The battlefield descended into chaos faster—and far more violently—than anyone had anticipated.
The dozen Berserkers crashed into the formation like beasts driven mad by blood. They had no tactics, no fear—only a raw, unrestrained instinct to kill.
With their unnaturally tough bodies, they tore brutal, bloody gaps into the front line of the Wolf Fang Squadron.
"Damn green-skins! Get out of my way!"
Hask roared.
His spear shot forward, punching clean through a Berserker from shoulder to hip just as it lunged for his throat. But the moment he yanked the weapon free, another one pounced from the side.
Ignoring the claws ripping into his arm, it clamped its blood-soaked jaws onto his shoulder.
"Get lost!"
Hask didn't retreat. He braced, muscles locking like stone.
A grinding creak rang out as the creature's teeth scraped against bone.
Pain flared—but he only frowned.
His elbow snapped backward.
Bang!
The Berserker's skull burst apart like a smashed fruit. Yet even in death, its teeth remained embedded in his flesh.
Elsewhere, Barton and the Bedrock Squad were locked in a brutal struggle.
The Boar-folk—pillars of strength and defense—were being swarmed. Two, sometimes three Berserkers clung to each warrior, clawing, biting, throwing themselves against shields like rabid animals.
Shields crushed bones. Limbs snapped.
But still, the Berserkers did not stop.
They slammed themselves forward again and again, draining stamina, tearing at the formation.
The defensive line trembled like a dam under a raging flood—holding, but cracking.
At that critical moment—
Barton roared.
"Shield Bash!"
The signal echoed across the battlefield.
Every member of the Bedrock Squad reacted instantly.
They abandoned their current engagements—ignoring the claws ripping fresh wounds into their bodies—stepped back in unison, and slammed their shields into the ground.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Seven massive shields locked together, forming an iron wall.
Then—
They changed weapons.
Spears dropped.
Heavy maces rose.
"For our home!"
Barton charged first.
Not at the Berserkers—but straight into the weaker goblin line beyond.
The Boar-folk followed like a charging herd, unstoppable and furious.
They hit the enemy formation like a battering ram.
Crack! Splorch!
Bones shattered. Flesh tore.
The goblin line collapsed instantly under the sheer, crushing force.
A path—bloody and broken—was carved straight toward the high platform.
And the moment that path opened—
Colin moved.
"Hask, hold the left! Goff, cover!"
His voice cut through the chaos—calm, precise.
Before the words even faded, he was already gone.
He shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Agility fully unleashed.
The battlefield slowed.
To him, everything became clear.
A spear thrust toward his chest—too slow. He shifted slightly; it passed by his armor.
A blood-slick stone rolled underfoot—he adjusted mid-step, never losing balance.
A poisoned dart hissed through the fog—
Without turning, he flicked his arm.
Clink.
Deflected.
He moved like a shadow—untouchable.
A hundred meters vanished in seconds.
On the high platform, the goblin shaman finally noticed him.
Its gaze sharpened.
Danger.
It raised its bone staff.
Green fire ignited within the skull atop it.
"Gigula!"
The air twisted.
Colin's instincts screamed.
Wrong.
This wasn't just a ritual caster.
This was a true spellcaster.
The staff snapped forward—
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
A storm of corrosive arrows tore through the air.
Green energy screamed toward him, hissing like acid.
Where they passed, even stone melted.
Colin's pupils contracted.
For a fraction of a second—fear flickered.
Then—
Calm.
Absolute calm.
The world broke into lines and trajectories.
Every arrow—mapped.
Every angle—calculated.
He moved.
Not fast.
Precise.
A step left. A lean right. A sudden drop.
Each motion minimal. Perfect.
He slipped through the storm.
And when he couldn't—
His sword moved.
Clang! Ding! Clang!
Not blocking.
Deflecting.
The blade tapped each arrow just enough—redirecting, disrupting, sending them crashing into one another.
Explosions of green energy erupted around him.
Still—
Two slipped through.
One grazed his arm.
Flesh blackened instantly.
The other cut his cheek.
Pain flared.
His eyes sharpened.
Now.
The shaman hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Spent.
Exposed.
Colin saw it.
Ten meters.
Nothing.
He surged forward.
The ground cracked beneath his step.
The shaman panicked—chanting a new spell.
Dark energy gathered.
Fear magic.
Too slow.
"Too late."
Colin exploded forward.
Distance vanished.
The shaman barely raised its staff—
Clang—!
Impact.
But not resistance.
A vibration pulsed through Colin's wrist.
Power condensed.
Focused.
Released.
Crack.
The bone staff shattered.
The blade didn't stop.
A single, flawless arc.
Swish.
Silence.
A thin line appeared across the shaman's neck.
Then—
Blood.
It poured out.
The shaman's eyes widened.
Hands grasped uselessly at the wound.
Too late.
It collapsed.
Thud.
[Kill Points +50]
The battlefield fell silent.
All eyes turned.
Their god…
Dead.
Colin stood above the corpse, blood-stained and unyielding.
Sword lowered.
Breath steady.
A living execution.
Panic spread instantly.
The Berserkers faltered.
The red in their eyes faded.
Their bodies convulsed—then collapsed.
"Run!"
The goblin line broke.
Total collapse.
Cheers erupted.
Wild. Relentless.
"We won!"
"Long live the leader!"
But Colin did not celebrate.
"Enough."
One word.
Silence returned.
"Treat the wounded. Regroup. Stay alert."
Then—
"Bring the survivors back alive."
Understanding spread.
This victory was not the end.
It was the beginning.
At the mine entrance, Colin stood in silence.
Cold air drifted from the darkness below.
Behind him—victory.
Before him—industry, power, empire.
He tightened his grip on his bloodied sword.
This battle had changed him.
Not just a warrior.
A ruler.
And this mine—
Would be the foundation of everything to come.