The army of Verdune was marching toward Fort Gehena. Drakseid was coming to reclaim it—and we were sent to defend it.
I was just an infantryman. A nameless soldier among thousands. This was to be my first real battle—the first chance for me and my comrades to earn glory and honor.
We were excited. Hungry for it. But the gods had different plans for us today.
Upon the plains and forests of Gehena, we saw the banners of Drakseid fluttering high in the sky. They were waiting for us.
Confusion spread through the ranks. If they were already here, it could only mean one thing: they had already retaken Fort Gehena.
Their archers were positioned atop the two ridges overlooking the battlefield, and their infantry stood in tight formation at the base of the slope. Their numbers were smaller than ours, and they were standing in some kind of strange triangle formation.
Ambushes wouldn't be possible from the left or right—the forest was too dangerous to navigate at speed. They were exposed. Outnumbered. Vulnerable.
"We can crush them here." That thought ran through all our minds. We'll take the fort back… maybe even push toward the capital.
The order was given. The cavalry surged forward to wipe them out. The first wave charged at the enemy's densely packed line of shields and spears.
And that's when it began.
The first unit of cavalry broke upon the enemy's formation like a wave crashing against rock. Horses screamed. Riders fell. The triangle did not break—it swallowed them whole.
From the ridges, the archers loosed a volley of arrows. Screams filled the air. Horses stumbled and collapsed as arrows pierced through leather and flesh.
The rest of the cavalry charged in a fit of rage, trying to rescue their fallen comrades. But the battlefield became clogged, disorganized. They trampled over their own men in their desperation.
The archers showed no mercy.
The triangle of spears held.
They were trapped.
"What… what are they doing?" I whispered, horrified.
"They're pathetic!" someone spat nearby, trying to mask the fear in his voice.
Our captain, standing beside us, said nothing. His eyes were sharp, calculating. And then… his expression changed. His mouth set in a grim line as he watched the massacre unfold.
"I don't blame them," he said quietly. "Even I only just realized what this is."
My friend's voice trembled. "Captain… what are you talking about?"
Our captain exhaled, his eyes narrowing at the triangle of shields.
"That formation…" he murmured.
"It wasn't designed to stop a cavalry charge."
We stared at him.
"It was designed to kill one."
A chill ran down my spine. "Explain."
His eyes darkened. "Picture this: you're a cavalryman—a seasoned one, maybe. You've charged into messy infantry before, cut down spearmen and archers without a second thought. Horses are powerful, and a charging cavalry line is almost unstoppable."
"But then… you see that."
A triangle-shaped shield wall. Spears, glinting in the sunlight, arranged in layered, overlapping rows like the teeth of a predator's maw. The formation is angled toward you—designed to receive a charge, to funnel your attack straight into death.
Your horse senses it before you do. Its breath quickens. Its muscles tense beneath you. Horses are prey animals—they know a trap when they see one.
But orders are orders. You grit your teeth, tighten your grip on the reins, and raise your sword. Your commander shouts, "Charge!"
You spur your horse forward. The sound of thundering hooves fills the air, your unit galloping at full speed toward the phalanx.
And then—the sky darkens.
A whistling sound cuts through the air. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Arrows.
You lift your shield. The first arrow punches through the leather, grazing your arm. The man beside you takes one to the throat and falls from his saddle. Another horse screams and collapses as two arrows pierce its flank, dragging its rider down beneath the charge.
The formation doesn't break.
They don't even move.
You press forward because turning back means death. But the closer you get, the more you see the deadly precision of their line. The front row lowers their spears, the back row angles theirs over the top—a wall of sharp bronze points aimed at you and your horse's exposed chest.
And the eyes behind the shields—cold, unwavering.
You're close now—too close. Your horse's breath is ragged, its flanks soaked in sweat. You raise your sword, screaming as you urge the horse to leap—
And then it happens.
The front line of spears thrusts forward in perfect synchronicity.
The horse ahead of you screams, impaled clean through the chest. A comrade to your left topples as a spear rips through his armor. The triangle closes inward, forming a living death trap.
You pull hard on the reins, but there's nowhere to go. Behind you, more horses and men collide into the back of the formation, causing chaos and crushing bodies underfoot.
You try to swing your sword—but a spear point flashes upward, cutting your arm open. Blood spills down your gauntlet. Your horse stumbles, pierced through the side.
You hit the ground hard. A boot slams onto your chest, knocking the wind from you.
Above you stands a young soldier—barely older than a boy. But his eyes are sharp. Focused. Cold. He lowers his spear.
And in that moment, as the sun reflects off his polished bronze shield, you realize…
This isn't a battle.
It's an execution.
And you were never the predator.
You were the prey.
My breath quickened as the captain finished speaking. My heart hammered in my chest.
We watched as more of our comrades were cut down.
They tried to flee. The shield wall closed in, spears locking into place as the archers rained death from above.
Our front line was disintegrating before our eyes. Veterans. Riders who had survived countless skirmishes—reduced to carcasses beneath polished shields.
My hands were shaking.
"I… I don't understand," I whispered. "How did they…?"
"They were trained for this," the captain said darkly. "Conditioned for this."
"And the one leading them?"
The captain's jaw tightened. His gaze turned toward the prince standing atop the ridge—young, small, his crimson cloak billowing beneath the sunlight.
"That boy…" His voice was low. Almost fearful.
"He turned them into monsters."
A heavy silence settled between us as the slaughter continued.
And for the first time since this battle began—
I felt cold.
The cavalry retreated under a relentless hail of arrows and javelins. The thundering sound of hooves over churned earth mixed with the sharp whistle of projectiles cutting through the air. Bodies fell. Horses screamed. Blood splattered across the grass.
But we hadn't lost heart yet. Not completely.
We still had a trump card.
Our mage stepped forward, his staff raised high into the sky. His robes billowed beneath the wind as magic crackled through the air. The ground beneath us trembled.
Boom!
The first explosion erupted across the enemy's line, scattering shields and bodies into the air.
Boom!
Another blast ripped through the enemy's formation. Spears and shields were flung aside as soldiers screamed, their ranks breaking apart.
We felt it—the shift. The enemy was in disarray. Their shield wall wasn't unbreakable after all.
Our confidence surged. Our morale reignited.
"He's doing it!" someone shouted.
"They're breaking!"
The mage raised his staff once more, a faint smile forming on his lips. We cheered for him as more explosions rained down on the fractured enemy lines.
Victory was right there—within reach.
And then—
Thunk!
A single iron arrow.
It punched clean through his forehead.
He froze. His staff slipped from his fingers. His mouth opened in a soundless gasp.
Then he fell.
The ground trembled beneath his collapse. His lifeless body lay motionless, his staff lays beside him.
Our cheers stopped—cut off by a choking, suffocating silence.
The cold weight of despair crept back into my chest.
"No…" someone whispered.
"No, no, no…"
My breath hitched as I watched his blood stain the earth beneath him. A cold breeze swept across the battlefield, and with it, I felt the fragile hope we had cling to crumble into dust.
"Charge! Charge! Charge!"
Our captain's voice cut through the stillness. His sword gleamed beneath the sun as he sprinted toward the enemy.
"Their lines are broken! They're wounded and disorganized—this is our chance!" he roared.
Panic became rage. We screamed and charged forward with renewed desperation. Horses surged ahead, weapons raised, our throats raw from shouting.
We were close. So close.
And then he appeared.
A boy on a black horse.
Ten years old.
He rode calmly onto the battlefield, a crimson cloak trailing behind him. His brown eyes burned with quiet authority as he raised his hand.
The scattered soldiers around him scrambled into place. Shields rose. Spears locked into position. In a matter of seconds, the broken formation became a wall of death once more.
Impossible.
"Push through!" our captain screamed. "Push!"
We crashed into them.
The spears caught our front line, impaling horses and men alike.
The sound of splintering bone and torn flesh filled the air.
Blood sprayed across the field.
And yet—we fought.
We cut down their front lines. We swung swords and axes with savage strength. Shields shattered beneath our assault. The line buckled.
"We can do this!" I shouted.
"We can break through!"
Then the war cries came.
From the forest.
Dozens of them.
Hundreds.
A wall of dark figures poured from the tree line—flanking us on both sides.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
They tore through our sides with horrifying precision. Bronze shields and spears gleamed beneath the dappled sunlight as they struck down our flanks. Our front line began to fold inward, retreating from the pressure.
"Hold the line!" our captain shouted.
"Hold—"
A spear punched through his throat.
He collapsed without a sound.
Our duke and commanders were the first to break.
I saw them riding toward the horizon without a second glance. Cowards.
The rest of us followed soon after.
We ran.
We threw down our weapons and ran toward Verdune. Survival was the only thing that mattered now. We could regroup—we could still fight another day—
But fate had other plans.
The sun rose behind them.
Silhouettes of mounted cavalry emerged over the crest of the hill, sunlight glinting off polished armor and drawn blades. Their horses were already at full speed.
"No…"
They descended upon us like wolves.
Some men screamed. Some begged for mercy. I saw one of our own toss down his weapon and fall to his knees—his hands raised in surrender.
A spear pierced his chest.
Another man crawled across the ground—unarmed—until a blade cut clean through his spine.
I froze. My limbs locked. My mind screamed at me to run, but my legs refused to move.
A soldier galloped toward me, spear raised.
I peed myself.
"Run!" someone shouted behind me.
"Get up!"
I stumbled forward—
A shadow crossed over me—
A spear flashed toward my face—
Darkness.