Harold didn't hear the screams anymore.
Didn't see the chaos at the flanks or the trolls tearing through lines of panicking adventurers. He didn't even see his own bodyguards beside him.
There was only the path ahead.
And Sarah — somewhere beyond his line, locked in a losing struggle against one of the trolls. He'd seen her dart under its guard, watched her blade bite nothing but thick hide. Then the troll's hammer-like hand came crashing toward her team, and Harold moved.
But the goblin commander stepped in his way.
Six feet of scarred muscle and scale-patched armor. Red paint flaking off his shoulders. A twisted iron warhammer in his hands, long enough to crush a man from four feet out. His yellow eyes locked on Harold, glinting with a cruel intelligence. Without a word, he raised the hammer. Across his chest, a necklace of human teeth, trophies of past victories, lent an unsettling air of menace to the goblin commander.
Harold raised his shield.
The first swing came like a storm.
Harold barely got the shield up in time. Wood cracked. The impact shoved him two steps back and almost to a knee. He didn't even try to counter — just recovered, shield still up.
The goblin didn't pause.
The goblin didn't pause. It surged forward, hammer coming low this time, aiming to sweep Harold's legs out from under him. Harold blocked. Not cleanly, just enough not to die. The weight behind the strike was monstrous. His arm screamed in pain; he felt something pop in his shoulder. The goblin kept the hammer moving. Swing after relentless swing, forcing Harold to dodge, to block.
He gritted his teeth and stayed on his feet, moving around the goblin.
His sword flicked out — fast and low — aiming for the side. Mana coated the blade, but it scratched armor, nothing more—a wasted effort.
The goblin commander snarled and slammed the hammer down from above.
Harold twisted his body and threw himself sideways—a desperate sidestep. The hammer crushed the earth where he'd been. Dirt exploded upward. The shockwave rattled his teeth.
"Well, shit, clean hit from that and I'm finished," Harold thought to himself.
He fought with no form. No finesse. No duelist's poise or balance. He barely had any real duels under his belt. The only thing keeping him alive was that he could move fast enough. His mana and this strange Mana body fueled him, keeping him moving. Each surge of mana through him left a trail of icy shards under his skin, a cold fire that pricked his nerves and quivered through his muscles. His ears rang as if a distant bell tolled with each pulse, a relentless reminder of the cost for every second of unnatural speed.
Every move was reactive — a shield lift, a dodge, a wild slash when space allowed. He stayed alive by keeping his feet and not trying to match strength.
He couldn't. Even with the mana running through and reinforcing his body, that hammer would still crush and break.
The hammer came again, aiming high this time, a shoulder-breaking arc. As Harold met it with the shield and dropped to a knee, a brief thought flashed through his mind: 'What if this is the end?' The force rolled through his spine, shattering the shield and leaving his arm numb. He staggered back, blinking blood from his eyes, his grip on the sword loosening, breath coming in gasps.
The goblin didn't laugh. Didn't gloat. He snarled at him and kept coming.
Harold burned mana like water.
He had to, not as a flashy skill or technique — to keep moving. To reinforce muscles that were giving out, to brace bones that were on the verge of snapping, and he was running out. He couldn't afford to keep his sword lit constantly anymore. He had enough for one or two good hits. The goblin swung wide.
Harold dropped low and shoved up with the remains of his broken, shattered shield — it was off balance and awkward. But with the mana reinforcing and strengthening him. It worked. The goblin stepped back half a pace.
Harold used it.
He lunged, the blade flashing up, managing to score a shallow cut across the creature's chest right under the collarbone where the armor dipped. Sparks erupted as the blade skimmed past, and a grunt escaped the goblin's lips, momentarily throwing it off balance with surprise. But it recovered quickly, more annoyed than hurt, and brought the hammer around in a tight hook, its eyes glinting with renewed malice.
Harold jumped backward — completely lost his form — just hurling his body away from the strike. The hammer still caught the edge of his greave, spinning him sideways. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and came up wheezing.
He tossed the remains of the shield from him. He gripped the sword two-handed now.
The only chance he had was speed to get into his guard while he swung the heavy hammer.
The goblin commander didn't slow.
It stomped forward — now without hesitation. It had seen enough. Knew Harold was tiring. One more clean blow and it would be over.
Harold ducked another swing and spun closer, trying to get as much momentum as he could. The clang of the goblin's hammer against the earth roared in his ears as he felt the air shear past his head. The scent of churned soil and sweat grounded him amidst the violence. He slashed desperately, aiming for the exposed thigh.
The blade cut deep but stopped on something. The goblin stumbled.
Only for a second — but Harold didn't waste it. He dove forward, blade up, and drove it into the goblin's side. It howled — a horrible, jagged sound — and smashed its elbow into Harold's face.
White light and pain. But pain was an old friend. It had existed with him for years. There was a point in his life when he spent years constantly bleeding out onto the floor. What was one elbow to the face?
Harold reeled. Half-blind. One eye is swelling shut.
But he kept the sword in his hand.
The goblin turned, warhammer rising again.
Harold could barely see it — just the shape of death coming down.
Harold's mind flashed back to a talk he had at the Landing with Hale, who said, 'In the face of overwhelming might, sometimes the best weapon is your own unpredictability.' It wasn't just desperation that drove him to act, but an instinctive decision grounded in those words. So, he threw the sword with all the force he could muster with his mana-reinforced body. It hit hard first, but the force snapped the goblin's head back. It screamed again, this time.
And Harold charged. No weapon, just pure rage for the beast in front of him.
He hit the goblin like a battering ram, shoulder slamming into its chest, hands grabbing for the dagger at its belt. He tore it free and drove it up under the jaw, through the soft part where armor couldn't reach.
The goblin convulsed.
Tried to lift the hammer again — but Harold kept pushing. He shoved it back, slammed it into the burning remains of a wagon, and drove the dagger home one more time, then again, and again.
The goblin commander sagged. Then fell.
Harold collapsed on top of it, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.
He didn't know how long he lay there — just that the danger was over.
Boots slammed into the earth beside him.
Rough hands rolled Harold onto his back — gauntlets fumbling at his collar, one of them already uncorking a potion.
"Stay with me! Drink this, my Lord!"
The voice was urgent and familiar.
It was one of the bodyguards — one of the two who had been with him since the beginning. Since that day, he first learned to control his mana with firm will and to use his body as a potion ingredient.
He pressed the vial to Harold's lips and tipped it gently.
The potion hit like a swallowed explosion. Sweet and metallic, burning through his chest and throat before spreading outward. His ribs shifted painfully as muscle knotted back together. The swelling in his face eased just enough for both eyes to open again. This was one of the stronger ones he made, utilizing a rare ingredient: the emerald gum of the Eldergrove Tree.
His breath rasped once, then steadied.
Above him, the smoke was thinning, and the battle had ended.
Where chaos had ruled only moments ago — trolls roaring, adventurers screaming, lines collapsing — now stood the Centuries. Shields bloodied. Swords and spears are slick. The goblin swarm was broken.
The banner still stood — planted into the churned soil just behind Harold, tilted slightly, its edges scorched.
The trolls lay still, one missing an arm and the other half-consumed by fire. A dozen legionaries surged to where the creatures had fallen, torches raised high, thrusting their weapons defiantly through the smoke. They rallied with a ferocity only seen at moments of desperation, forming a wall that pushed back against the remnants of the goblin horde. The disciplined ranks of soldiers moved as one, spears and shields a synchronized tide that rolled across the battlefield. As the sound of steel meeting flesh echoed through the air, they overwhelmed the hobgoblin stragglers. Seeing the strength of their resolve kindle anew, it was then that the tide turned.
They had seen the banner raised, and their Lord fighting for his life — and in that moment, the Centuries surged unlike anything Harold had commanded before.
His second bodyguard crouched low, breathing hard. "They swept the field the moment they saw you stand alone. Cleared around the flanks and killed the rest of the force. The trolls are dead. We lost some of the supply, but we held most of it."
Another hand gripped Harold's forearm.
The banner carrier, helm lost, face streaked with soot and sweat. "We thought—" he stopped himself, then grinned like a man just pulled from a pit. "But you're not dead."
Harold let them pull him to his feet.
As he stood, a wave of cheers erupted, but one distinct voice rose above the rest. It was Mark, a young recruit Harold had spent hours training alongside, now with a bandage wrapped around his brow and a fierce light in his eyes. "Vivat Imperium!" Mark's voice cracked with emotion.
At first, scattered — one voice shouting "Vivat Imperium!" from the left flank. Then another. Then more.
Dozens of legionaries raised their blades and shields, the cry rippling down the line until it became a roar:
"VIVAT IMPERIUM! VIVAT IMPERIUM!"
Harold didn't raise a hand. He didn't speak. He just stood there, breathing, the dagger still clutched in one hand, the blood of the goblin commander drying on his armor.
Past the noise and the smoke, he saw Sarah standing over the body of a troll, shouting with the rest of them.