They went in smiling.
That alone would have been enough for outsiders to call them mad.
Legion 23—laughing, joking, placing bets even as they marched straight into a blood-soaked battlefield—looked less like soldiers and more like gamblers chasing their next high.
But reality had a way of correcting attitudes.
And it did so brutally.
The moment they broke through the thick curtain of fog, their enthusiasm faltered.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Because what awaited them beyond was not a battlefield.
It was something far worse.
"…Ah."
Even Bertho, who rarely lost his composure, fell silent for a moment.
Before them stretched an endless red expanse.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
A wall of crimson—thick, suffocating, and nauseating—spread across the land. The ground itself had ceased to exist in any meaningful sense. Instead, there were bodies.
Countless bodies.
Most were goblins, their green skin bloated and discolored, twisted into grotesque shapes by death and decay.
But not all.
Here and there, human corpses drifted among them—armor shattered, limbs missing, faces frozen in expressions that no one wanted to look at for too long.
And cutting through it all—
A river.
A violently rushing, churning river of blood.
It carved its way through the field of corpses like a living thing, dragging with it swollen flesh, broken bones, and unidentifiable fragments that had long since lost any resemblance to what they once were.
The stench hit next.
Rot.
Iron.
Something far worse.
"…Would not recommend," Tom muttered weakly.
No one laughed this time.
The advance slowed.
Then slowed further.
Until what had once been a charge became more of a crawl.
"Careful!" someone shouted.
Too late.
A soldier ahead stepped into what looked like a shallow pool—only for the surface to give way beneath him. The blood swallowed him whole, pulling him under in an instant.
There was no scream.
No struggle.
Just silence.
"…Right," Bertho said hoarsely. "Watch your step."
That became the unspoken rule.
Every step was tested.
Every foothold questioned.
Arin moved carefully, his expression calm—but his eyes sharp. When a swollen goblin corpse blocked his path, he stepped onto it without hesitation.
It burst beneath his weight.
The sound was wet. The sensation worsens.
But it held.
"A solid foothold," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Disgust had long since become irrelevant.
Around them, soldiers began marking safer paths, calling out warnings, guiding others across the shifting terrain.
Still, it wasn't enough.
More disappeared.
Pulled under by deceptively calm surfaces. Dragged into unseen depths.
It was as if the battlefield itself was alive—and hungry.
"I'm starting to think," Tom said quietly, his usual humor stripped away, "that even hell wouldn't allow something like this."
No one argued.
Even the most devout among them remained silent.
Because this?
This was not divine punishment.
This was a human blender.
And they had no choice but to cross it.
An hour passed.
Or something close to it.
Time had lost meaning somewhere between the first sinking body and the hundredth.
But eventually—
The fog began to thin.
Shapes emerged.
Contours sharpened.
And at last, they could see beyond the valley of corpses.
"Well," Bertho said, squinting into the distance. "What a disaster."
"Oh?" Arin replied, not looking up. "I've been focusing on not dying. What did you see?"
Another step.
Another corpse burst beneath his foot.
Another stable foothold.
"See for yourself," Bertho said, pointing ahead.
Arin followed his gaze.
Then—
His eyes sharpened.
A faint glow flickered within them as he activated his skill.
Archer's Eye.
The world snapped into focus.
Distance collapsed.
Details surged forward.
And what he saw—
"…Ah."
The word escaped him before he could stop it.
Endless hills.
Rolling, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Beautiful.
Almost peaceful.
Like something out of a fairy tale.
And completely, utterly wrong.
Because each hill—
Every single one—
Was occupied.
Goblins.
Thousands of them.
No—tens of thousands.
Perhaps more.
And they weren't idle.
They had built.
Crude defenses, yes—but defenses nonetheless.
Dirt mounds. Sharpened stakes. Layered positions.
Nothing sophisticated.
Nothing elegant.
But effective.
Because there weren't just one or two hills.
There were hundreds.
Each one is a fortress.
Each one a thorn.
Each one something that had to be taken—or risk leaving enemies along their supply lines.
"…That's going to take a while," Arin said flatly.
In the distance, shouting erupted.
Loud.
Angry.
Arin didn't need to look to know who it was.
Eloi had seen it too.
And judging by the intensity of the yelling—
"…Grandpa got to him," Arin muttered with a faint smile.
"How did we not see this before?" Tom asked, stepping out of the thinning fog.
Arin shrugged.
"Maybe it wasn't there," he said. "It's been a month since we broke through their lines."
A month.
Plenty of time to prepare.
"…Right," Bertho said, exhaling. "Let's head to the commander."
A pause.
"I have a feeling we're about to get very busy."
At the top of the valley, just before the land sloped downward into those deceptively peaceful hills, a temporary headquarters had been established.
Five legions.
One command point.
Controlled chaos.
"Alright," Eloi said, standing over a rough map.
His voice carried.
"What stands before us is simple."
No one believed that.
"We take fortified positions," he continued. "Repeatedly."
A few commanders exchanged glances.
Simple.
Right.
"These defenses are crude," Eloi went on. "Thrown together in the last three months. Maybe less. Once we breach one, we push through to the next."
He paused.
Then—
"We use World War I tactics."
That got their attention.
"Shell the positions," he said. "Relentlessly. Don't let them raise their heads. Snipers pick off anything that moves. Then our best fighters establish a breach."
His gaze hardened.
"And once that breach exists—we flood it."
Silence.
"Does anyone have a better idea?"
No one spoke.
Because there wasn't one.
"…How many hills?" one commander asked cautiously.
Eloi didn't hesitate.
"Each legion takes ten."
A ripple of tension spread.
"That's… a lot," someone muttered.
"Yes," Eloi agreed. "It is."
He rubbed his brow.
"This will take days."
Maybe longer.
"Move out," he ordered.
And just like that—
The meeting ended.
As the commanders dispersed to organize their forces, Eloi remained where he was.
Staring at the horizon.
The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the hills in gold.
It would have been beautiful.
If not for what lay upon them.
"I'll need your family," he said suddenly.
The attendants nearby blinked.
"…Sir?"
Eloi didn't look at them.
"Bridgehead," he continued. "The mages can break the walls—but I trust your archers more to keep the goblins from peeking over."
Silence.
Confusion.
Because—
Who was he talking to?
"Good," a voice replied.
Calm.
Casual.
Too close.
"I'll assign ten to each captain."
The attendants jumped.
A man stood beneath the tree at the edge of the command post.
No—
He had always been there.
Blended into the shadows.
Karl.
Before anyone could react—
He was gone.
Just like that.
Eloi smiled faintly.
The attendants looked significantly less composed.
"…Right," Eloi muttered.
He exhaled slowly.
Then straightened.
"Let's get to work," he said.
But his thoughts lingered.
Back to the report.
Back to the theory.
The one proposed by those "old goats" in the think tank.
A ridiculous idea.
A horrifying one.
Something they could only confirm if they pushed the goblins back into their staging area.