"That did the trick…"
Arin muttered the words under his breath as he stretched atop his small tent, a rare sense of satisfaction settling into his bones. For the first time in months—since the chaos of the Trial had swallowed their lives—he had slept properly. Not the shallow, restless half-sleep forced by exhaustion and tension, but something deeper, heavier, the kind that left his body light and his mind clear. It almost felt foreign, as if he had rediscovered something he had forgotten even existed.
"Hey, Arin… did it actually work?"
Tom's voice cut through the calm, carrying an urgency that didn't match the exhaustion etched into his face. He stood nearby, arms crossed, staring at the ground beneath Arin's tent like it held the secret to survival itself. Arin pushed himself up slightly, rolling his shoulders before nodding. "Yeah. Better than I expected. I haven't slept that well in months." He gestured toward the ground. "Dig out about thirty centimeters, clear everything—stones, roots, anything uneven—then pack it all back down firmly. Makes the ground smooth. No pressure points."
Tom didn't hesitate. "I'm doing that right now." The sudden burst of energy was almost absurd, considering he had just returned from the battlefield, still carrying the faint scent of blood and sweat. Yet he dropped to his knees without complaint, already digging with a small shovel as if this task alone could redeem the misery of the past weeks. Arin watched him with a faint smirk before tearing open a grey ration bar and stuffing it into his mouth, his expression immediately twisting in disgust as the familiar, lingering aftertaste spread across his tongue.
"How was your shift?" he asked, forcing the food down while grabbing his own shovel to help.
Tom didn't stop digging. "Good. Better than usual. The line pushed hard today—really hard. We advanced over two kilometers in six hours." Arin paused mid-motion, eyebrows rising slightly. "Two kilometers?" Tom nodded, finally glancing up. "At this rate, we only need about eight more before we're out of the forest."
They worked in silence after that, the rhythm of digging steady and efficient. What would once have taken hours was finished in minutes thanks to their cultivated bodies. Tom leaned back slightly, eyeing the small pile of stones they had removed. "Still surprises me," he muttered. "Before all this, something like this would've taken half a day. Now it's nothing." Arin snorted. "What did you expect? If cultivation didn't do this, what would be the point? I'm more surprised by how many stones there are. No wonder sleeping's been terrible."
Before Tom could reply, hurried footsteps approached. "Hey! Are you two actually doing it?" Bertho jogged into their section of camp, slightly out of breath but clearly curious, his eyes darting between them and the freshly leveled ground. "Yeah, it works," Tom replied without looking up. "If you're going to try it, start digging." Bertho waved a hand dismissively. "I will, I will—but listen, something big happened." That was enough to pull Arin's full attention. "What is it?"
Bertho's expression shifted, the earlier excitement dimming into something heavier. "The Marshals released the casualty reports." The air seemed to still. Even Tom stopped digging. Bertho took a breath. "To retake the first half of the battlefield… we killed one billion goblins." For a brief moment, that number carried weight—grim satisfaction—, but it vanished just as quickly. "We lost three hundred million people."
Silence followed, thick and suffocating. "…Three to one," Arin said quietly. Tom leaned back, staring at the ground. "That's not sustainable." "No," Bertho agreed. "That's why they're pushing for the portal. If this continues, we lose. No matter how many we kill." The weight of it settled over them, heavier than exhaustion, heavier than fear. For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Tom suddenly stood, brushing dirt from his hands. "Well," he said simply, "that's for them to deal with." Arin blinked in surprise as Tom stretched and turned toward his tent. "I'm going to sleep." And just like that, he disappeared inside, completely unfazed. Arin stared after him before letting out a small laugh. "He really never changes." Bertho chuckled. "Nope." Then, after a beat, he looked at Arin. "So… help me with mine?" Arin stood, brushing off his clothes. "Sure. But you're carrying extra sleeves tomorrow." Bertho froze. "…Wait, what?" Arin was already walking away, smiling to himself.
"I swear, if the scientists saw these trees, they'd lose their minds." Arin's arrow flew the moment he finished speaking, piercing cleanly through the throat of an evolved goblin trying to shout orders from behind a tree. The creature dropped instantly. High above the battlefield, hidden in the canopy, Arin shifted slightly on his branch, scanning for the next target. Beside him, Bertho nodded. "Of course they would. New ecosystem, foreign species… they'd never pass it up."
Below them, the battle unfolded in a way that almost felt controlled. The chaos of earlier days had given way to structure. Soldiers advanced in coordinated formations, shields interlocked, spears thrusting in unison, carving space step by step while bodies—human and goblin alike—were dragged back and removed with practiced efficiency. It was no longer a desperate struggle. It was a system.
"We're almost through," Arin said quietly, eyes narrowing as he observed the shifting lines. "Another shift or two, and we'll hit the plains." Bertho hummed. "Karl already planned the next phase. It's bold." Arin grinned faintly. "Cutting a second wedge through the center?" "Exactly." The idea was simple—split the battlefield, isolate sections of the goblin forces, and collapse them from both sides. Brutal, but efficient.
"It'll be rough for the edges," Bertho added. "They'll fall behind." Arin shifted to another branch in one smooth motion. "Yeah. But it's the fastest way." They moved again, silent and fluid, leaping from tree to tree with practiced ease. It had to be the fiftieth time they had repositioned that day alone.
After a moment, Bertho spoke again. "Do you know what happens after this?" Arin paused briefly before shaking his head. "No. Grandpa hasn't said anything." His expression dimmed slightly. "I saw the maneuver handbook. Most of it doesn't really involve us. They don't have enough archers to make it work the way they want." Bertho glanced at him. "So no farming points?" "…Yeah."
The silence that followed was brief but heavy. Then Bertho smirked. "Then we make our own opportunities." Arin blinked. "What?" "We work the edges," Bertho said, his tone firm. "Scout ahead, pick off targets, support where needed. Turn it into a game if we have to." Arin stared at him for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. "…Yeah. We can do that."
The disappointment faded, replaced by something sharper—determination. Above the battlefield, hidden among the branches, the two of them moved again, arrows ready, eyes sharp. Below them, the war continued to push forward with relentless momentum, and whether they were needed or not, they would carve out their place in it.