At the rear edge of their assigned section, where supply crates were stacked in uneven rows, and the ground still bore the scars of hurried digging, a collection of peculiar platforms had been assembled overnight. Each stood roughly two meters high, balanced on a central pillar that flared into another platform with spikes at the bottom meant to be driven deep into the soil. They looked crude at first glance—heavy, awkward, and far too exposed for comfort—but there was an undeniable intention behind their design, something deliberate that made them feel less like equipment and more like a statement.
"Well, that looks easy to carry around," Tom remarked dryly, folding his arms as he circled one of the platforms. His tone carried just enough sarcasm to betray his true thoughts. Up close, the wood was dense and reinforced with metal brackets, clearly built to endure stress rather than convenience.
Karl, standing nearby with his usual composed posture, allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "It will take some getting used to," he admitted, resting a hand against the pillar. "But it allows us to make the best use of what we are. Sharpshooters. From up there, we can see far enough to influence a much larger portion of the battlefield than we ever could from the ground." His eyes gleamed faintly as he continued, voice lowering just enough to hint at mischief. "And since we've been… sidelined, why not make a game of it? Let's see if we can push our flank forward faster than the others. Make them beg us to return to the main line."
The effect was immediate. Subtle grins spread across the faces of those gathered, quiet but unmistakably eager. Even those who rarely showed emotion couldn't help but react. It wasn't just about usefulness anymore—it was about proving something.
The next morning, under a sky that refused to commit to any familiar direction, Arin and the rest of his family made their way toward the command point of the left flank. The area buzzed with activity: officers shouting orders, runners darting between units, and maps constantly being revised as the situation evolved. A mix of generals from European, American, and other nations stood at the center, coordinating movements with an intensity that suggested both urgency and strain.
Their discussion came to an abrupt halt when Karl approached, one of the platforms slung over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. The sight alone drew attention, but it was his calm confidence that truly disrupted the atmosphere.
"Good day," Karl said evenly, presenting a document. "I am here under orders from Marshal Herman. We have been granted permission to operate independently along the left flank, provided we do not interfere with the main advance."
The general he addressed took the document, his expression tightening as he read. It was clear that the authority behind the order left no room for argument—but that did not mean he accepted it easily. His jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, his composure wavered under the strain of being overruled by someone who, on paper, barely existed within the official hierarchy.
"You are… free to proceed," he managed at last, each word forced through gritted teeth.
Karl inclined his head politely, already turning away as if the matter were settled—which, to him, it was. As he and his family moved off, their voices carried just enough to be overheard.
"Grandpa, wasn't he a general?" Arin asked quietly. "Shouldn't you show a bit more respect? People like that tend to expect it."
Karl scoffed lightly, not even bothering to lower his voice. "If anything, he should be showing respect to me. I've left more medals uncollected than he's probably earned."
Behind them, the general's face shifted through several shades before settling into a rigid mask. Around him, the other officers wisely chose silence, stepping carefully around a situation that had already become volatile.
By the time the Sonneberg family reached their designated position—roughly five kilometers from the command post—the noise of command had faded into the distant rhythm of battle. Without hesitation, they began setting up the platforms, driving the spiked bases into the earth with practiced efficiency.
Arin climbed onto one, testing its stability by shifting his weight along the edges. It held firm, barely moving despite the uneven ground. From this height, the battlefield opened before him in a way he had never experienced before. The lines of soldiers, the movement of goblins, the subtle shifts in momentum—it all became visible, understandable.
"I have to admit," he said, adjusting his footing, "it works. The view alone makes it worth it."
He paused, glancing down at the crowd below. Soldiers moved beneath him, some casting curious looks upward, others openly staring. Conversations sparked and spread, all centered on the strange sight of archers perched above the battlefield like sentinels.
"…Though I can think of one flaw," Arin added, his voice tightening slightly.
"And that is?" Bertho called from a nearby platform.
Arin exhaled slowly. "You're completely exposed."
The realization settled heavily. Up here, there was no cover, no concealment—just open air and countless eyes. For someone like Arin, whose discomfort with attention bordered on debilitating, it was a nightmare scenario.
"Grandpa did this on purpose," he muttered under his breath, gripping his bow a little tighter. "I just know it."
Below, a sudden shift in the goblin lines drew his attention. Several creatures were being thrown forward—literally hurled over the human shield wall in desperate attempts to break formation. Most were intercepted mid-air, skewered before they could land, but occasionally one slipped through, crashing into the ranks behind.
It was chaos in its rawest form. A single failure in timing, a moment's hesitation, and the entire structure could falter.
"Focus," Arin whispered to himself, forcing his breathing to steady. "Just focus."
He raised his bow, the familiar weight grounding him. The world narrowed—not disappeared, but sharpened. The noise dulled, the movement slowed, and the countless distractions faded into the background.
One arrow. One target.
He released.
The arrow flew cleanly, striking an evolved goblin mid-command. The effect was immediate. The surrounding creatures faltered, their coordination breaking just enough for the human line to press forward.
Arin didn't hesitate. Another arrow was already nocked, his movements fluid, almost instinctive. From below, he might have looked like a statue—still, composed, unshaken. But from his own perspective, everything was in motion, each shot a continuation of the last.
As minutes passed, something subtle began to change. The discomfort, the awareness of being watched—it didn't vanish, but it lost its edge. In its place came something quieter, steadier. A sense of alignment.
He wasn't just holding the bow anymore.
He was the bow.
Each breath matched the rhythm of his shots, each movement precise without conscious effort. To an observer with the right eye, it would have been a rare sight—an archer reaching that fleeting state where technique and instinct became indistinguishable.
But there were no such observers.
The battlefield did not pause for beauty, nor did it recognize mastery unless it directly influenced survival. Below, soldiers fought, advanced, retreated, and adapted, their world defined by immediate necessity.
And so Arin remained unnoticed, a silent force atop his precarious perch, shaping the flow of battle one arrow at a time.
Far below, another goblin was thrown over the shield wall. Another soldier reacted. Another moment passed.
And above it all, Arin continued to fire.