The battlefield had gone eerily still. Only the crackle of dying fires and the low hiss of cooling steel broke the silence. The thick air smelled of smoke, blood, and burnt leather, the aftermath of chaos. Goblin bodies lay twisted in the dirt, weapons still clutched in their small, blackened hands. The faint red glow of lingering embers painted everything in a grim haze.

  Brett stood there, chest heaving, the faint shimmer of residual mana still flickering across his fingers. For a long moment he just stared through the drifting smoke toward where the other flank should have been. No shouting. No steel. No sound at all.

  His stomach tightened. “Where are they?” he muttered, stepping forward a few paces, squinting through the haze. He could feel Josh’s gaze on his back but didn’t look away, unwilling to give up hope.

  A shrill, guttural scream tore through the fog. Josh was instantly by Brett’s side, hand already on his sword. The sound echoed between the tents, high-pitched, desperate, and close.

  For a heartbeat, no one moved. The air hung thick with smoke from dying campfires and the metallic tang of blood. Somewhere nearby, canvas tore, followed by the crash of a collapsing tent.

  “Was that a goblin?” Brett hissed, his staff already glowing faintly blue.

  Josh’s pulse quickened. He could hear the scuffle of feet, the harsh rasp of goblin voices barking to one another. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a shadow darting between tents, too quick and too small to be human.

  Carcan muttered something under her breath and raised her staff, the air around her shimmering with a faint magical hum. Perberos, already knocking an arrow, whispered, “Three, maybe four of them. Close.”

  Then — movement.

  Shapes emerged from the smoke, slow at first, then clearer as they drew closer, five figures, jogging toward them, weapons lowered but still ready. Brett felt the tension drain from his shoulders as recognition set in. It was the other party.

  They looked as battered as everyone else: armour dented, clothes torn, faces smeared with blood and soot. But they were alive. When they reached the group, one of them, a young human fighter whose sword arm was wrapped in a bloodied cloth, gave a weary grin.

  “You guys all ok?” Josh asked.

  The young adventurer nodded, “Barely. That last orc didn’t want to go down easy,” his voice rough.

  Josh gave a tired smile in return, clapping him on the shoulder. “None of them ever do. Glad you made it.”

  There were murmurs of relief and shared exhaustion as the three groups merged, twenty survivors now standing together in the smouldering ruins of what had been a goblin camp. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind only the ache in their limbs and the echo of too many close calls.

  Brett glanced around one last time, seeing only the silhouettes of fallen monsters as they started to disintegrate into golden motes of light. “Let’s move,” he said quietly. “We’ve still got people waiting for us.”

  Josh nodded, and together they turned back toward the way they’d come.

  The group started walking, slowly at first, then with more purpose, cutting through the red haze and drifting smoke. The air was hot and heavy, every breath thick with the stench of death and burned wood. Shadows flickered across their faces as they passed smouldering tents and broken bodies.

  No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.

  Only the crunch of boots in the dirt marked their passage as they made their way back toward the others, through the quiet ruin of a battlefield that had almost claimed them all.

  The last embers of battle faded with the wind. The trainees returned to the centre of the camp, their healers moved quietly among them as they walked, mending cuts and bruises, easing trembling hands. The sharp scent of blood lingered, but the air had shifted, relief mixing with the heavy silence that followed victory.

  Ronald and Caistina were already there, standing beside the still form of Koz’ru. The ranger’s jaw was set, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the fallen trainee.

  Josh joined the others in a loose circle, the crunch of his boots on the dirt loud in the hush. Around him, faces were drawn and pale. Hard eyes turned toward Ronald, not accusing, exactly, but demanding an explanation.

  Ronald met each gaze in turn, saying nothing at first. His weathered face seemed older now, the lines deeper, the fire in his eyes dulled by something like regret. Finally, he exhaled.

  “You all did well,” he said quietly. “Better than I expected, truth be told.”

  No one spoke. Even Caistina remained silent, her expression soft but watchful.

  Ronald crouched beside Koz’ru, brushing dirt from the young man’s tunic before rising to face them again. “You’re angry,” he continued. “You should be. You think I abandoned you. Maybe I did.” He paused, letting the words hang heavy in the cold air. “But you needed this fight. All of you.”

  Someone shifted uneasily. Brett’s hand tightened on his staff.

  Ronald’s tone hardened. “You don’t become adventurers by being coddled. Death will walk beside you every step of the way from here on out. I can’t train that out of you, you can only face it, and keep walking.”

  He looked toward Josh, then to the others. “I could’ve stepped in sooner. Maybe Koz’ru would still be breathing if I had. But then none of you would’ve learned what it truly costs to survive out here.”

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  The silence deepened, broken only by the crackle of a dying fire.

  Finally, Ronald’s voice softened. “Take a hard look at what happened today. Remember it. Let it burn. Then get stronger, for him.”

  He turned away, giving them space, but the weight of his words lingered like a shadow over the camp.

  Ronald’s words faded into the stillness. The camp seemed to exhale at last, a long, uneven breath of grief and survival.

  Josh turned toward his friends. Perberos was wiping blood from the edge of his blade, movements slow and deliberate. Bheldur sat heavily on a broken crate, his armour scorched and dented, staring at the ground. Carcan leaned on her staff, pale but steady, a flicker of blue light still pulsing faintly around her fingers. Brett stood beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder, both too drained to speak.

  Josh stepped closer, lowering his sword until the tip touched the dirt. “We made it,” he said quietly.

  Carcan gave a small, tired nod. “Barely.”

  Perberos chuckled under his breath, though it came out more as a cough. “A win’s a win. Even if it feels like we got trampled by a wagon to earn it.”

  That pulled a faint grin from Bheldur. “Next time, maybe the wagon hits the goblins instead.”

  Carcan smiled “Shall we change Josh’s name?”

  The group drew together almost without thinking, a loose huddle forming amid the ruin of tents and embers. Josh could feel the heat still rolling off the ground, the acrid smoke biting at his throat but surrounded by his party, the weight in his chest eased just a little.

  “We’re all still here,” Brett said finally, his voice low but firm. “That has to count for something.”

  Carcan gave a soft hum of agreement, eyes lingering on each of them in turn. “It does.”

  They stood there for a while, letting the silence settle. Around them, the other trainees tended wounds and gathered weapons, the quiet murmur of voices replacing the chaos of battle. But in that small circle, it wasn’t victory they felt, it was something sturdier, quieter. The simple relief of having survived together.

  Josh let out a slow breath and rested a hand on Brett’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s help finish this. There’s still a dungeon to slay. Then we can rest.”

  And as they turned to go, he felt it, that faint, unspoken thread binding them tighter than before. They’d bled, stumbled, and come close to breaking. But they’d made it through. Together.

  After several moments, Ronald nodded and raised a hand, signalling the groups to follow as he moved toward the centre of the camp, and the dungeon's mouth. His steps were steady, confident, but even he couldn’t hide the way his eyes flicked across the shadows.

  Every few moments, a shape would dart through the haze, a goblin, its eyes wide and rimmed in crimson, shrieking as it stumbled from the smoke. The adventurers met them with grim precision. A sword flashed. A spell burst in a flare of light. Then silence again, broken only by the distant crackle of dying fires.

  The red smoke was thicker with every step they took and it was becoming almost syrupy, curling between the ruined tents and hanging heavy in the air. It burned the throat when they breathed, mixed with the stench of blood and scorched leather.

  Ronald didn’t slow. He exhaled softly shaking his head, then stopped and reached over his shoulder, pulling an arrow from his quiver in one smooth motion. The string of his bow drew back with a faint creak, and for a heartbeat the world felt perfectly still. Then the arrow vanished into the mist.

  A wet crunch echoed through the camp, followed by a low, choking gurgle. The sound faded, leaving behind a strange, heavy quiet. Everyone held their breath, not really sure what had just happened.

  Slowly, the crimson fog began to thin. The red tint bled away to grey, revealing the scattered silhouettes of tents, corpses, and the faint outlines of the other parties on the flanks. The air was still hot, but breathable again.

  Ronald lowered his bow and muttered under his breath, “That’s better.” He cast a quick look over his shoulder, the faintest trace of a wry smile on his scarred face. “Stay sharp. If there’s any left, they’ll be looking to get away now. That should have solved the issue with the goblins acting blood mad.”

  And with that, Ronald led them forward once more — out of the smoke, toward what remained of the camp’s heart. The fog began to thin as they advanced, revealing a faint, pulsing glow cutting through the haze.

  A strange purple light bled across the ground like mist, casting long, distorted shadows. The group slowed, exchanging wary glances before Perberos mouthed the word “Dungeon.”

  They pressed on, closing the last few hundred feet with blades drawn. Every minute or so, another goblin came shrieking from the haze, wild-eyed, screaming, and torn apart before it could even raise a weapon. Now they could see why.

  At the centre of the devastation, a jagged tear in the earth pulsed with violet light, vomiting goblins into the world one by one - the cave mouth and it’s dungeon.

  Carcan exhaled sharply, watching one dissolve under a ranger’s arrow. “That explains why there were so many more today than yesterday. The dungeon’s on the edge of a break.”

  Brett nodded grimly. “Yeah… I just wonder what that means for us now. Do we still set up here, or is this place a lost cause?”

  Josh only shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Ronald came to a stop about fifty feet from the entrance. The sickly glow of the dungeon lit his face in eerie shades of blue and violet. At his boots lay the dissolving corpse of a goblin, an arrow jutting cleanly through its right eye.

  Perberos frowned, crouching to get a better look. “That’s the shaman we saw yesterday. It must’ve been what caused the fog.”

  A calm voice came from behind them, making several of the younger adventurers flinch. “Correct,” said Caistina, stepping forward. “Goblin shamans can cast an enrage spell. It drives their kin into a frenzy, strips away self-preservation until all that’s left is bloodlust. It’s dangerous enough in small numbers… but in a horde like this?” She glanced toward the glowing fissure, her tone tightening. “It can spiral out of control, especially during a dungeon break.”

  She paused, her expression thoughtful. “Though I wouldn’t expect a shaman that low-levelled to sustain it for this long… unless it wasn’t the only one.”

  That unsettling thought lingered as she joined Ronald near the front. The two spoke quietly, their words lost beneath the faint rumble of the portal. Every few moments, another goblin screamed into existence, only to be cut down by a waiting ranger or mage.

  Then Ronald lifted two fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle that split the smoky air. Dozens of heads turned toward him.

  “Alright!” he barked. “Support team should be here any moment. We’re fortifying this spot.” His eyes locked on Josh. “You there, Red. You look like you know the arse end of a shovel. Digging duty’s yours.”

  The crowd of adventurers laughed as they heard Josh curse and groan.

  “I want a ditch around the cave mouth and a wall built behind it. Mages, rangers, you’re on overwatch. The rest of you, grab a shovel when the pack animals arrive.”

  Within moments, the survivors split into work parties, the wounded and the casters forming a guard line while the stronger adventurers began clearing ground. The smell of churned soil soon joined the lingering scent of smoke and blood, as the battered camp slowly turned from battlefield to fortress.

  Someone's said I've designed thirsty elves. Sorry. I blame the AI...