The final day of preparation is a blur of steel and logistics. Mikhail personally inspects the Bloodfrost Reinforcements. They're hardy men, carved from the ice of the North, though Mikhail notes with the clinical eye of a gamer that they're roughly on par with his own Imperial Knights—high-level "mob" units, but no unique "Hero" tier characters among them. He splits them strategically: half to bolster the wall's static defense, and half to join the volatile Golden Pike mercenaries in a high-risk mobile assault party.
As he coordinates the mages, a nagging thought persists. I wouldn't have to micromanage these mana potions and ley-line formations if I had a single High-Mage character in my party. Finding a caster is now priority zero once this is over.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in blood-orange and bruised purple, the camp transitions into a state of "Quiet Before the Storm." Torchlight begins to flicker along the ramparts, reflecting off the polished plate armor of the waiting men.
Mikhail stands near the central gate, Miyako a silent shadow at his side. The tension is so thick it feels like it could be cut with a blade.
"My Lord," Miyako whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of the forest. "The more time passes, the more worried I become. It feels like the air itself is waiting for us to die."
Mikhail reaches out, squeezing her hand firmly. "I understand, love. But we will win this, together. Within a few weeks, we'll be back in the Empire. It'll be just us, our sparring, and the peace we've earned."
Miyako offers a small, melancholic smile. "I would like that... to go back to how we were."
"MY LORD! THIS IS BAD!"
The shout from the watchtower shatters the moment. Mikhail doesn't hesitate. He sprints up the stone steps of the wall, Miyako close behind. As he reaches the battlements and looks toward the horizon, his breath catches in his throat.
Emerging from the treeline like nightmares made flesh are seven Titan Orcs—two more than his highest estimate. Surrounding them is a sea of green skin, iron, and crude banners: 60,000 Orcs marching in a rhythmic, terrifying cadence that makes the very stones of the wall vibrate.
"This is inevitable," Mikhail mutters, his mind switching instantly into commander mode. "Prepare the magic shields! Hilowat! Battle formations NOW!"
The air hums as 370 mages begin their unified chant. A shimmering, translucent barrier of arcane energy erupts from the wall, curving upward to form a protective dome—a shield designed to catch the massive projectiles of the Titans.
The strategy is set:
The Gates: Sealed with heavy shield-wall formations.
Assault Party A (Hilowat): Imperial Knights and Bloodfrost veterans.
Assault Party B (Miyako): The Golden Pike mercenaries and the rest of the Northmen.
The Wall: Mages and archers providing covering fire and maintenance of the barrier.
Mikhail stands at the center of the rampart. He takes a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes upon him. He leans over the edge of the stone, his voice magically amplified to reach every soul in the valley.
"BROTHERS! DO WE FEAR THE ORCS THAT WE HAVE AT OUR DOOR?"
"NOOO!" The response is a deafening roar that shakes the torches in their brackets.
"OUR HOME LIES RIGHT BEHIND YOU! WE ARE THE LAST LINE OF DEFENSE!" Mikhail's voice rises, filled with a dark, magnetic fervor. "WE ARE EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN THE HOLY AND PURE, AND THOSE MONSTROUS HORRORS WE CALL ORCS! YOU WILL GIVE YOUR LIFE PROTECTING OUR LAND! FOR WE ARE VENGEANCE, AND WE SHALL BRING DEATH TO ANY THAT THREATEN THE SACRED SOIL OF MANKIND!"
He draws his sword, the steel singing as it catches the last ray of the sun.
"SO RAISE YOUR SWORDS! LET THEM KNOW THE NAME OF THEIR EXECUTIONERS!"
The valley explodes. Over 80,000 soldiers—counting the combined forces of Eldrath, the Empire, and the North—erupt in a unified battle cry so powerful it seems to push back the encroaching darkness.
The execution has begun.