Standing beside the raging river rose a fortress built to choke the bridge that crossed it.

  Calling the river a river felt dishonest. In most countries back on Earth, something this vast would have been classified as a lake. It stretched so far that even modern instruments struggled to give a satisfying answer to a simple question: where did it begin, and where did it end? The water seemed to surge endlessly from nothingness, pouring forward with relentless force, as though the world itself were bleeding blue.

  Government surveys eventually confirmed the worst suspicion—the river spanned the entire battlefield.

  It was no coincidence.

  The Trial was designed with natural barriers, invisible hands guiding the flow of war. Mountains, forests, plains, and now this impossible river existed not by chance, but by intent. And because of that intent, humanity had no choice but to answer in kind.

  Thus, the fortress was born.

  To defend against potential goblin incursions, roads had been carved through grasslands and forests, supply lines dragged kicking and screaming into existence. Even then, logistics forced compromise. The fortress was modest by necessity—only five kilometers by five kilometers—but it was sturdy, newly forged from stone and ambition alike. One full legion was stationed within its walls, and it was only one of five such strongholds guarding the river’s bridges.

  Behind these pristine bastions stretched a very different sight.

  A sea of tents rolled endlessly across the plains, broken only by supply wagons, livestock pens, and hastily constructed depots. Smoke curled into the sky from countless campfires, and the air buzzed with the restless energy of millions preparing for war.

  Inside one of the largest command tents stood Eloi Vieira.

  Maps covered the central table, weighed down by stones and metal markers. Around it gathered his captains and vice-captains, faces hardened by exhaustion and responsibility. To his right stood his vice-commander, silent and attentive. To his left was a familiar figure—one that Arin would have recognized instantly.

  Sofie Merz.

  Former captain of the Black Owls.

  The military restructuring had been ruthless. With the introduction of legions, the old hierarchy had been torn apart and reforged. Younger generals found themselves demoted—not as punishment, but necessity—each now commanding a legion of one million soldiers. Beneath them, captains oversaw forces of a hundred thousand, and the chain continued downward. The older Generals now either served as Generals at the United Army Central Command or were commissioned as strategists.

  Titles had changed. Authority had not.

  Eloi straightened and tapped the map.

  “As you can see,” he began, his voice steady despite the fatigue in his eyes, “we have received additional forces for the upcoming field engagement.”

  He gestured toward Sofie.

  “Goblin units have been confirmed advancing toward our outposts in the plains beyond the second river and the mountain range. United Army Command has ordered Legions One through One Hundred to intercept them directly. Legions One Hundred One through One Thousand will advance between the two forests and along the left side of the central lake.”

  His finger moved to the right side of the map.

  “Our task is to hold this flank. Goblin activity has been detected in the highlands here. To assist us, Central Command has assigned Captain Sofie Merz and her company—ten thousand heavy cavalry.”

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  A murmur rippled through the tent.

  “Their objective,” Eloi continued, “is to eliminate rogue goblin units and minimize any disruption to our supply lines.” Ours is to defend against large-scale attacks and build fortifications.

  He paused, his expression darkening.

  “We have also received intelligence regarding goblin biology. Fortunately, they do not prey upon females of other species. Unfortunately, they compensate for that by being able to survive on leaves alone. Reproduction requires more food—but survival does not.”

  The implications settled heavily over the room.

  “With the forests across the river,” Eloi said quietly, “they can endure. Regroup. Multiply. And once they reach sufficient numbers, they may attempt to seize a fortress or cripple our logistics entirely.”

  He took a sip of water and exhaled.

  “Questions?”

  A hand rose.

  “Yes, Vice-Captain Silvia?”

  Silvia Vieira met his gaze, her expression thoughtful. “What is Central Command hoping to accomplish with this offensive? Based on the numbers the System shared, an open-field engagement against the goblins seems… unrealistic. Would it not be wiser to let them come to us, where fortifications favor our strengths?”

  A fair question.

  Eloi gave a tired smile. “An excellent one. And if I’m honest—I don’t know.”

  A few brows rose.

  “They shared only objectives and deadlines. Nothing more. I have theories, but nothing I’d stake lives on.” He rubbed his temples. “Our greatest weakness right now is intelligence. Traditional scouting methods fail beyond a certain distance. Compasses spin uselessly. Stars refuse to align.”

  He gestured at the rough map on the table.

  “This is all we have. And even that is incomplete.”

  A shadow crossed his face.

  “According to Grand Marshal Merz, our best scouts were pulled back to train others how to navigate this continent and still return alive. Many of them…” He hesitated. “Many are still recovering. Starvation in the grasslands left scars.”

  Silence filled the tent.

  “And,” Eloi added, his voice tightening, “those same scouts reported… issues. Serious ones.”

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  “The wall inspections confirmed it. Entire sections left unmanned. Command was… displeased.”

  Straightening, he let out a slow breath.

  “My best guess? This offensive exists to provoke the enemy. To observe their reactions. Their tactics. Their limits.” He shook his head. “But that is speculation.”

  He placed both hands on the table.

  “What matters is this: we march.”

  A marker tapped against the map.

  “One week. Approximately five hundred kilometers—assuming our information isn’t wrong. And that assumption alone is dangerous.”

  He looked around the tent, meeting every gaze.

  “Prepare.”

  And so the order was given.

  Tents were struck. Wagons creaked under the weight of supplies. Columns formed as millions of soldiers began to move, a vast, winding river of humanity flowing toward the distant highlands.

  Toward blood.

  Toward fire.

  Toward the first great battle of mankind in the Trial—one that would stain not just the hills ahead, but the fate of an entire continent.