Arin was tired.

  Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix with a few stolen hours, but the deep, bone-soaked exhaustion that hollowed a person out from the inside. The kind that made even breathing feel like work.

  Five days.

  He had not slept properly for five days.

  His stamina had been running on fumes since the third night, his legs trembling even when he stood still. More alarming was the dull ache spreading through his chest and shoulders—not muscle pain, but something deeper. Mana exhaustion.

  For most of his time since the beggining of the trails, Arin had never had to worry about mana. He was an archer, not a mage. He didn’t cast spells or manipulate elements. Mana had always been something abstract, a theoretical reserve he barely touched. only reserved for crafting.

  That had changed.

  The Archery Skills engraved into his body—Archer’s Eye, Trajectory Correction, Stability—all relied on mana pathways. Pathways that were never meant to be used without rest. Pathways that, after five days of nonstop battle, were screaming in protest.

  Today alone, Arin had fired over five hundred arrows.

  He had long since stopped drawing his absurdly powerful bow to its full length. Once, he could pull it back entirely and send arrows screaming through armor and bone. Now, he only pulled it back ten centimeters before releasing.

  That was enough.

  Even weakened, the bow could still punch through goblin flesh.

  Another arrow flew.

  The goblin’s head snapped back as the arrow buried itself directly into its eye. The creature collapsed without even a scream.

  Blood trickled down Arin’s face.

  It leaked from the corners of his eyes, warm and sticky, blurring his vision. The strain of Archer’s Eye had ruptured tiny vessels long ago, but he kept using it anyway. He had to.

  He wiped at his face with the back of his gauntlet and drew again.

  If anyone had looked at him now, they might not have recognized him as human.

  His armor—once polished leather—was drenched in sweat and layered with blood, some fresh, some long dried and caked with dirt. The blood running from his eyes forced him to focus harder, which twisted his expression into something feral and hollow.

  A monster fighting monsters.

  And yet, who could blame him?

  The goblins came endlessly.

  It had been two hours since the surviving soldiers retreated into the fortress. At first, the tighter space and elevated walkways made defense easier. The enemy had fewer angles, fewer ways to swarm.

  But goblins learned.

  They always did.

  Arin shifted his aim toward the corner tower—an elevated structure designed for lookout duty and communication. Horns and flags once relayed messages from there across the walls.

  Now, it was under attack.

  The goblins had formed a ladder.

  A writhing, screaming mass of green bodies climbed over one another, claws digging into flesh, feet kicking skulls aside as they stacked higher and higher. The sight was grotesque—almost comical—like a house collapsing in on itself.

  Arin loosed three arrows in quick succession.

  The ladder collapsed.

  Bodies tumbled down in a heap of limbs and broken necks.

  But not before several armed goblins leapt from the living structure and landed on the walkway.

  Steel met flesh.

  Human screams followed.

  Arin swore under his breath.

  Even small breaches like this were dangerous. A single mistake, one moment of distraction, could unravel the entire defensive line. That was how the outer walls had fallen—fatigue multiplied by numbers, errors amplified into disasters.

  Another arrow.

  A goblin in the middle of the walkway dropped, an arrow buried deep in its skull. The soldier it had just killed lay motionless beside it.

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  Arin’s jaw clenched.

  Then he heard it.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Dull impacts echoed from below—near the gate.

  That’s not good, Arin thought.

  Something was happening at the main entrance. He wanted to look, to understand, but he didn’t have the luxury. If he took his eyes off the wall even for a moment, the goblins would exploit it.

  The commander has it under control, he told himself.

  He refocused, grateful for his position atop the gate tower. From here, he could oversee the entire wall, reacting wherever the pressure grew too heavy.

  Below him, in the shadow of the gate, stood Commander Eloi.

  Beside him was Selvijs.

  Both were clad in full knight armor. Once shining silver, their armor was now stained black and red, polished only by repeated violence. Their swords, unlike those of the wall soldiers, were still razor sharp.

  They had been rotated.

  They had rested.

  Because they had the most important job of all.

  When the walls became too crowded, too close to collapse, the gates would open.

  It was madness—but calculated madness.

  Opening the gate created a funnel. Goblins, driven by instinct, would rush through it, believing they had found an easy path. Eloi and Selvijs would hold that choke point, slaughtering as many as possible while relieving pressure on the walls.

  The soldiers above fought until their weapons dulled, hacking until steel bent and edges rounded. Where once a clean strike could split a goblin in half, now blades barely sank a quarter of the way unless they avoided bone.

  At this point, goblins died not because of superior steel—but because they had no defense, no constitution worth speaking of.

  A stick could kill them.

  Eloi glanced at the gate.

  “Are you ready?” Selvijs asked calmly.

  The massive doors began to open, revealing a hellscape of smoke, fire, green flesh, and blood-slick stone. Goblin faces pressed forward, their filthy smiles wide, their eyes gleaming with hunger.

  They did not realize that the first through the gate would certainly die.

  “I was born ready,” Eloi replied.

  The first goblin rushed forward.

  Eloi’s greatsword—a massive two-handed blade—swept through the air and cleaved the creature in half. He stepped forward, armor shrugging off claws and crude weapons as he cut again and again.

  To his left, Selvijs moved like flowing water.

  Dual swords flashed, precise and efficient. His movements were economical, almost bored. Beneath his helmet, his face was calm—like this was nothing more than training.

  Behind them, their personal guard formed a tight shield wall, spears thrusting out in a disciplined rhythm, holding the tide back.

  Time blurred.

  Eloi stopped thinking.

  His swings became instinct, muscle memory honed by years of training. There was no skillful duel here—no worthy opponent. Goblins folded the moment they met his blade.

  It felt less like fighting and more like cutting grass with a scythe.

  But even grass overwhelms when it grows too thick.

  Numbers pressed in.

  The guards fell one by one.

  Eloi felt hands grabbing his legs, his arms, his sword. He stumbled, then fell as weight piled onto him. Claws tore at his helmet, fingers prying at clasps.

  He saw Selvijs out of the corner of his eye—fighting his way toward him.

  Too late.

  A dagger flashed.

  Eloi’s last thought was regret—not fear, not pain.

  This isn’t how I wanted to die.

  The blade plunged into his eye.

  Darkness followed.

  As Eloi and Selvijs fell, the final guard—his duty clear—pulled the lever.

  The portcullis slammed down.

  Forged from leftover metal in a desperate last-minute effort, it cut off the goblins’ advance through the gate.

  The guard watched it close.

  Then he turned.

  And charged into the darkness after his comrades.