Arin stood still.
For once, not because he wanted to—but because there was nothing else to do.
The horn hadn't sounded yet.
And until it did, the entire battlefield was locked in that strange, suffocating silence that always came just before chaos.
He stood behind the captain of the First Battalion of Legion 23, his bow already in hand, fingers lightly resting against the string. Around him, his family waited in similar readiness.
No one joked.
Not this time.
In front of them stood the captain's personal guard.
Roughly a hundred men.
Not ordinary soldiers.
Former special forces.
Men who had once been assigned to protect high-ranking officers, now repurposed for something far more dangerous—breaking enemy lines.
A breachhead unit.
Arin's gaze drifted toward their leader.
The man was smiling.
Not nervously.
Not uncertainly.
But with genuine excitement.
A predator about to be unleashed.
"…Figures," Arin muttered under his breath.
Behind them stretched the rest of the battalion.
Thousands of soldiers, arranged in disciplined formation.
And yet—
The composition was… strange.
Seventy percent were warriors.
Twenty-five percent were archers.
And five percent were mages.
An odd distribution by any standard.
Especially when compared to humanity as a whole.
Arin exhaled slowly, his thoughts drifting—as they often did before battle.
Roughly thirty-five percent of humanity had chosen the warrior class.
Because who has not pictured themselves in a heroic last stand as a knight fighting against overwhelming odds?
Forty-five percent had chosen mage.
Because who wouldn't want to wield fire and lightning?
And then—
Archers.
A mere ten percent.
Because, as many had thought at the time, according to a study done later.
Why pick a bow when guns exist?
A decision many had come to regret.
Archers were rare.
Painfully so.
And that caused problems.
The high command wanted more of them—but at the same time, supplying the ones they had was already a logistical nightmare.
Arrows were easy to make.
Millions per day.
That wasn't the issue.
Transporting them?
That was hell.
Arin shifted slightly, adjusting the quiver at his side.
And then there were the mages.
A faint frown crossed his face.
Talent.
That was the problem.
Stats and skills alone didn't mean much.
Two people could have identical numbers—and yet be worlds apart in actual performance.
Arin had once heard it explained like this:
A marathon runner and a severely overweight man technically both had lungs.
But only one of them could run twenty kilometers without collapsing.
That was the difference.
And on the battlefield—
Only the talented ones mattered.
The rest?
They struggled.
Failed.
Or worse.
It had broken people.
Entire units.
Rumors even spoke of generals begging—literally begging—the System to allow class changes.
The System, of course, had ignored them.
Cold.
Uncaring.
Absolute.
Things had only improved slightly with the introduction of ritual magic tomes purchased at great cost, allowing less capable mages to act as mana batteries.
Support.
Fuel.
So that the truly capable could unleash devastation.
A necessary compromise.
But not a pleasant one.
Arin's gaze flickered toward the mages of Legion 23.
And something didn't add up.
These weren't weak mages.
They were talented.
Capable.
The kind who should be leading units elsewhere.
And yet—
They stayed.
They had refused transfers.
Refused promotions.
Because, as they put it—
Legion 23 was more fun.
And far more profitable.
"…Crazy," Arin murmured.
Not that he disagreed.
It was precisely that madness that made the legion what it was.
Feared.
Mocked.
Respected.
Left alone.
Even the European generals hesitated to push them too far.
Because controlling madmen?
Was harder than fighting goblins.
The horn sounded.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Final.
"Move!"
The world exploded into motion.
Arin ran.
The ground beneath his feet shifted from packed dirt to unstable, blood-soaked terrain—but he didn't slow.
Couldn't.
Above him—
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Massive spheres of mana tore through the air, streaking toward the goblin fortifications.
Arin's eyes narrowed.
That was… unusual.
Legion 23's mages weren't the type to play support.
And yet—
The answer came seconds later.
The mana struck.
And the earth itself exploded.
Dirt barricades shattered.
Wooden stakes snapped like twigs.
Entire sections of the goblin defenses collapsed inward, leaving gaping holes.
"…I see," Arin muttered.
Not support.
Precision destruction.
"Middle breach!" the captain roared. "That's ours!"
The pace increased.
Adrenaline surged.
"Archers—covering fire!"
A moment later—
The sky darkened.
The first volley of arrows rose like a black tide, blotting out what little light pierced the fog.
Then—
They fell.
A storm of steel.
Screams echoed from the goblin lines as the projectiles rained down, forcing them to duck, to hide, to hesitate.
"Ready!" Bertho shouted.
Arin didn't argue.
Didn't need to.
He followed.
The sharpshooters moved as one, climbing onto hastily constructed wooden platforms—two meters high, just enough to see over the broken barricades.
Arin stepped into position.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
A perfect target.
He ignored the thought.
Calmed his breathing.
Focused.
Below them, chaos erupted.
Goblins scrambled.
Some rushed to fill the breach.
Others used their fallen as shields—dragging bodies, piling them up, hiding behind flesh and bone.
"Cowards," someone muttered.
"No," Arin corrected quietly. "Smart."
His eyes sharpened.
Scanning.
Searching.
Not for numbers.
Not for targets.
For leaders.
Because killing ten goblins meant nothing.
Killing the one giving orders?
That mattered.
The second volley fell.
Perfect timing.
Distraction.
Opportunity.
Arin drew.
Held.
Released.
The arrow vanished.
A heartbeat later—
A goblin jerked violently, a shaft buried deep in its skull.
Not random.
Not luck.
A commander.
Before the body hit the ground—
Arin had already nocked another.
Around him, the others did the same.
Bolts and arrows flew with terrifying precision.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Key targets dropped in rapid succession.
Goblins who stood too still.
Who moved with purpose.
Who shouted instead of cowering.
Each one marked.
Each one was eliminated.
Below—
The captain surged forward.
His sword flashed.
The few goblins still standing in the breach didn't last long.
"Push in!" he roared.
The personal guard followed.
A hundred elite fighters are crashing into the gap like a hammer.
Behind them—
The formation split.
Like the sea parting.
Warriors surged through, flooding the opening.
The archers adjusted.
Maintained pressure.
Ensured no goblin could rise above the walls.
Arin fired again.
And again.
Each shot is deliberate.
Each target is chosen.
Evolved goblins.
Commanders.
Anything that looked even remotely dangerous.
Minutes passed.
Or seconds.
It was hard to tell.
But slowly—
The resistance faltered.
Then broke.
The goblins began to run.
Not all.
But enough.
"They're routing!" someone shouted.
Arin didn't relax.
Not yet.
Not until—
"…It's done," he said quietly.
The first hill—
Had fallen.
The breachhead was secured.
Casualties?
Minimal.
For Legion 23, at least.
The goblins had numbers—roughly a hundred thousand on this hill alone—but numbers meant little against a coordinated strike like this.
Especially when escape was allowed.
Because that had been intentional.
They hadn't encircled the hill.
They hadn't blocked retreat.
Because chasing a fleeing enemy—
It was easier than fighting one that was backed into a corner.
Arin lowered his bow slightly, exhaling.
But only slightly.
Because ahead—
There were more hills.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Each one is the same.
Each one is waiting.
"…This is going to take a while," Bertho muttered.
Arin nodded.
His gaze drifted into the distance.
Toward the next objective.
Toward the endless battlefield.
"…We got lucky," he said.
Not because they were better.
But because—
They had experience.
They had fought real battles.
Campaigns.
Not just skirmishes.
And that made all the difference.
"Wonder how the others are doing," Tom said.
Arin's lips curled slightly.
"The baby legions?" he said.
A pause.
Then—
"…Let's hope they survive long enough to learn."
Because out here—
Experience wasn't optional.
It was everything.