The highlands stretched endlessly beneath an unforgiving sky, a vast ocean of grass rolling toward the horizon in every direction. The wind swept across the plains in long, low waves, bending the tall grass as if the land itself were breathing—slow, steady, and indifferent to the millions of lives about to be spent upon it.

  To the left lay the great lake.

  Calling it a lake felt wrong. It was too vast, too dominant—more like an inland sea, its distant shores blurred by heat and distance. Beyond it, barely visible through the shimmering air, nine hundred legions were on the move. From this vantage point, they appeared as dark threads drawn across the world, marching relentlessly toward the goblins’ second defensive line.

  No cheers followed them.

  No banners waved.

  Only the quiet understanding that those soldiers would soon be swallowed by blood and fire.

  To the right of the highlands lay a much smaller lake. Scouts had confirmed that beyond it flowed a massive river—wide, violent, and impassable. A mirror of humanity’s own second line of defense.

  But unlike the human side, there was no bridge.

  That single absence had shaped the entire campaign.

  High Command’s decision had been swift and absolute: the highlands must not fall.

  They were the artery of the offensive. Supplies—food, weapons, arrows, armor—flowed Behind this land toward the armies advancing beyond the great lake. If the highlands were lost, the offensive would choke and die, leaving nine hundred legions stranded deep in enemy territory.

  Worse still, the terrain behind the highlands was a commander’s nightmare.

  Rolling hills that broke formations.

  Twisting rivers that slowed advances.

  And beyond them—

  Two colossal forests.

  Forests where goblins could vanish.

  Forests where ambushes would bloom like rot.

  Forests where humanity’s wishdom would mean nothing.

  If goblins reached those woods in force, it would become a war of attrition humanity could not afford.

  And yet, holding the highlands was far from simple.

  The land resembled the ancient Mongolian steppes—wide, open, and cruelly honest. No natural choke points. No walls. No rivers to anchor defenses.

  Without cavalry, such land could not be truly controlled.

  Which was why what little cavalry humanity possessed had been stationed here.

  Not to win glorious victories.

  Not to charge screaming into legend.

  But to patrol.

  To respond.

  To delay.

  The highlands spanned seven hundred kilometers.

  One hundred legions had been assigned to hold them.

  On paper, that translated to an overwhelming density—more than 150,000 soldiers per kilometer. In a human wall.

  In reality, it meant thin lines, stretched command structures, and countless blind spots where goblins could slip through unnoticed.

  This land would be decided not by strength alone—

  —but by reaction time.

  Unease in the Camp

  “Grandma Lilly… do you know why so many people are going in and out of the command tent?”

  Bertho spoke quietly, eyes following a stern woman as she strode through their encampment. Her steps were purposeful, her expression hard, and she wasn’t alone. Scouts, messengers, and officers moved with unusual urgency, dust rising around their boots.

  He wasn’t imagining it.

  The entire camp felt different.

  Tighter.

  Sharper.

  Afraid.

  Rumors whispered through the ranks like sparks in dry grass.

  The goblins are marching.

  The second line failed.

  A legion vanished overnight.

  None of it confirmed.

  All of it believable.

  They had been stationed in the highlands for a week now. In that time, only minor clashes had occurred—skirmishes involving cavalry patrols and a handful of forward outposts.

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  Nothing decisive.

  Which was precisely why this sudden surge of activity set everyone on edge.

  “Ah—Berto, Bill, Tom, and Arin.

  Lilly turned as she noticed them approaching together. Among the parents and grandparents, the four were known as the musketeers—friends since childhood, still moving as one even now.

  “Is everyone present in the camp?” she asked.

  Bertho nodded. “Everyone except Grandpa Karl, I think.”

  “That will have to do.”

  Her gaze sharpened.

  “Scouts have confirmed a goblin army advancing from the north. Similar reports are coming from neighboring legions.”

  The words landed like a hammer.

  “Command has ordered an immediate march. We move before the goblins reach our chosen battlefield.”

  She paused, letting the weight of it settle.

  “Our unit has been assigned sniper duties. You’ll move between formations and eliminate goblin leaders. Any evolved goblins you spot—those are your priority.”

  The four exchanged glances. No fear. No hesitation.

  “Move. Now.”

  The Truth About Goblins

  On paper, goblins were weak.

  Pathetically so.

  The system’s status panels confirmed it again and again.

  Goblin — Standard Status Panel

  Status

  Race: Goblin

  Stage: Mortal

  Class: N/A

  Profession: N/A

  HP: 30/30

  MP: 0/0

  Stats

  Strength: 2

  Agility: 3

  Endurance: 4

  Vitality: 3

  Toughness: 1

  Wisdom: 2

  Intelligence: 3

  Perception: 2

  Willpower: 1

  Free Points: 0

  Enemies meant to be mowed down without much problems, only scary because of their numbers.

  And yet…

  Reality was far uglier.

  Some goblins were different.

  Smarter.

  Sharper.

  More dangerous.

  They didn’t always show it in their panels—often listed only as Goblin, Stage 0.0 when you identifyéd them.—but their presence transformed entire units. Goblins under their command moved with purpose. They didn’t scatter easily. They adapted.

  And when those leaders fell?

  The goblin lines collapsed into chaos—screeching, fleeing, tripping over one another in panic.

  Which was why Lilly’s orders mattered.

  Even in a battle where thousands would die every minute, killing those leaders could change everything.

  Every small advantage mattered.

  The Moment Before Impact

  They dispersed quickly, slipping between marching units to find elevated ground and clear sightlines—places where arrows could fly freely and retreat was still possible.

  They were archers.

  If the goblins reached them in close combat, it meant something had already gone terribly wrong.

  The sun blazed overhead.

  Three months into the Trials, and the world still knew only summer. No rain. No clouds. Just an unrelenting sky pressing down upon millions of armored soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Thirty degrees.

  Steel armor.

  Sweat-soaked cloth.

  Infantry formed dense shield walls, rows upon rows of metal and wood. Archers stood behind them, bows ready but lowered.

  Traditionally, archers would deploy in front.

  But the command did not trust formations yet. Three months were not enough to forge discipline from civilians.

  Not switching the archers behind the infantry was a greater threat than lost range.

  They waited.

  The wind shifted.

  The grass trembled.

  Then—

  The ground shook.

  At first, it was faint. A vibration felt through the soles of their boots rather than heard.

  Then stronger.

  Rhythmic.

  Relentless.

  Bertho’s fingers tightened around his bow.

  “…They’re here.”

  Across the horizon, a sea of green began to rise.

  Humanity’s first true battlefield had arrived.

  And the highlands would soon decide whether the future was bought with blood—or lost beneath it.