Get out and tell your leader that we are not pulling back because they want to plunder the goblin's luck. The moment the doors slammed shut, the room seemed to vibrate with the force of Marshal John's fury. His voice had not merely echoed—it had lingered, clinging to the walls like a storm that refused to pass. Outside, the unfortunate messenger who had delivered the latest request from his nation's leadership was no doubt still reeling, perhaps questioning every life decision that had led him to that door. Inside, however, the tension shifted from explosive to suffocating, the remaining Marshals exchanging glances that balanced somewhere between shared irritation and restrained amusement.
John stood rigid, his hands planted firmly against the war table as though he might crush it under sheer willpower alone. His knuckles had gone pale, and his breathing was measured, but only barely. "If I hear one more request to abandon the battlefield," he muttered, his voice low but no less dangerous, "I swear I will personally demonstrate what 'democracy' looks like when applied with a blade." The statement hung in the air for a heartbeat before the others broke—not into laughter, but into quiet, knowing smiles. They understood his frustration all too well.
Across the table, Marshal Arun leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression carrying a hint of smug satisfaction. "You're not alone in that sentiment," he said calmly. "Back home, they tried something similar with me. Persistent messages. Subtle pressure. Not-so-subtle threats." His lips curled slightly upward. "So I had them investigated for treason and broadcast the trial live."
That revelation drew genuine reactions. Marshal Xian Mu raised an eyebrow, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "You actually did that?" he asked, his tone caught between disbelief and admiration. "You realize when we return, they will remember this. Power is fleeting, Arun. Those you humiliate rarely forget."
Arun shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Perhaps. But timing is everything. The governments needed leverage against the noble houses, and I gave it to them. Now those same houses cannot move openly without risking their own downfall. If anything, I've bought us silence—at least until this trial ends." His gaze sharpened. "And frankly, I prefer that to constant interference while we're trying to save the entire human race."
At that, Marshal Herman, who had been quietly reviewing a report, finally looked up. His expression was far calmer than John's had been, but there was a weight behind his eyes that spoke of deeper calculations. "Silence is all we need," he said, tapping the paper lightly. "Because time is not on our side." He paused just long enough to ensure everyone's attention had shifted fully to him. "The Moonhawks have reported that they are within ten kilometers of breaking out of the forest. Beyond that lies open terrain—plains, rivers, and, most importantly, a solution to our logistical nightmare."
That single statement altered the atmosphere more effectively than any outburst. The tension did not disappear, but it sharpened, focused into something purposeful. Marshal Slobozhanin exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache that had long since settled in permanently. "I have to admit," he said, "since your archers began supporting the advance, the pace has increased dramatically. My own units are… struggling to keep up." There was no bitterness in his voice, only frustration. "Crossbow divisions perform adequately, but they lack the flexibility your people demonstrate."
Herman allowed himself a faint smile, though it carried no mockery—only quiet certainty. "You're comparing trained specialists raised with a bow in hand to soldiers who learned under pressure in a matter of weeks," he replied. "That gap does not close overnight. Especially not when equipment continues to change." He gestured vaguely, as if dismissing the issue as inevitable. "Give them time, and they will improve. But for now, we use what we have."
Xian leaned forward slightly, his earlier concern replaced by focused intent. "Coordination for the next maneuver is nearly complete," he reported. "Most legions understand their roles. The only complication remains the residual goblin lines deliberately left intact to avoid friendly interference. However, I've assigned crossbow units to eliminate those pockets quickly once the advance begins."
"Good," Herman said simply, though the single word carried approval. He straightened, placing both hands on the table now, mirroring John's earlier posture—but where John had radiated anger, Herman radiated anticipation. "Because once that forest is gone, everything changes. No more bottlenecks. No more constrained movement. We transition into a full-scale push." His eyes gleamed faintly. "And that is where the real battle begins."
There was a brief silence, not of hesitation, but of acknowledgment. Everyone in that room understood the implication. The forest had been a grinding war of attrition, a test of endurance and coordination. The plains beyond would be something else entirely—a clash of scale, speed, and overwhelming force.
Arun broke the silence with a low chuckle. "You sound almost eager," he remarked.
"I am," Herman replied without hesitation. "Because right now, we are not fighting a war—we are preparing for one." His gaze swept across the table, meeting each of theirs in turn. "And our enemy still underestimates us."
That caught Slobozhanin's attention immediately. "Underestimates us?" he repeated. "After everything we've done?"
"Yes," Herman said. "Because they have not truly seen us yet. What we've faced so far—those were not their best forces. Not even close." He tapped the report again. "They believe they can overwhelm us at any time. That this is merely a matter of patience. And that arrogance…" He allowed the thought to trail off, a faint smile forming. "Is exactly what we need."
John let out a slow breath, some of his earlier anger finally dissipating. "Then we strike before they realize their mistake," he said.
"Exactly," Herman confirmed.
Beyond the walls of their command tent, the world was already shifting to match those plans. The forest that had once stood as an unyielding barrier was being carved apart at a relentless pace. Entire sections of trees fell in coordinated patterns, their trunks stripped, their roots torn from the earth by sheer manpower. What had once taken nature centuries to grow was being undone in days, reduced to pathways and supply lines.
At the center of the advance, the legions pushed forward in a widening formation, their movements shaping the battlefield itself. What had begun as a straight line had evolved into a vast, forward-pointing wedge—a natural V formation driven by the momentum of the central forces. These middle legions, bolstered by elite units and relentless pressure, surged ahead faster than the flanks, allowing them to strike not only forward but outward, collapsing resistance from multiple angles.
It was a strategy born not just of planning, but of necessity. The sheer number of troops—billions waiting behind the lines—demanded constant movement, constant engagement. Idle soldiers became restless, and restless soldiers became problems. So they were given tasks, whether meaningful or not. Trees were cut, roots were dug out, terrain reshaped. Even the dead were managed with brutal efficiency; within hours of falling, goblin corpses were hauled away, dumped into the ever-hungry ravine that carved through the battlefield like a scar.
And still, it was not enough to slow the advance.
From above, the battlefield no longer resembled chaos. It resembled machinery—vast, relentless, and precise. Every movement fed into another. Every action supported a greater whole. Where once there had been hesitation, now there was rhythm.
Back inside the command tent, that same rhythm was beginning to take hold.
"We have three days," Herman said at last, breaking the quiet once more. "Three days before the forest is fully breached. After that, there will be no more delays, no more excuses." His voice hardened, the weight of command settling fully into place. "We move forward. All of us."
No one argued. No one questioned.
Because for the first time since the trial had begun, victory no longer felt like a distant hope.
It felt like something within reach.