As Arin ran back toward the supply wagons, his legs moved on instinct alone. He barely registered the churned-up earth beneath his boots or the bodies he leapt over—green, broken, and already cooling beneath the relentless sun. Only once the roar of battle dulled slightly behind him did he finally notice the sound that had been quietly following him all along.

  A chime.

  Then another.

  Then many more.

  They rang in his mind with mechanical clarity, cutting through the chaos far more sharply than screams or clashing steel ever could.

  You have slain (Goblin — Stage 0.0). Gained 0.1 point.

  You have slain (Goblin — Stage 0.0). Gained 0.1 point.

  You have slain (Goblin — Stage 0.0). Gained 0.1 point.

  The notifications stacked rapidly, scrolling faster than Arin could possibly read. He forced himself not to look too closely—there was no time, and frankly, no desire. Just glancing at the flood of numbers was enough to make his stomach churn.

  So this is why goblins are considered worthless, he thought grimly.

  The numbers were obscene. Even without doing the math, Arin could tell that just this single assault wave had likely cost the goblins tens of thousands of lives. And yet they had charged without hesitation, without fear, without even slowing their advance.

  It wasn’t bravery.

  It wasn’t loyalty.

  It was disposability.

  Whoever commanded them—whatever intelligence lurked behind those empty yellow eyes—saw goblins not as soldiers, not even as living beings, but as resources to be spent.

  Arin clenched his jaw as he reached the supply wagon, grabbing four full sleeves of arrows in practiced motions. His hands moved smoothly despite the tremor in his arms, muscles already screaming their protest.

  The rumor surfaced again in his mind, one that had circulated through the camps ever since the system revealed its cruel arithmetic.

  One human life is worth one full point to goblins.

  Ten goblins for one human.

  The thought sent a cold shiver through him.

  At least humans couldn’t earn points by killing each other. That much had been tested—tragically so. Arin had heard the stories whispered at night: wealthy elites convinced they could farm power by slaughtering peasants, deranged killers who believed the system would reward their madness.

  They had all failed.

  The system had drawn that line clearly.

  Still, it offered no mercy.

  If you wanted strength, you had to risk your life.

  Which was why even nobles now stood in the infantry lines, bows and spears in hand. There was no ruling from behind anymore—not if you wanted to stay relevant in this new world.

  Arin turned and ran back toward the front, weaving between tightly packed ranks of infantry. He passed a mage midway through a casting cycle, the man’s face pale and drenched in sweat as mana slowly coalesced into a crude spell that would, after nearly a minute, finally launch forward to blast apart a dense knot of goblins.

  Powerful, yes.

  But slow.

  Too slow for this kind of war.

  Arin vaulted back onto his familiar stone slab just in time to see the goblins collide fully with the spear-and-shield wall.

  The sight was both horrifying and mesmerizing.

  The first rank of spears struck in unison, skewering charging goblins and pinning them against shields. Bodies fell, impaled and twitching, blood spraying across polished steel and wooden planks. For a moment—just a moment—it looked like the line might hold effortlessly.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Then the pressure increased.

  More goblins surged forward, climbing over the dead without pause. The second spear rank stepped in seamlessly, stabbing over the shoulders of the first, pushing the mass back with ruthless efficiency.

  Arin didn’t cheer.

  He raised his bow.

  His eyes swept across the battlefield, not looking for numbers, but for intent. Goblins that shouted. Goblins that gestured. Goblins whose deaths caused hesitation rather than rage.

  There.

  An arrow flew.

  The goblin’s head snapped back mid-command, its body collapsing into the swarm. The nearby goblins faltered, confused, momentum broken for a crucial heartbeat.

  Another arrow followed.

  Then another.

  Each death sent ripples through the green tide—small disruptions, but enough to matter.

  Goblin bodies began to pile higher and higher until the living had no choice but to climb. Some leapt blindly, arms outstretched, only to be caught midair by arrows that turned them into tumbling corpses.

  One goblin crashed into another.

  Two chimes rang.

  Arin laughed.

  It was sharp, breathless, and wrong—but he didn’t stop shooting.

  Time lost meaning.

  His arms burned. His fingers felt raw, skin split where the bowstring rubbed again and again. Sweat soaked his armor, mixing with dust and blood until everything felt heavy and sticky.

  Around him, the battlefield began to crack.

  Crossbowmen slowed, reloads taking longer. Archers cursed as quivers emptied faster than supply runners could replenish them. Infantry rotated out of the front line, faces ashen, muscles shaking as they staggered back to catch brief moments of rest.

  Even enhanced bodies had limits.

  Even champions tired.

  Mistakes crept in.

  A shield lifted too late.

  A spear thrust that glanced instead of pierced.

  A scream cut short.

  Arin watched a soldier stumble, then vanish beneath a wave of green bodies. The man’s mouth opened, eyes wide with terror, before he was dragged down and torn apart.

  Something twisted painfully in Arin’s chest.

  The infantry was forced back—not by fear, but by corpses. Goblin bodies piled so high that others could leap over the line, crashing down behind shields. The humans retreated meter by meter, fighting both the living and the dead beneath their feet.

  The goblins adapted.

  They hid behind bodies now, using the dead as cover. The evolved ones vanished deeper into the swarm, harder to spot, harder to kill.

  Arin’s shots slowed.

  Not because he wanted them to.

  Because he had to.

  His breaths came shallow and ragged. His vision blurred at the edges. Every draw of the bow felt heavier than the last.

  Then a sound rolled across the battlefield.

  A horn.

  Low.

  Alien.

  It vibrated through the air—and through Arin’s bones.

  The goblins froze.

  Then, as if pulled by unseen strings, they began to withdraw.

  No panic.

  No rout.

  Just retreat.

  As the green tide receded, the battlefield fell into a dreadful silence broken only by groans and crackling fires.

  Arin lowered his bow, hands shaking uncontrollably.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across a field littered with bodies—green and human alike.

  This wasn’t victory.

  It was a warning.

  And as Arin stared at the darkening horizon, one thought settled heavily in his mind.

  This was the first attack of many to come.