Hevert drew his sword.
Steel whispered free—a clean, ringing release—and settled into his grip.
Samantha strung her bow, the cord tightening with a low, resonant tension, then reversed her grip. Her enchanted daggers slid into her hands with a muted, predatory hush.
Illumi opened her tome.
Pages lifted as if caught in an unseen current, parchment fluttering in tight, controlled agitation while golden script peeled away from the surface and hung in the air. Her chant began—quiet, steady, inexorable—each syllable carrying weight.
Peonome slammed her staff into the ground.
Stone groaned. The earth heaved, and a massive golem tore free, rising to its full height with a thunderous crack. Peonome leapt, landing lightly on its shoulder as it charged forward, trampling goblins beneath each step.
Arnold dismissed the shield wall in a flash of light. He rolled his shoulders, slid his shield onto his back, and then—
Jumped.
"Hammer Fall."
He soared impossibly high before crashing down into the heart of the goblin horde.
The impact shattered the ground, a crater forming beneath him, bodies reduced to broken meat and bone.
It did not slow them.
Goblins swarmed Arnold instantly, clambering over one another to reach him. He roared back, hammer swinging in wide arcs, shield flaring as blades bounced harmlessly off it.
Then the front line broke.
The goblins reached the slaves.
Panic exploded.
Wooden clubs swung wildly. Screams tore free as goblins darted in, blades flashing. Small, fast, merciless. Slaves fell in moments, bodies dragged down under sheer numbers.
"Hold your ground!" Leopold shouted, already moving.
Despite his age and injuries, he fought with ruthless efficiency. His dagger flashed, precise and economical, taking heads cleanly. He positioned himself slightly ahead of the young man, intercepting blows meant for him.
The young man barely had time to think.
A goblin lunged at him, dagger thrusting toward his ribs. He reacted on instinct, bringing his club up. The blade buried itself into the wood with a wet thunk.
The goblin shrieked and pulled.
So did the young man.
He wrenched the club back with all his strength, the dagger still lodged in it, then drove it down again and again until the goblin stopped moving.
His breathing came fast, but his grip did not shake.
Leopold glanced at the body, then at him. "Not bad, kid."
The young man allowed himself a brief smile. He did not pull the dagger free. Instead, he adjusted his grip and used it as part of the weapon, striking with sharper intent.
The battlefield dissolved into chaos.
Spells streaked overhead from both sides. Arrows fell like rain. Samantha moved like a shadow, weaving through the goblins, her blades carving clean paths through flesh.
Arnold batted orcs aside as if they were toys, crushing skulls with casual brutality.
Hevert cut his way forward, disciplined and relentless.
Peonome's golem rampaged through the enemy ranks, reducing formations to nothing but crushed bodies and screaming chaos.
Illumi's magic washed across the field in pulses of gold, mending wounds, dragging the dying back from the brink.
Still, it was not enough.
Too many slaves fell.
Too many screams ended too quickly.
The young man fought on, jaw set, eyes steady. Leopold stayed near him, always watching, always positioning, turning survival into something deliberate rather than desperate.
Behind them, the soldiers still held formation.
The cavalry remained motionless.
Leopold noticed—and his eyes hardened.
The ground shook again.
And this time, the goblin general moved. But did not charge.
Instead, it dropped to one knee.
The ground continued to shake, not from movement ahead, but from something deeper—heavier—approaching with slow, deliberate inevitability.
Leopold's breath caught. "No."
The young man followed his gaze.
The dust parted.
What emerged made the goblin general look small.
A towering goblin stepped into view, broader and taller than any creature on the field. Its armor was not scavenged but forged—polished copper plates etched with crude yet deliberate patterns, reflecting the dull light of the battlefield. A massive axe rested in its grip, the blade wide enough to split a man in half with a careless swing. Each step it took pressed the earth flat beneath it, as though the land itself yielded.
The goblin king.
Flanking him were two figures that radiated danger.
One was an orc draped in a brown, weathered cloak. Its face was hidden in shadow, but a red orb floated above its palm, pulsing softly, alive with malignant intent. The air around it warped faintly, as if reality itself was uneasy in its presence.
An orc warlock.
The other was larger still, bare-armed and scarred, dragging a jagged greatsword blackened with layers of dried blood. The weapon's edge seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. Each breath the orc took was slow, controlled, predatory.
An orc commander.
A hush fell over the battlefield—not silence, but a collective intake of breath.
Samantha whistled softly, rolling her shoulders. "Well," she said, a sharp grin cutting across her face. "Looks like the main act finally arrived."
Arnold chuckled, tightening his grip on the hammer. "About time."
Illumi's fingers tightened around her tome, knuckles whitening. Peonome's expression hardened, her brows drawn together as she measured the mana gathering around the newcomers.
Hevert remained perfectly still, his face unreadable.
Leopold, however, clicked his tongue in open irritation. "This is troublesome," he said, voice low but edged with urgency. "A goblin general, a goblin king, an orc commander, and an orc warlock. That's not a battlefield—that's a massacre waiting to happen."
The young man swallowed. "Can… can we win?"
Leopold didn't answer immediately. His eyes never left the enemy leaders. "Maybe," he said at last. "If everything goes right, and many people die." He glanced sideways at the young man. "But that's not why we're here."
The young man frowned. "Then why—"
"To escape," Leopold said simply.
Before the words could settle, a new sound rose behind them—disciplined, metallic, merciless.
The soldiers were moving.
Spears lowered in unison. Shields locked together. Archers and mages advanced behind them in perfect formation. They split into four groups, each one a moving wall of steel and intent.
Then they charged.
Not at the goblins.
At everything in front of them.