Adarin cursed. Those creatures can’t be allowed to advance into our lines. They will ruin the plan. He ground his teeth. The trap.

  Rüdiger straightened beside Adarin.

  “I need to...” he muttered, touching his stomach.

  A complex weave of glowing lines bloomed between his hands—sigils shifting, rotating, locking into place—directed toward the charging swamp trolls.

  Adarin turned his attention downslope. Hundreds of zombies equipped with pikes and spears were forming up, called into ranks by the shaping magic.

  He nodded, approving. He’s sacrificing the cohort where the trolls are charging to slow them down.

  The five trolls advanced regardless, their bulk shaking the earth with each step.

  Time. We need time. Adarin reached through the noospheric link to the creature in charge of artillery—Devon, a kobold. He hadn’t met the artillery chief yet, but Rüdiger had spoken highly of him.

  ‘Set up the cannons. Aim them at the creatures.’

  ‘Yes,’ came the simple reply. Flat. Focused.

  The cannons began their deployment in the rear, their bronze barrels dragging through the mud under skeletal labor.

  Suddenly, thunder erupted beside them.

  One of the Order’s musketeer units had taken initiative.

  Volley after volley cracked across the battlefield, the rhythm tearing bloody rents in the trolls’ thick hides. For a heartbeat, Adarin thought it might work—until the wounds pulsed, swirled, and closed. Worse, the creatures bellowed louder, surging forward faster as if pain only goaded them on. Their hulking bodies, shaped like grotesquely obese humanoid females, pushed forward with mindless determination.

  They need to focus fire on one. Adarin issued the order down the line. An acknowledgment pulsed back.

  Meanwhile, his spiders scurried across the flanks, moving into position.

  The pike-wielding skeletons had completed their formation. Two concentric lines bulged inward, forming a tight corridor—channeling the trolls, penning them in.

  The beasts bellowed, claws slashing at spears. Whole ranks of zombies flew like broken dolls, hurled back into their comrades. Still—the line held.

  Each charge was absorbed, slowed, answered with sharpened steel.

  The trolls could push. They could tear. But they couldn’t break out.

  And slowly—inevitably—one began to fall.

  The musketeers were whittling it down, bit by bit.

  Adarin shifted focus.

  Good. One for the muskets. One for the spiders.

  The drones were already moving into position.

  Rüdiger stood beside Adarin, shoulders shaking, blood trickling from one nostril. The air warped faintly around him—spells still running, illusions barely held together by will alone.

  “Get... Liora...” he gasped. “Transmit...”

  Each word came with an exhalation, labored and strained. Sweat darkened the silk of his robes, silver-embroidered bones and skulls catching the pale light with an ominous gleam.

  Adarin reached through the noospheric link. Liora was already close, moving toward them.

  At the same time, distant impressions filtered in from the rearguard. The dragon-blooded mercenaries were advancing. Adarin opened the full network and spoke aloud.

  “We have fifteen minutes. Then we need to be on the march.”

  He shifted his focus—onto the sappers. ‘Are the special preparations done?’ he inquired and received a dozen curt confirmations.

  A grin tugged at his lips. This will be interesting. Let’s see what those armored fucks do. Five minutes. But we need to be out of here soon.

  The leader of the sappers was a greenskin. Adarin had nearly attacked the creature on sight—until Rüdiger explained. Apparently, he’d raised the thing from puphood.

  Devon and Gavin. Cannoneer and alchemist.

  Doom and Destruction, or so the rumors claimed.

  Meanwhile, Adarin’s spiders closed in, slipping between undead lines unhindered. One of the trolls had managed to wedge its bulk past the spears and now battered at the front ranks.

  Adarin growled. No, you don’t.

  He refocused the spider drones, altering their feet—equipping them with tiny hooks, perfect for scaling rough skin and fat-slicked hide.

  Then—Liora’s voice came through the link. ‘Adarin. Me and Johan are now in position. What are your orders?’

  Her voice cracked only at the end.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Adarin turned to Rüdiger. “Liora—what is she supposed to do?”

  Rüdiger, without pause, began issuing instructions. Adarin relayed them word-for-word. “Okay, disciple. Focus on the two nodes in your hands. The evocation cores. Ja?”

  Rüdiger touched the tattoo and the ink on his arm swirled.

  Select skill to impart.

  “Necrotic Blast” selected.

  Confirm skill transfer at cost of 1 level.

  Confirmed.

  “Ja,” came Liora’s response. Her voice steadied. Her mind flared with focused heat.

  Adarin could feel it through the link. More magic. This will be interesting.

  Rüdiger’s voice was rich with strain, but his words came sharp and clipped. “Stretch out your hands. Point them at one of the swamp trolls. Imagine a rope between the two of you.”

  Liora raised her hands and Rüdiger mirrored the gesture. A dim purple rope connected the two of them through the chaos of the battlefield. Something seemed to flow across it from the Archnecromancer to the disciple.

  Adarin felt it through the link—her anticipation, her readiness, her terror beating just beneath the surface like a war drum. And then—the cold and steady will of Rüdiger shaping the movements around her core. The energy built like a crescendo in an orchestra of doom.

  “Now,” Rüdiger said, “focus on the line between your right hand and your gut. As you did against the orcs, when we found you.”

  Adarin winced as he sensed Liora’s concentration faltering. ‘Focus, girl. Everything is fine. You are safe,’ he whispered over the connection.

  “Breathe out,” Rüdiger continued, “but focus the breath along the line. Along the rope. Let your necromantic core’s energy flow as one wave.”

  A calm settled over Liora. Adarin felt it—first as a tremor, then a ripple of raw power. Magic prickled against the back of his neck.

  Then it detonated. Pale green light burst across the battlefield like a tactical nuke.

  The forests and warfront lit up with unholy brilliance. But this wasn’t the green of life. It was the green of sickness. Of rot. Of festering, creeping pestilence.

  A blob—almost a meter across—launched from her hand like a cursed water bomb. It soared over the heads of the undead, and everywhere it passed, flesh boiled away, leaving only bone.

  Then it hit the troll. The beast screamed—a high, ululating note—as its regenerative abilities collapsed inward. Rot spread like fire. Fatty tissue liquefied. Black sores burst and spilled ichor.

  Ten seconds later, nothing remained but a heap of clean, steaming bones—and a hole in the line where dozens of skeletons had burned away in the same blast. Victory, yes, but at a cost.

  “Well done,” Adarin and Rüdiger said in unison.

  Adarin quickly instructed Johan to catch the now-exhausted girl and pull her to safety. Next, his attention shifted—back to the spiders.

  They scurried up the legs of the next troll, claws clicking softly. The creature’s flesh writhed and pulsed with chaotic regeneration, but the drones clung fast.

  He felt it—the oil-slick, greasy texture of the hide through their senses. The heat. The sickly flex of reprocessing meat.

  Adarin suppressed a shudder. What disgusting monstrosities the System is creating. Those must have been humans once, in our time.

  Anger and pathos overcame him.

  Liora’s voice touched his mind like a gentle summer rain—exhilarated and exhausted in equal parts. ‘I’ve gained five levels, Adarin! Five levels! Necrotic Blast is awesome! So much power!’

  Adarin smiled. She’s high on adrenaline. Useful now—dangerous later. Still, she earned it. He allowed himself a flicker of joy, a momentary echo of her celebration.

  Then he cut it off, like a butcher carves a steak from a carcass. I have a job to do.

  The spiders had reached the troll’s throat. The beast stirred, noticing something was wrong. One greasy paw scratched dumbly at the spot. The drones dodged easily, climbing higher.

  Adarin issued the next commands.

  One scurried atop the head. Another stayed low at the throat. Two more—one above, one beneath the creature’s mutated, blister-ringed earholes—linked their legs across the grotesque skull.

  Adarin focused. Let’s see how strong the fibers really are.

  He tightened the noose—like a torture device from centuries past.

  The troll let out a low growl. Confused.

  It scratched at the strange band forming around its head, panic rising as the pressure increased.

  Claws raked at its throat. Then it stumbled, fell.

  Dozens of spears slammed into its side. The troll shrieked—not from the wounds, but from the spears knitting into its flesh, trapped halfway inside as the regeneration twisted them into its body. It thrashed, a living pincushion of steel and rotting fat.

  The creature screamed.

  Then—silence. The last gasp of air choked out.

  With a crunching pop—wet and violent—its head exploded like a watermelon struck by a sniper round.

  Adarin grinned as the system messages appeared:

  Living Wood lesser Tier 1 → Living Wood early Tier 1

  You have defeated a Level 17 Swamp Troll!

  Normalized strength difference 764%

  Number of Levels gained: 5

  Living Wood early Tier 1 → Living Wood middle Tier 1

  Noospheric Link (Implant) has advanced to early Tier 1!

  Shard Generator (Implant) has advanced to early Tier 1!

  More good news followed.

  The voice of Devon, commander of the cannoneers, echoed through the link—dour, flat, utterly disinterested. ‘We are ready. Orders.’

  Adarin couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Is he alright? Terminally depressed in the middle of a battle? Well, no matter.

  ‘Fire. Whenever. You are ready,’ he ordered.

  ‘Acknowledged,’ came the same deadpan reply.

  A moment later, the thunder of guns split the night. A dozen cannonballs screamed through the air toward the trolls. Two beasts were hit—limbs torn free in sprays of black, rotting blood that sprayed like tar. I can only imagine the stink. Probably as bad as my gas cloud.

  One troll was outright shredded—at least three cannonballs struck it dead-on. Guts and shredded meat writhed on the ground, twitching like snakes. An arm tried to crawl away but was set upon by skeletons.

  Only two trolls remained.

  One, already mauled by musketeer fire, staggered—movements sluggish, regeneration stuttering.

  Adarin narrowed his eyes. What do we do about the last one?

  ‘How long to reload?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty seconds.’

  Too long.

  Then he caught it—something small blurring across the battlefield. What?

  The figure stopped at the edge of the co-atmospheres—clad in leather and bone, immune to flame and flying steel, completely ignoring the fact they were standing in the cannons’ firing line.

  Suddenly, a message blasted into his mind—excited, jittery, fast.

  ‘Gavin here! Yes! We’ve laid the mines! Now! Now! Now! I can take out one of them! I can take out one of them! Can I?’

  Adarin’s eyebrows rose. Sure. Why the hell not?

  ‘Do it,’ he hissed.

  Manic giggling was the only warning anyone got.

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