Richard shifted in Bignum's grip, shoulders aching from hanging too long.
"Hey," he said, voice a little strained, "can you put me down now? I'm injured, yeah—but my feet still work."
He had been dangling for a while. Long enough that his legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
Bignum glanced down at him, then simply lowered his hand.
"Okay."
Richard dropped the last few inches and landed unevenly. His knees bent on instinct, catching his weight, but his body wobbled before he steadied himself.
He shook one leg, then the other.
Pins and needles crawled up from his feet.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "I think my legs died while I was up there."
"Just walk," Bignum said, already turning away. "It will come back."
Richard took a cautious step.
Then another.
It hurt—but it worked.
"…Great. Walking it is."
They moved away from the frontline, the noise of battle still loud behind them. The air smelled worse here somehow. Less fire, more rot.
Richard frowned slightly.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Camp," Bignum replied.
Richard nodded and kept walking.
Then—
CRACK.
His boot came down on something brittle.
He froze.
Slowly, he looked down.
A skull.
Half-buried in the mud. Cracked clean under his weight.
"…Oh," he said quietly.
He lifted his foot.
And looked around.
At first, it was just shapes in the mud.
Then his eyes adjusted.
Bodies.
Everywhere.
Different sizes. Different shapes. Some were barely more than skeletons, picked clean and sinking into the ground. Others still had flesh—but not for long. Maggots crawled through open wounds, slow and busy. A few were blackened completely, burned until they didn't look real anymore. Most of them covered in mud.
Richard's gaze drifted farther.
Those small hills he had ignored earlier—
They weren't hills.
They were piles.
Stacks of bodies. Burned, crushed, half-buried. Dozens of them scattered across the field like someone had tried to clean up… and gave up halfway.
Richard swallowed.
His steps slowed without him noticing.
"…How long have you been fighting?" he asked.
Bignum raised one hand and started counting on his fingers.
"Forty-one full moons," he said.
Richard blinked. "…Full moons? You mean months?"
Bignum shrugged. "Maybe same. We count by moon."
Richard nodded slowly, doing the math in his head.
"…So… forty-one months," he said. "You've been fighting those monsters for over three years. Straight?"
Bignum nodded.
"We call them Trods," he added, glancing back toward the battlefield. "They do not stop. No sleep. No fear. No end."
A distant roar echoed, like it was proving his point.
"No matter how many we kill," Bignum continued, "more come."
Richard looked back at the piles of bodies.
Then, at the ground under his feet.
Then, at his own hands, still shaking slightly.
"…That's…" He paused, searching for a word.
"Bad," he settled on.
Bignum let out a quiet breath.
"We lost many," he said. "Good fighters. Strong ones." He paused for a moment, then added, more quietly, "Maybe we die here too."
Richard glanced at him.
The orc didn't look afraid.
Just… tired.
Like someone who had already accepted the ending and was just waiting for it to arrive.
Richard looked away from the corpse field and toward the camp.
At first, it was just shapes in the distance.
Then it became clearer.
Tents.
Hundreds of them—maybe more. Some stood straight, but most leaned awkwardly, patched with mismatched cloth and rope. A few had collapsed entirely, their frames sticking out like broken ribs.
Smoke drifted lazily above the camp, mixing with the smell of medicine… and something worse.
As they got closer, movement filled the space.
Wounded soldiers were being carried in by figures in brown robes. They moved quickly but without panic, hands steady, faces hidden under hoods. Richard squinted, trying to tell what they were.
Human?
Elf?
Something else?
"…Hard to tell who's who," he muttered.
Then something else caught his eye.
A group in green and red robes walking back toward the camp.
Clean. Too clean.
Their robes had no blood, no mud—nothing like the soldiers dragging themselves past them.
Richard's brows furrowed.
"…Are those—"
"Useless mages," Bignum said before he could finish.
His tone was flat. Dismissive.
"They throw fire, ice, rock. Then go back. Say 'no mana.' Always no mana." He snorted. "Very tired people."
Richard glanced at them again.
"…So they don't fight on the front line?"
"Few do," Bignum said. "Most like to stay alive."
"…That's fair," Richard muttered. "Can't even blame them."
Bignum grunted, unconvinced.
Richard lifted his gaze.
Something moved in the sky—far from the silver dragon.
A smaller figure.
Fast.
"Look," Bignum said, pointing upward. "That one. Jurbert. The Metal Crow."
Richard squinted.
At first, it looked like a dark bird.
Then it turned.
Dozens of blades hovered around it—no, followed it. Swords, spinning and shifting in the air like they had minds of their own.
They shot forward in bursts—cutting, piercing, tearing apart winged beasts that tried to close in.
The figure didn't retreat. Didn't hesitate. It fought alone in the sky, surrounded—but never overwhelmed.
Richard blinked.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "That one is not useless."
Bignum nodded once. "That one is good."
They walked a few more steps before the noise ahead changed.
Less screaming.
More… talking.
And a crowd.
Retreating soldiers had gathered in a loose circle, watching something in the middle. Some stood on broken crates, others leaned on spears just to see better.
Richard tilted his head.
"…What's going on now?"
Bignum shrugged. "People like to watch problems."
"…That sounds about right."
Richard looked at the crowd, then at Bignum.
"…Excuse me for a second."
"Huh?"
Before Bignum could react—
Richard grabbed onto his shoulder and pulled himself up with a grunt.
Pain flared through his side, but he ignored it.
He settled awkwardly on top of the orc's shoulder.
"…There," Richard said, adjusting his balance. "Much better. VIP seating."
Bignum didn't even react.
"Do not fall," he said. "I will not catch you."
"Encouraging," Richard muttered.
From his higher view, he could finally see inside the circle.
Minerva stood at the center.
Calm. Straight. One hand resting near her sheathed sword.
In front of her—
Another woman.
Just as striking, but in a different way.
Her build was solid, powerful. Muscles defined under a tight tunic and breeches instead of armor. No wasted movement, no decoration—just strength.
She stood with her weight slightly forward, like she was always ready to step in or strike.
Richard narrowed his eyes slightly.
"…That doesn't look friendly."
Bignum glanced forward.
"That is Olga of Vlumond," he said. "Leader of dwarves."
Richard blinked.
He looked at the woman again.
Then at Bignum.
Then back at her.
"…That's a dwarf?"
Bignum nodded.
"Yes."
Richard scratched his cheek.
"…I clearly need to update my expectations."