fragile, and painfully familiar.