The thirteenth day commences under a canopy so dense it seems to choke the very oxygen from the air. Ancient, gnarled oaks and towering pines weave their branches into a suffocating ceiling, swallowing the morning light and leaving the forest floor in a state of eternal, damp twilight. The scent of decaying needles and wet moss is thick, sticking to the back of the throat like a physical weight.
Officer Aguilar rides at the head of the column, his golden armor polished to a blinding, mirror-like finish once more. He sits tall, his posture lacking the slumped misery of the previous days. In fact, he is unusually chill—disturbingly so. He hums a jaunty, archaic tune, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against the pommel of his saddle.
"Gather round, ye salt-stained wretches!" Aguilar calls out, his voice echoing through the claustrophobic trees with a vibrant, theatrical energy. "Today, we set aside the drudgery of the yard for a bit of sport. A moment of 'fun,' as thy kin might say in their clattering tongue!"
The Earthling teens exchange looks of pure, unadulterated dread.
"Fun? Last time he said something was fun, Leo almost lost a toe in a rock-breaking drill," Duno whispers, clutching his spear. "Look at his face. He looks like he just found a legendary loot box."
Aguilar halts his warhorse and turns to face them, a predatory, disturbingly cheerful grin splitting his face. "Know ye this: the task before us was not originally destined for thy trembling hands. Nay, it was a contract birthed for the newly formed Adventurers Guild of Heilop. A guild of 'heroes' and 'slayers'!" He spits the words as if they were poison. "But I, in my infinite wisdom and concern for thy growth, have... annexed the contract."
Dierk, his face a purple-and-yellow map of bruises from the previous night's goblin brawl, steps forward. He looks at the officer with a mixture of terror and genuine curiosity. "Wait... annexed? What did you do, like, outbid them? What does that even mean in this world?"
Aguilar lets out a hearty, booming chuckle that rattles the damp leaves. "Outbid? Nay, boy! I simply led a full canonneer company of the King's Third Battery to their front gates. I informed the Guild Master that unless the paperwork was surrendered with due haste, I would level their hall until not a single stone remained upon another. They proved... surprisingly agreeable to my terms."
A wave of low, frantic whispers ripples through the ranks.
"He literally swatted a hobbyist club with a tank division," Joon-soo mutters, rubbing his face. "That is such a toxic move. I'm actually impressed by the pettiness."
"Does he even realize how much of a villain arc he's on?" Wolfgang says, his eyes wide. He's already looking at the forest with a strange, manic glint. "Wait. Adventurers Guild? Like, actual quests? This is exactly like the sims! If we can just find a magic sword, I can finally start the Neo-Teutonic Roman Empire. I just need a base, some vassals, and maybe a cape."
Dierk, meanwhile, is staring into the dark woods, his edgy persona dialed up to eleven. "Adventurers, huh? I bet they have stealth builds. I need to find where they keep the daggers. Imagine the critical hit chance on those goblins."
Aguilar leans down from his saddle, his eyes shining with a malicious, infectious happiness. "Ye wonder at my joy? Know then, that the woman who spurned me—that crow who flew to the Duke's glittering tower—is a high-ranking matron of that very guild. And this mission? It was the primary charge of her younger brother. A boy of soft hands and loud boasts."
He claps his gauntlets together with a metallic clang. "By taking this contract, I have stripped that whelp of his coin, his glory, and his pride! He sits now in the dust of his guild hall, weeping while we do the work of 'heroes'!"
Jame, the reluctant giant, looks down at his boots, a flash of genuine sympathy crossing his face. "That's... that's actually really sad, man. The kid was just trying to do his job. You basically ruined his life because his sister broke up with you? That's some high-level emotional damage."
Aguilar's grin doesn't waver. He looks at Jame with a tilt of his head. "In the Mikhland Federation, Jame, pride is a currency more valuable than gold. And I am currently very, very wealthy."
Minh stands at the edge of the clearing, his expression dry and utterly unimpressed. He watches the officer's theatrical display of spite with a clinical eye. "I'm sure the kid is thrilled," Minh remarks, his voice dripping with irony. "A blatant display of military overreach just to settle a romantic grudge. Very professional. Very noble."
Joon-soo nudges Minh, his eyes fixed on the shadows between the trees. "Minh, focus. Did you hear what he said? Goblins. This world actually has goblins. The ones last night weren't a fluke. We're in a forest where things actually want to eat us."
"I know," Minh says, his hand tightening on the splintered wood of his spear. "The 'fun' part is that we're the ones who have to clear them out so Aguilar can feel better about his ex. We aren't adventurers, Joon-soo. We're the cleanup crew."
Duno is already spiraling into a fantasy, his hands moving as if he's casting spells. "Bro, if there's a Guild, there has to be a tavern. And if there's a tavern, there's lore. We need to find the main questline before Aguilar sends us into a boss fight we aren't leveled for."
"I'm telling you, it's about the Roman aesthetic," Wolfgang insists to anyone who will listen. "Legionnaire formations with matchlocks. We'll be unstoppable. I'll be the Kaiser of the Woods!"
Aguilar ignores their chatter, drawing his sword and pointing it into the thickest part of the dark forest. The steel glints even in the gloom.
"Enough of thy bickering! The trail of the green-skins starts here," Aguilar commands, his voice returning to its sharp, military edge. "Move! The Adventurers may have the titles, but ye have the training of the PCA! Show me that my 'annexation' was worth the powder!"
The Earthling teens begin to move, their boots sinking into the wet, rotting floor of the ancient forest. They walk in the synchronized rhythm Minh taught them, but their eyes are no longer just on the ground. They watch the shadows, the "Fresh" cards in their pockets feeling like heavy, useless relics of a world that didn't have monsters or vindictive officers.
The ancient forest of Mikhland is a cathedral of rot, its ceiling a tangled mess of interlocking branches that block out the sun, leaving the ground in a humid, perpetual twilight. The Earthling teens push through waist-high ferns and skeletal brambles, their boots squelching in the black, peaty soil. The air grows heavier, tainted now by the musky, rank odor of unwashed bodies and burnt fat—the unmistakable scent of a goblin encampment.
They reach a ridge overlooking a shallow depression. Below them lies a chaotic cluster of hide tents, bone totems draped in crow feathers, and pits of smoldering refuse. Goblins, their skin the color of stagnant pond water, scurry between the hovels, sharpening rusted shivs and bickering over scraps of carrion.
Officer Aguilar brings his warhorse to a halt, the animal's silver bards glinting with a dull, suppressed light. He adjusts his polished gauntlets, looking down at the encampment with the casual indifference of a gardener looking at a patch of weeds.
"Behold, ye wretched shards of the void!" Aguilar's voice is a low, vibrating rumble that seems to carry over the treetops. "The infestation awaits. Cleanse this blight from the King's woods. Slay every green-skinned cur that draws breath. In my boundless mercy, I shall permit thee to keep the entirety of the bounty for this nest—four whole silver coins!"
A ripple of desperate electricity runs through the group. Four silver coins. To kids who haven't seen a cent in nearly a fortnight, it sounds like a king's ransom.
"Four silver? Bro, I can finally buy some actual soap," Duno whispers, his eyes wide as he levels his spear. "Let's get it! Leeroy Jenkins!"
He begins to lunge forward, followed by Wolfgang and a dozen others, their wooden spears lowered in a clumsy, suicidal charge.
"HALT!" Minh's voice cuts through the air, not with the roar of an officer, but with the cold, sharp snap of a whip. It brings them to a grinding, stumbling stop.
"Are you actually trying to die?" Minh asks, his face a mask of pale, analytical focus. He doesn't look at Aguilar; he looks at the camp's narrow entrance and the towers where goblin archers are already reaching for their bows. "That's a kill-box. They'll funnel us in and poke us to death while we're tripping over their trash."
Wolfgang turns, his face flushed. "Minh, we have the numbers! We can just steamroll them!"
"No," Minh says, crouching low and pointing to the thick piles of dry, ancient leaf litter and fallen pine branches surrounding the camp. "We aren't going in. We're bringing the heat to them. Everyone, drop the spears. Gather every dry branch, every dead leaf, every scrap of timber you can find. Move!"
Under Minh's frantic direction, the unit shifts. The training of the last twelve days kicks in—not the bloodlust, but the synchronization. They move in silence, gathering massive mounds of skeletal brush. They pile the foliage against the camp's crude wooden walls, creating a thick, suffocating perimeter five meters deep.
Aguilar watches from his saddle, a smirk playing on his lips. "Mmm. The ant builds a pyre for the beetle. Proceed, little architect."
Once the ring is complete, Minh signals Joon-soo. "Light it."
Joon-soo strikes his flint. The dry leaves catch instantly. Within minutes, a wall of orange fire licks the sky, encircling the camp in a violent, uncontrollable hunger. The forest air fills with the acrid stench of burning hide. Then come the screams—high-pitched, manic screeching that vibrates with pure panic.
"Oh my god, it's working," Jame whispers, his massive frame silhouetted against the fire. He looks horrified yet mesmerized. "It's like a literal oven."
Goblins begin to burst through the wall of flame, their small bodies engulfed in fire. They stagger toward the treeline, only to find the Earthling teens waiting in a disciplined line.
"Front rank, ready!" Minh commands. "Fire!"
The matchlocks bark in a ragged, bone-shattering crack. The charging goblins are tossed backward by the lead balls, their screams cut short.
"Countermarch!" Minh shouts as the smoke begins to obscure the field.
The rhythm is relentless. The first row fires, then cycles to the back to reload with the twelve-step precision Aguilar had beaten into them. The second row steps forward. Click. Bang. The third row follows. It is a rolling wave of black powder and lead.
Suddenly, the flames part. A massive hobgoblin, its skin charred and its eyes bulging with rage, leaps over a burning log. Behind it, a shaman draped in skulls waves a staff of frosted bone, a blue light gathering at its tip to douse the fires.
"Dierk! Now!" Minh yells.
Dierk, who had disappeared into the shadows of a large oak before the fire started, suddenly lunges from the periphery. He moves with an edgy, clinical speed. With a grunt of pure exertion, he thrusts his termite-eaten spear through the shaman's chest. The wood groans, holding just long enough to extinguish the creature's life before snapping in two.
"L plus ratio, you feathered freak." Dierk mutters, dropping the broken shaft and vanishing back into the smoke as the hobgoblin is mowed down by a volley from the second rank.
The fire dies down into a smoldering, black ruin. The camp is silent, save for the crackle of burning bone.
"The nest is cold," Aguilar announces, trotting his horse into the center of the ash. "Loot every scrap of value from this filth. Whatever glitters belongs to thy pockets—after my cut, of course. Prepare the spoils for the Guild; I wish to see my 'brother-in-law's' face when we deliver the proof."
As the teens begin to pick through the charred remains, recovering rusted copper coins, jagged bits of obsidian, and a few pouches of "goblin spice," the adrenaline begins to fade into awe.
"Bro, Minh, that was actually insane," Duno says, wiping soot from his forehead. He looks at Minh with genuine reverence. "You're like, literal Sun Tzu. I'm not even kidding. Is this a Chinese thing? Are you secretly a grandmaster?"
Jame nods, leaning on a salvaged goblin mace. "For real. The tactics? The fire-ring? You have to be a strategy prodigy. It's definitely the heritage."
Joon-soo snorts, kicking a charred skull out of his way. "He's Korean, you idiots. But yeah, he's basically from the Sun Tzu DLC. Probably comes from a long line of generals in Guangdong or something."
Minh lets out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping as the "commander" mask slips. "I'm Vietnamese, you guys. Not Chinese. Not Korean. Vietnamese."
Duno and Jame exchange a look of profound, empty-headed confusion. Their faces are perfect masks of "American Education System" bewilderment.
"Vietnam?" Jame asks, scratching his head. "Is that, like... a South African nation? Near Cape Town?"
Joon-soo suddenly stops dead in his tracks, staring at them. "Are you guys actually serious? A South Africa nation? Are you... American? Please tell me you're American."
"Yeah, I'm from Ohio..." Jame says proudly.
"Florida, baby," Duno adds, flashing a soot-covered grin. "South Africa, East Asia, it's all the same hemisphere, right?"
Joon-soo throws his hands up in despair. "I can't. I literally can't. We are trapped in a fantasy world with people who can't read a map of their own planet. We are so cooked."
Wolfgang ignores the geographical debate, his eyes shining as he stacks a pile of rusted goblin breastplates. "It doesn't matter where we're from! With Minh's brain and my vision, we will rebuild the glory! A Neo-Teutonic Roman Empire! We shall have legions! We shall have eagles! We shall have... really cool capes with fur collars!"
Aguilar, hearing the word 'Empire,' lets out a boisterous laugh as he watches them bag the loot.
"Dream of thy empires, whelps!" Aguilar shouts, preening in his shimmering armor. "But know that today, thy glory is but a shadow of my own! I have claimed the contract, I have purged the woods, and I shall be the one to cast the shadow of my success over the Guildhall! Truly, I am a master of the art of war!"
Minh looks at his soot-stained hands, then at his bickering, confused, and delusional peers. He sighs again, picking up a single silver coin from the dirt. It's cold, heavy, and smells of smoke.
Minh mutters. "At least the silver is real."
The unit begins the long trek out of the smoldering woods, a ragtag group of "carcasses" who have just realized that while they might be slaves to a madman, they are, for the first time, a lethal one.
The village outskirts are a study in gray and brown, a collection of thatched hovels that seem to huddle together for warmth against the encroaching forest. As the column of Earthling teens marches through, the local peasants pause their tilling, leaning on rusted hoes to watch with suspicious, downcast eyes. The air smells of peat smoke and pig manure, a sharp contrast to the acrid sulfur that still clings to the teenagers' skin.
At the center of this squalor stands the Adventurers Guild—a small, unassuming wooden structure that looks more like a glorified tavern than a hall of heroes. Officer Aguilar doesn't knock; he kicks the double doors open with a crash that sends a cloud of dust dancing into the dim light of the interior.
"Behold, the fruits of true labor!" Aguilar's voice thunders, his golden armor catching the flickering light of the hearth. With a theatrical flourish, he heaves a blood-soaked sack onto the wooden counter. It lands with a wet, heavy thud, and several green, leathery goblin ears spill out alongside the charred Shaman's staff and a few dull, soot-covered gems.
The receptionist, a woman with deep bags under her eyes and a quill tucked behind her ear, flinches. She bows low, her voice a tired rasp. "The contract is verified, My Lord. Four silver for the cull... and eighteen for the spoils of the nest." She counts the coins out with trembling fingers, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence.
In a corner booth, a young boy no older than fifteen, dressed in pristine, un-scuffed leather armor, is sobbing into his sleeves. His gear is too clean, his spirit too fragile. Aguilar stalks over to him, his heavy boots clanking like a funeral bell. He towers over the boy, a cruel, mocking laugh bubbling up from his chest.
"Dost thou weep for thy lost glory, little lamb? Or is it the sting of poverty that makes thy salt-water flow so freely?" Aguilar sneers, leaning down so his polished visor reflects the boy's terrified face. "Thou art a shadow of a man, fit only to hunt rats in a cellar!"
A girl steps out from the back office, her movements fluid and graceful, though her face is set in a mask of simmering rage. She is the ex-girlfriend—the "crow" Aguilar. She ignores the gold and goes straight to the boy, placing a protective hand on his shoulder while her eyes lock onto Aguilar's with profound disgust.
"Thou art a coward, Aguilar," she spits, her voice cutting through the room like a shard of ice. "To use a company of the King's artillery to bully a child out of a contract... hast thou no scrap of honor left beneath that gilded shell?"
Aguilar scoffs, adjusting his golden breastplate with an arrogant swagger. "Honor? I seek only the best for the Conscript-Carcass unit of the Professional Central Army. Should I leave the safety of the realm to a babe who knows not which end of the blade to hold?" He gestures vaguely toward the Earthlings, his lip curling. "If thy brother truly possessed the heart of a lion, he would have charged into the fray like a real man to prove his mettle, instead of nursing a cup of tears in a common house!"
While the drama unfolds at the counter, the Earthlings have dispersed into the room like a pack of dazed ghosts. They don't look like seasoned veterans; they look like a group of sleep-deprived idiots who haven't showered in a week. Their hair is matted with soot, their eyes are bloodshot and wandering, and they move with a sluggish, dummy-like confusion.
Wolfgang has cornered the bewildered receptionist, his hands moving frantically as he sketches imaginary maps in the air. "You don't understand, if we implement the Testudo with matchlock support, the Teutonic Roman Empire will have its foundation right here in the sticks. We just need the Eagle standards and maybe some red capes. Do you have red cloth? No? What do you mean you don't know what a 'Roman' is? What do you mean you don't know what a 'Teutonic' is? It's literally the peak aesthetic!" The woman just stares at him, her face blank and uncomprehending.
Duno is leaning over a notice board, squinting at a scroll detailing guild welfare benefits. "Three days of sick leave? That's it? Bro, this guild is a total scam. No dental, no 401k, and the hazard pay is literally a joke. We're being exploited in two different dimensions at once. This is a human rights catastrophe."
Jame has wandered into the small armory room, staring with wide-eyed, slack-jawed curiosity at a massive broadsword on the wall. He reaches out to touch the crossguard but flinches back when a smith grunts at him. "Just... just looking, sir. It's a nice sword. Very... heavy. Probably great for not-dying."
Joon-soo is staring intensely at an abandoned adventurer ID card on a nearby table, his thumb tracing the magical seal with a vacant expression. "If I could just hack the sigil," he mutters, his brow furrowed in a way that looks more like a headache than a thought. "It's basically just a biometrically locked NFC tag. If I can spoof the mana signature, maybe I could get out of here. But the encryption is literal magic. I hate this server."
Minh stands alone in the center of the room, looking particularly dusty and hollow-eyed. He says nothing aloud.
(To be or not to be,) Minh thinks, his internal monologue a dark, swirling vortex. (Is it nobler to lead these idiots into a fire-pit just to see them survive another day, or is it better to let the machine crush us all now? I've become the architect of a slaughter. I turned a bunch of high schoolers into a clinical execution squad. Aguilar thinks I'm a genius, but I'm just a guy who remembers how to make a campfire. If I keep doing this, what's left of me when we actually get to a real war? Am I even Minh anymore, or just 'Carcass Number One'?)
Aguilar's voice snaps him back to reality. The officer points a gloved hand directly at Minh, boasting to the girl with a smug, theatrical flair.
"Behold this creature! This Earthling led the cull with a mind of cold steel! He did not weep; he calculated! He bade the others arrange the dry leaves to isolate the vermin, leaving but a single path for the slaughter! Not a single one of my slaves suffered so much as a scratch, while thy brother's 'contract' was turned to ash and victory!"
The girl stares at Minh, her eyes flickering with a moment of pity for the boy who looks like a soot-stained puppet. Aguilar lets out one last, animalistic grin, enjoying the girl's humiliation far more than the bag of silver at his hip.
"Come, ye shards! We have spent enough time in this nest of losers!"
He leads them out with an arrogant, swinging gait, the fading sunlight of the village casting their shadows into long, jagged spears against the dirt. The girl tries to comfort her broken brother, but the sight of Aguilar's retreating, golden back is a weight she cannot lift.
Day 14.
The air in the pentagonal fort is cold, the sky a flat, oppressive layer of gray clouds that hide the sun. The "batch" is being broken. They look like a collection of ragged dolls—dirty, exhausted, and barely functioning. The unity they found in the fire and smoke of the goblin camp is stripped away as guards begin to bark out reassignment orders.
"Minh, Joon-soo, Wolfgang—Heilop Northern Outpost!""Duno, Jame—Border Vanguard, Sector Four!"
The groups are being split, sent to different fronts across the palantine. They gather in the center of the yard for a final, whispered goodbye.
"Teutonic Empire is on hold, I guess," Wolfgang says, his voice sounding thin and scratchy. He reaches out and grips Minh's hand. The grip is shaky, his palm covered in grime. "Don't die, man. I need a Chancellor."
"I'm gonna try to find a way to file a complaint with the Federation," Duno mutters, staring blankly at the ground. "This assignment is mid. Totally mid."
Joon-soo looks at Minh, his face pale and smeared with dirt. "Fourteen days," he says quietly. "We've been awake for like, twelve of them. See you on the other side, Viet."
Minh nods, his eyes fixed on the gray horizon where the mission to Mikhland sits like a gathering storm. "Just stay in formation, Joon-soo. Remember the twelve steps."
There are no grand speeches. There is no music. Only the cold weight of the spear in their hands and the "Fresh" cards in their pockets—now grimy, folded, and meaningless. As the guards shove them in separate directions, their shadows stretch long across the dirt. They walk away from each other, turning from confused teenagers into expendable assets, disappearing into a future where the only certainty is the next command and the cold, metallic taste of war.