BANG!
The heavy oak doors burst open so violently that they slammed against the stone walls with a thunderous crack.
"Right, you lazy bastards!" Marshal Herman roared as he strode into the room. "I've got a problem, and I need your help!"
The sudden intrusion startled half the room awake.
Several figures jerked upright from couches and worn armchairs, blinking groggily as they tried to understand what had just happened. A few others simply stared in annoyed silence, clearly unimpressed by the dramatic entrance.
At first glance, the place looked less like the most powerful intellectual institution in Europe and more like a retirement home.
Grey-haired men and women lounged around the spacious chamber. Some dozed on sofas. Others leaned back in comfortable chairs with blankets draped over their knees.
In one corner, a small group stood gathered around a chessboard, watching an intense match.
The two players were an elderly man with silver hair and a long beard—who, even with humanity's extended lifespan, looked well past eighty—and a woman who appeared slightly younger. Though she still had dark hair, her posture had begun to shrink with age, and she radiated the gentle aura of a kind grandmother.
And yet…
Anyone familiar with the European Union's inner workings would know better than to underestimate the people in this room.
These were the minds that shaped continental strategy.
Presidents and prime ministers themselves behaved like respectful students upon entering this chamber.
Here, titles meant little.
Only brilliance mattered.
The old man studying the chessboard moved a piece calmly.
"Checkmate."
The woman blinked, then leaned back with a soft sigh.
"Well played, Barent."
Only then did the old man glance up at the intruder.
"Ah, Herman."
He smiled faintly.
"Still angry that you're stuck dealing with those brats while we enjoy our retirement?"
Herman snorted.
"I'm perfectly happy stretching my old bones," he replied dryly. "In fact, it was necessary."
He crossed his arms and glared.
"But I'll get you back for pushing me into this role, Barent."
The old strategist chuckled.
"Haha! You were still wearing diapers when I was already leading troops."
He waved dismissively.
"Go ahead. Try."
The room remained quiet.
Even the other giants of academia and strategy who were present showed clear respect for the old man.
Barent was a legend.
Only Herman spoke to him so casually.
But after a moment, Barent's eyes sharpened.
"If you're here," he said calmly, "then the problem must be serious."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Otherwise, you wouldn't bother disturbing a group of retired fossils."
That single remark shifted the atmosphere.
The sleepy, relaxed mood vanished.
One by one, the room's occupants straightened.
Dozens of sharp gazes turned toward Herman.
Their attention felt almost physical.
Herman ignored them.
Instead, he walked calmly toward an empty armchair and dropped into it with a long sigh.
His aide, who had followed him inside, looked like he might faint.
The poor man had nearly collapsed when Herman burst through the doors.
Now he stood frozen as the combined attention of Europe's greatest minds fell upon him.
Herman rubbed his temples.
"That's better."
He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he spoke.
"We received a message from the front lines."
Silence fell over the room.
"They're dealing with something called blood fog."
A few eyebrows lifted.
Herman continued.
"It's so thick they can't see more than ten meters."
Now several people sat upright.
"And because of that," Herman added grimly, "about a quarter of an entire legion is currently ineffective. They can't even see where the frontline is."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then several jaws dropped.
"That," someone muttered, "is quite the problem."
A man lying lazily across a couch suddenly spoke up.
His voice carried a heavy German accent.
"That also means reinforcements for line breaks will arrive late."
He slowly sat upright.
"Yes… that is quite the problem you've brought us, Herman."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Retreating is not an option either."
He gestured vaguely.
"If they fall back, they lose the ability to deploy more troops through the choke points."
The room grew quiet again.
Everyone began thinking.
Five minutes passed in silence.
Then suddenly, a woman sitting near the back frowned.
Barent noticed immediately.
"Fleur."
She looked up.
"Yes?"
"You have something to say?"
The old strategist smiled kindly.
"Don't worry. We won't laugh."
He waved a hand.
"I know this isn't your field of expertise, but all ideas are welcome."
Fleur hesitated.
Then she nodded.
"Well… I do have a question."
The room listened.
"Where are the bodies?"
A few people blinked.
Fleur continued.
"I've read earlier reports mentioning problems with corpses piling up on the battlefield."
She tapped her fingers thoughtfully.
"But this report only talks about blood mist."
Her brow furrowed.
"If the mist comes from the blood…"
"Then where did the bodies go?"
The room went still.
Because she was right.
If the battlefield contained enough blood to create a fog…
Then the corpses should be creating even bigger problems.
Especially in battles of this scale.
Herman frowned.
"I don't know."
He turned toward his aide.
"It wasn't mentioned in the report."
He waved toward the door.
"Send a message back asking for details."
The aide nearly tripped over himself rushing out of the room.
Herman leaned forward.
"Now then."
He clasped his hands together.
"Let's figure out how to deal with this blood mist."
Around him, the European think tank began working.
Ideas, theories, and calculations started flying across the room.
Meanwhile…
Back on the battlefield…
Commander Eloi stared at the newly arrived message.
Central Command was asking for additional information.
Specifically about the bodies.
He sighed.
"Figures."
Even standing in the supply area behind the lines, he could barely see anything through the cursed fog.
"Does anyone know where the bodies went?" he asked aloud.
Several officers looked at each other Bewildered.
Then one of his aides raised a trembling hand.
"I do, sir."
Eloi turned.
"Well?"
The young man swallowed nervously.
"We're standing on them."
Silence followed.
"I estimate the battlefield has risen at least ten meters," the aide continued shakily.
"Maybe more in some places."
Eloi blinked.
The aide looked pale just saying it.
Ten meters.
That meant the entire valley floor was now layered with corpses.
Thousands upon thousands of bodies stacked upon each other.
Eloi sighed slowly.
"Oh."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"If I remember correctly… you've never fought goblins before."
The aide shook his head.
"No, sir."
"That explains it."
Eloi gave a tired smile.
"Of course you'd notice something like that."
He turned toward the communication tower operators.
"Send that information back to Central Command."
Then he added quietly:
"And include my apologies for not noticing earlier."
He chuckled grimly.
"Seems I've become desensitized to death."
He looked down.
Even now, he was standing on corpses.
Yet the thought barely bothered him anymore.
Once upon a time…
Even a single death had weighed heavily on his conscience.
Now?
He could climb over mountains of bodies without hesitation.
Eloi stared into the red fog.
"…We're going to need more researchers studying this."
The thought came unbidden.
Because if this continued…
He feared something far worse than defeat.
He feared losing his humanity.