Arin stood atop a naturally raised slab of stone, its surface worn smooth by time and wind. From here, just behind the first line of infantry, he had a clear view of the battlefield stretching out before him.
And what a battlefield it was.
The human army formed an orderly, disciplined line across the highlands. Even with civilians mixed among trained soldiers, the difference was obvious. Some faces were pale, others wide-eyed, their awe impossible to hide as they stood within a truly colossal medieval army for the first time. Armor glinted under the sun. Spears stood straight. Shields aligned in neat rows.
The soldiers themselves looked composed—almost bored—but Arin noticed the spark in their eyes. After all, who didn’t feel something stir when holding a sword or bow for the first time?
Compared to what stood opposite them, humanity looked almost elegant.
The goblins, by contrast, were chaos incarnate.
From afar, they resembled a living stain spreading across the land—an uneven, writhing mass of green bodies surging forward without order or formation. Arin struggled to find a better comparison than a flock of panicked chickens being herded toward slaughter.
There were so many of them.
And unfortunately… they were impossible to ignore.
Even from several kilometers away, Arin could clearly see that the goblins were barely clothed. Most wore little more than crude leaf skirts—if they could be called that—and even those were often torn, missing, or hanging by a thread. Many goblins were effectively naked, their green skin exposed to the sun.
As for weapons?
Calling them armed would have been generous.
Some carried sticks. Others clutched what might generously be described as clubs. Most looked better suited to fighting with teeth and claws than anything resembling a tool.
The goblins came to a halt roughly a kilometer away—at least, that was Arin’s estimate from his position on the left flank, near one of the paths leading deeper into the highlands.
The human legions were deployed in a wide fan, stretching from lake to lake. The 23rd Legion sat near the front, making them one of the first to meet the enemy. Thankfully, the goblin advance was spread evenly across the entire line rather than concentrated at a single point.
That was a relief.
A focused breakthrough attempt would have forced humanity to deploy contingency plans—plans that assumed the loss of several legions in exchange for decisive counterstrikes.
Better not to go there yet.
For nearly an hour, the two armies simply stared at one another.
The goblins waited.
The humans held their positions.
The legions occupied a slight elevation, flanked by two shallow rivers—barely a meter wide and half a meter deep, but enough to disrupt momentum and reduce the effectiveness of sheer numbers. The commanders refused to give up that advantage.
As the sun began its slow descent, its light lowering into the eyes of the human army, the goblins finally moved.
From above, it must have looked like a green sea crashing toward a silver-and-brown shoreline.
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Arin narrowed his eyes.
So they waited for the sun.
That alone shattered most preconceptions about goblins being mindless. The timing was deliberate—giving their troops time to rest while still controlling the flow of battle. Wait much longer, and human commanders might have been forced to advance instead.
Smart.
But it didn’t change Arin’s role.
Find the smart ones. Kill them.
Commands rippled through the ranks.
“Nock arrows!”
“Loose freely!”
The goblins were still three hundred meters away—far beyond reliable accuracy for most archers. Normally, arrows at that distance would be little more than harassment, incapable of penetrating proper armor.
But goblins wore no armor.
Arrows fell like rain.
The sky darkened as thousands of shafts arced forward, plunging into the oncoming horde. Goblins collapsed in droves, bodies tumbling over one another. Some were hit so thoroughly they were unrecognizable beneath the fletching protruding from them.
At first, the volleys were synchronized.
Then the rhythm loosened, each archer firing at their own pace.
Arin drew his bow.
Calm.
As his eyes scanned the battlefield, he noticed pockets of panic erupting among the goblins—only to be forcefully suppressed by sharp cries from specific individuals.
There.
An evolved goblin stood slightly taller, its posture straighter, its eyes sharp. It barked commands, slapping fleeing goblins back into line.
Arin inhaled.
Exhaled.
His fingers released.
The arrow flew.
He didn’t bother watching it land—he already knew. Even as the first target fell, Arin loosed three more arrows in rapid succession, each aimed at another evolved goblin he had marked.
Four arrows.
Four deaths.
The effect was immediate.
Roughly four thousand goblins lost cohesion, their advance faltering as panic spread unchecked. Many fell moments later—cut down by arrows meant for others.
As the distance closed, the green tide fragmented into uneven patches rather than a solid mass. Some goblins attempted crude tactics, shoving their comrades forward as living shields.
Those, too, became targets.
This was the snipers’ domain.
After ten minutes, another wave surged forward.
Arrows were spent quickly.
While others swapped sleeves after exhausting their twenty-four shafts, Arin had already emptied both. His unique draw style—four arrows held ready—allowed him to fire faster than most, but it drained supplies just as quickly.
The field remained a target-rich environment.
Too rich.
Without hesitation, Arin turned and sprinted toward the supply wagons two hundred meters behind the line. There were no runners—the formation was stretched thin, and every capable body was already committed.
As he ran, the sounds of battle followed him.
The screaming.
The thud of arrows.
The distant roar of tens of thousands charging to their deaths.
This was only the beginning.
And the highlands were already drinking deep.
