Commander Kong Tu had been waiting for this moment ever since Xian Mu had personally informed him that he would lead one of the first legions to execute the new maneuver. It was not just an honor—it was a test, one that would determine whether humanity could finally break free from the grinding stalemate that had defined the war so far. The plan itself was deceptively simple: a three-kilometer-wide breakthrough, powered by coordinated magic and overwhelming infantry momentum. But simplicity in theory often meant chaos in execution, and Kong Tu knew better than anyone that the margin for error was razor-thin.
The marshals had made a deliberate choice. Instead of mixing nationalities and risking confusion in the heat of battle, they assigned three legions of the same origin—Chinese—to carry out the maneuver. Orders would be clear, discipline absolute, and hesitation minimized. Cultural unity, in this case, was not a matter of pride, but of efficiency. Every second saved in communication was another meter gained on the battlefield, and every meter mattered.
The message had arrived just the day before: the forest, that stubborn choke point which had delayed their advance for weeks, would be cleared by morning. In truth, the report had understated the situation. What was supposed to be a three-kilometer breach had already expanded into five, and it continued to widen by the hour. Rumors spread quickly through the ranks, most of them centered on the so-called "special archers" who had driven wedge formations deep into goblin lines. Their tactics had turned the battlefield into a nightmare for the enemy—goblins caught between advancing human walls or driven toward sheer drops where countless bodies vanished into unseen depths.
Kong Tu stood atop a raised command platform, his gaze fixed on the battlefield ahead. The land bore the scars of relentless conflict—blackened earth, scattered corpses, and the faint haze of smoke rising in uneven columns. Yet beneath that destruction lay opportunity. This was the moment humanity would stop reacting and begin dictating the flow of war.
To his left and right, the two other legion commanders observed their assigned sectors in silence. The previous legions had already carved a five-kilometer wedge into enemy territory. Their job was not to start from nothing, but to take that opening and turn it into a breakthrough. If they succeeded, the entire front could collapse in humanity's favor.
Kong Tu exhaled slowly, then snapped out of his thoughts. "This is it," he said, his voice steady but firm. "We show them what we are capable of. For our people." His officers responded with sharp nods and quiet determination. There was no need for grand speeches. Everyone understood what was at stake.
The handover of the line proceeded with practiced precision. If there was one thing drilled into every legionnaire, it was this: seamless transition. War did not pause for rest, and no unit could afford to collapse simply because another was rotating out. As the previous legion withdrew, soldiers from Kong Tu's command stepped forward, filling the gaps with almost mechanical efficiency. Where one line ended, another began, the battlefield shifting like a living organism.
"Prepare the mages," Kong Tu ordered, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "Infantry will advance on signal. The first push determines everything."
"Yes, sir," his adjutant replied, already relaying commands. Behind the front lines, the mages stood ready. Each held a staff, their expressions calm yet focused, while rows of semi-mages sat behind them, arranged in intricate patterns. Chalk lines connected them, forming a massive circle etched into the earth—fragile in appearance, yet brimming with power.
Kong Tu drew his sword and raised it high into the air.
It was a simple signal, but one that carried immense weight.
To his left, another blade rose. To his right, a third followed. Three commanders, three legions, one unified intent.
For a brief moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Then, as one, the swords came down.
The response was immediate.
The mages began their casting, their voices overlapping in a synchronized chant. "Magic Missile." Two simple words, spoken thousands of times in perfect unison. The spell itself was basic—one of the first any mage learned—but on this scale, simplicity became devastating.
The sky erupted.
Thousands of glowing projectiles streaked overhead, their paths forming a dense, luminous wave. The first volleys came from the rear ranks, arcing high before descending upon the goblin lines. Then came the next wave, and the next, until the air itself seemed alive with destruction.
The impact was catastrophic.
Where the missiles struck, goblins simply ceased to exist—vaporized by direct hits or torn apart by the explosive force that followed. Bodies were hurled through the air, shattered beyond recognition. Limbs and fragments were scattered across the battlefield, and those few who survived the initial barrage were left broken, stunned, or barely clinging to life.
But the magic was only the beginning.
"Advance!" came the roar from the front lines.
Crossbowmen fired in rapid succession, cutting down the few remaining figures still standing. Then the infantry surged forward. They did not hesitate, did not slow. Timing was everything. They had to reach the impact zone before the goblins could recover, before fear turned back into resistance.
The front line sprinted, blades drawn, cutting down anything that moved. Behind them, the second line followed closely, ensuring no gaps formed, while the third prepared to establish the shield wall. Every motion was deliberate, every step rehearsed countless times.
On the flanks, another force moved in tandem. Soldiers armed with short swords rushed forward, not to kill, but to disrupt. They slashed and maimed, driving panic into the goblin ranks. Their goal was not efficiency, but chaos—to ensure that no organized resistance could form while the main force advanced.
And it worked.
The goblins, caught in the aftermath of the magical onslaught, faltered. Their formation dissolved into confusion. Many simply stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. Others turned to flee, their instincts overriding any semblance of discipline.
For a brief, critical window, the battlefield belonged entirely to humanity.
Kong Tu watched it all unfold, his grip tightening slightly on his sword. This was the difference. Not strength, not numbers—but coordination. Where goblins relied on brute force and instinct, humans adapted, layered tactics upon tactics, and turned even the simplest tools into overwhelming weapons.
The infantry reached the furthest impact point just as the last missiles fell. Without hesitation, they struck. Blades rose and fell in swift, efficient arcs, cutting down the stunned enemies in droves. Blood soaked into the already ruined earth, but the soldiers did not stop.
"Shield wall!" the command rang out.
In an instant, the advance halted—not in failure, but in control. Shields locked together, forming a solid barrier. Behind them, support units rushed in to reinforce the position, extend the line outward, and stabilize the newly gained ground.
The result was beyond expectations.
They had advanced over a full kilometer in a single coordinated push—more than twenty meters beyond the projected outcome. It was a small distance in the grand scale of the war, barely a fraction of the journey to the portal, but it was proof. Proof that the strategy worked. Proof that the stalemate could be broken. And they would no longer follow the goblins' rhythm.
From his platform, Kong Tu allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.
"This… is only the beginning," he murmured.