"Come on, it's almost closed—keep going!" Herman's voice tore through the chaos, amplified by his helmet as he drove his blade through yet another goblin. His arms felt like lead, every swing slower than the last, yet he forced himself forward, carving a path through the press of bodies. "Damn it… I miss being an armchair general," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bitterness in it—only exhaustion. Around him, soldiers roared in agreement, their voices ragged, as another volley of mana bolts streaked overhead and slammed into the writhing mass that buried the portal.
The explosion tore a temporary gap in the mountain of flesh, and for a brief moment, the portal shimmered into view, flickering as if struggling to exist under the pressure. A handful of soldiers—no more than ten—charged forward and disappeared into its light before the gap collapsed again. A fresh wave of goblins surged out, shrieking, forcing the human line to give ground. Still, the portal shrank, its diameter reduced by another ten meters. Progress. Painfully slow, but real.
"One more push!" Herman shouted, raising his sword again even as his lungs burned for air. "One more time and we go home!" His voice cracked, but the promise carried through the ranks. Nearby, other marshals echoed the call, their own voices hoarse yet unwavering. There was no choice but to fight alongside their troops now. Commanding from the rear had long since become impossible—not just tactically, but politically.
In these conditions, any leader who stayed behind risked losing everything. Respect was earned in blood now, not rank. Soldiers who saw their commanders resting while they bled would not forgive it. Revolt would not come with banners and speeches, but with quiet disobedience and selective hearing. Orders would be ignored, then forgotten entirely. Herman understood that better than most, which was why he stood here, knee-deep in corpses, fighting like any other man.
It had not been the case everywhere. In many nations, high-ranking officers had chosen comfort over duty, retreating to safe headquarters far from the front. Some had even withdrawn to the heartland, clinging to their authority while trying to extend emergency powers and tighten their grip on government. On paper, they still held command. In reality, their influence had evaporated the moment they left the battlefield.
Out here, power belonged to those who endured. The generals who had been sent forward—often as punishment postings—had become the true leaders of humanity's war effort. They were not chosen for connections or politics, but because they could survive. They adapted, they listened, and they fought. Orders from afar were filtered, adjusted, or ignored entirely if they did not match the reality of the battlefield.
Herman and the other marshals had recognized this shift early. Instead of resisting it, they embraced it. They met with these frontline generals, spoke with them as equals, and encouraged them to take ownership of their commands. Loyalty, however, was still essential. Messages were sent back to their respective governments, urging them to recognize these men formally, to promote them and secure their allegiance.
The response had been immediate. Political leaders, once disconnected from the war, suddenly saw an opportunity. Competent, battle-proven commanders who could stabilize both the military and the state were a rare commodity. Smiles spread in quiet rooms far from the front as promotions were approved and power quietly reshaped itself.
Herman cut another goblin down, barely registering the motion anymore. His thoughts drifted even as his body continued to fight. Around the portal, the situation remained dire. The only effective tactic was relentless bombardment. Mana volleys blasted into the portal itself, disrupting the flow of incoming goblins and buying precious seconds. Without that, the endless tide would have overwhelmed them long ago.
"New sword!" Herman barked suddenly, stepping back as his blade finally gave way, its edge too worn to cut effectively. Instantly, one of his personal guards stepped forward, filling the gap without hesitation. Like Herman, the guard wore full knight armor that was handcrafted—an extravagant display but a practical necessity. Every inch of their bodies was protected, allowing them to stand against the goblins far longer than ordinary soldiers.
A fresh weapon was placed into Herman's hand. He barely glanced at it before lifting his visor and taking a quick sip of water. The liquid tasted stale, but it was enough to keep him moving. As he lowered the visor again, another volley of magic tore into the goblin mass, blasting it apart with brutal efficiency.
This time, the opening was larger. Soldiers surged forward, desperation driving them beyond reason. They threw themselves toward the portal, some literally pushing others ahead in their frantic need to finish the fight. It was no longer orderly. It was survival, pure and simple.
Herman watched as the portal flickered violently, its edges collapsing inward. For a moment, he didn't dare believe it. After everything—the endless waves, the exhaustion, the deaths—it felt unreal. And then, with a final pulse of light, it began to close.
The realization hit him slowly, like a distant echo finally reaching his ears. They had done it.
Before he could fully process the thought, a voice resonated through his mind. It was vast, calm, and utterly undeniable.
Humanity had won the first trial.
The words seemed to reverberate through his entire being, but Herman barely grasped their meaning. Fragments of additional information followed—something about qualification, about rewards, about a return—but his thoughts slipped away, dulled by exhaustion. The only thing he truly understood was that it was over.
A strange light enveloped him, soft and distant. His grip on his sword loosened as the battlefield faded from view. For the first time in days, his body stopped moving.
When the light cleared, he found himself back in the heartland.
Or rather, he would have, if he had been awake to see it.
Across a vast expanse outside the resurrection building, nearly two billion humans lay scattered in tangled heaps. Soldiers, officers, commanders—there was no distinction anymore. They lay where they had appeared, armor still on, weapons still in hand, their bodies simply giving out all at once.
Herman was among them, sprawled on the ground, breathing slow and steady. He did not stir. None of them did.
When the media and political leaders arrived, expecting triumphant speeches and heroic receptions, they were met with silence. The sight before them was not one of celebration, but of collapse. An entire army, victorious yet utterly spent, had fallen asleep where they stood.
At first, there was confusion. Then concern. And finally, understanding.
Medical teams were hastily assembled, makeshift hospitals erected on the spot. The scale of the situation was overwhelming. Many of the soldiers bore wounds that should have been fatal—severe internal injuries, massive blood loss, infections that had long since taken hold. That they were still alive at all was a testament to sheer willpower.
The reports came quickly, and they painted a grim picture. These men and women had not simply fought. They had endured something far beyond conventional war. The officials who read those reports could only shake their heads in quiet disbelief.
There would be no punishment for missed ceremonies, no reprimands for lack of discipline. Such thoughts felt trivial in the face of what had been achieved. Instead, there was only a quiet, shared recognition. These soldiers had carried humanity through its trial.
And now, they needed rest.
Elsewhere in the heartland, efforts were already underway to prepare for what came next. The temporary structures—hastily built homes and facilities—were being dismantled. Signs of decay had begun to appear in them, subtle but unmistakable. The environment itself was changing, influenced by forces no one fully understood.
There was no time to waste. The system had given them twenty-four hours to leave the heartland in whatever state they desired. It was both a gift and a warning.
But for now, none of that mattered to Herman or the billions like him. They slept through it all, their bodies finally reclaiming what had been denied for so long.
For the first time since the trial began, there was silence.
And in that silence, humanity rested.