BOOM.
The explosion rolled across the hills like distant thunder, sending dirt and fragments of crude fortifications high into the air. For a moment, everything stilled—then the debris settled back onto the already ravaged landscape.
"…That should be the last one, right?" Arin asked, lowering his bow slightly.
He stood atop what used to be a hastily assembled platform. A week ago, it had been nothing more than uneven planks nailed together in desperation, barely high enough to see over the goblin defences. Now, however, it had been reinforced into something far more reliable. Thick wooden beams supported it, partial cover had been added to shield against incoming attacks, and narrow slits allowed archers to fire while minimizing exposure. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to survive the increasingly dangerous counterattacks.
Beside him, Bertho rested his arms casually on the wooden barricade, scanning the battlefield below. "…Yeah," he said after a moment. "I think that was the last one." He let out a long breath, shaking his head in disbelief. "I still can't believe they managed all this in a month."
Arin followed his gaze. Below them lay yet another captured hill, its defenses shattered, its goblin occupants either dead or fleeing. "…With that many goblins?" Arin replied. "It's not that surprising." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the horizon. "The real question is how many more we have left."
Bertho frowned. "Before we can finally move forward, you mean?"
Arin nodded slowly. "According to the map Grandpa saw, we should be near the edge of this region." That should have been reassuring. It wasn't. "Which means we can expect even more resistance soon," he added. "And smarter resistance."
Bertho grimaced. "Don't remind me of those tunnels," he muttered. "I hate those things."
He wasn't alone. The tunnels had become the most frustrating part of the campaign. Hidden beneath the hills, they connected positions in ways that made every advance uncertain. A hill that seemed secured could suddenly erupt with enemies again. A safe rear could turn into a battlefield without warning. There was no such thing as a fully cleared position anymore.
"…Do you really think the generals didn't consider this?" Bertho asked after a while. "That these hills could be used like this?"
Arin tilted his head slightly. "Honestly? I don't know. But probably not." Seeing Bertho's expression, he continued, "They've never seen goblins like this—not up close. Maybe they studied one or two after capture, poked them with a stick, wrote reports. But that's not the same as fighting them."
He glanced back toward the battlefield, where soldiers moved among the remains of the latest assault. "It's easy to read numbers on paper. Harder to imagine what hundreds of thousands of creatures can do to a landscape when they work together. And even harder to believe they're smart enough to do it intentionally."
The past week had proven exactly that.
The first four days had gone smoothly—almost suspiciously so. Hill after hill had fallen with minimal resistance, just like the first. Losses were low, coordination was high, and with more legions joining the offensive, the pace had only accelerated. Legion 23 alone had taken thirty hills in those four days. It had felt like momentum was firmly on their side.
Until they reached hill thirty-one.
"That was a mess," Bertho muttered.
Arin nodded. The memory was still fresh. The defences there had been different—stronger, more organized. There had been a proper moat, compacted walls that didn't collapse under a single magical strike, and layered defences that forced them to slow down. That alone should have been warning enough.
Then the goblins charged.
Not just from the front, but from every direction. They poured out of the fortifications in waves, targeting the archers directly. At the same time, more goblins emerged from tunnels behind them, flooding out of previously captured hills. What had started as a controlled assault quickly devolved into chaos. They had been surrounded, cut off, and forced to fight against an endless stream of reinforcements.
"We got lucky," Bertho said quietly.
Arin didn't disagree. Another experienced legion had been stationed behind them, allowing for rapid rotation of troops. Fresh soldiers replaced exhausted ones, stabilizing the situation long enough for them to push through. Losses had been heavy, but not catastrophic. It had been the surprise more than the strength of the goblins that nearly broke them.
After that, things only got worse.
The goblins adapted. They stopped charging blindly after repeated failures. Instead, they began throwing bodies into breaches, literally filling the gaps with corpses until a new wall formed. The mages had to blast these grotesque barricades apart repeatedly, consuming more mana each time. Progress slowed. Costs increased.
Worse still, they reinforced tunnel entrances with additional walls. Goblins climbed over them but couldn't retreat, forcing them to fight with desperate intensity. They no longer behaved like simple enemies—they fought like trapped animals, relentless and unyielding.
"They learn fast," Bertho muttered.
Arin nodded. That was the most troubling part.
Now, as the week drew to a close, the hills were finally thinning. In the distance, a dark forest stretched across the horizon, waiting silently.
"…That's going to be worse," Arin said.
Bertho didn't argue.
Behind them, atop one of the captured hills, stood the command tent. It remained as massive and imposing as ever—but now it had changed in a way no one had expected. It was red.
Not painted.
Stained.
The same had happened to nearly everything in the legion. Clothes, armour, equipment—no matter how much they washed, the blood refused to come out. It seeped into the fabric, clung to it, became part of it.
Inside the tent, however, order was maintained.
"Supplies?" Eloi asked without looking up from the map.
"Handled," Selvijs replied casually.
In truth, it had been anything but simple. The number of supply requests had overwhelmed logistics. Replacement gear, clothing, and equipment had been ordered in massive quantities. Warehouses had been emptied multiple times, and logistical officers had reportedly complained to their superiors several times a day. Even so, it barely kept up with demand.
"…Losses?" Eloi asked.
Selvijs' expression grew more serious. "Legion 23 has suffered around two hundred thousand casualties," he said. "Most of them in the last three days. We lost three captains during the surprise attacks." He paused briefly before adding, "But overall, we're still in good condition."
Eloi didn't react immediately. "Wounded?"
"Minimal," Selvijs replied. "Severely injured rarely make it back."
Silence lingered for a moment.
"…At least we won't have to end the campaign early," Eloi said eventually, though his voice carried a hint of strain.
Selvijs smirked faintly. "I hear a 'but' coming."
Eloi rubbed his temples. "…Go on."
"The other legions are finished," Selvijs said bluntly. "They need to be pulled back."
Eloi's gaze sharpened. "How bad?"
"The worst ones are below thirty percent strength. The best are around forty-five," Selvijs replied. "And they've lost most of their capable mages during the surprise attacks. That made every subsequent assault harder."
A pause followed.
"So," Selvijs added lightly, "we don't have to babysit them anymore."
Eloi exhaled slowly. "Complaints?"
"Already filed," Selvijs said with a grin. "Against you."
Eloi's eye twitched slightly. "…Of course they did."
He straightened, his expression hardening. "Then we ignore them. We finish these hills and move forward. We're not slowing down because others couldn't keep up."
His voice grew sharper, frustration barely contained. "Send them back."
Selvijs stood, stretching lazily before heading toward the exit. "Of course." He paused briefly, glancing back with an amused smile. "Oh—and try not to lose your temper."
Eloi frowned. "…Why?"
Selvijs chuckled. "Because if you do, I lose a bet."
And with that, he left—leaving Eloi alone with the blood-stained map and the dark forest waiting ahead.