Night settled over the highlands like a heavy blanket.

  The camp was alive with the crackling of fires and the low murmur of exhausted voices, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the lingering stench of battle. Around one such fire sat Arin’s family, gathered close as they scrubbed goblin blood from their armor. The metal clinked softly as wet cloth met steel, each wipe revealing dull scratches and dried green-black stains that refused to come off easily.

  They hadn’t fought in the front lines like the infantry. As archers, they had stayed behind the shield wall, stepping forward only when breaches opened and chaos threatened to spill through. Still, that hadn’t spared them from the aftermath. They had helped clear the battlefield afterward, dragging bodies aside, piling weapons, and trying not to breathe too deeply.

  The goblins smelled worse than anything Arin had ever known—far worse than a public sewer. Even now, no matter how hard they scrubbed, the stench clung stubbornly to their hands and armor.

  Karl cleared his throat once everyone had gathered.

  “After roll call,” he said calmly, “we can confirm that no one in our unit has died. No serious injuries either.”

  A wave of relief passed through the group.

  “I don’t know how you all managed it,” Karl continued, glancing around the fire, “but judging from the points you reported, we more than met the minimum requirement of ten goblins per life.”

  A few chuckles followed, strained but genuine.

  “The commander has granted us a day and a half of relaxed rules after today’s battle,” Karl went on. “We’ll use that time wisely. Check your equipment, repair what you can, and report any long-term issues. Don’t forget to restock arrows and log how many sleeves you used.”

  He paused, then added dryly, “At least we don’t have to report our points. The system already sent those straight to Central Command.”

  With that, he waved them off, and the family dispersed toward their usual campfires—groups loosely divided by age.

  All except one.

  That fire, brighter and louder than the rest, was centered around a single small figure.

  “Well, Tilly,” her mother Avela said, kneeling beside her, “how was your day with Grandpa?”

  Avela still wasn’t comfortable with her eleven-year-old daughter being anywhere near a battlefield. She never would be. The only thing that eased her worry—just a little—was knowing that Tilly had stayed behind the infantry line, always close to Karl. That, and the uncomfortable truth that her daughter was stronger than ninety percent of the army.

  “It was really fun, Mom!” Tilly said brightly, her eyes sparkling as she gestured wildly. “The goblins fell out of the sky like this—bam! And Grandpa was standing on this big rock, shooting the smart ones first! They were running everywhere!”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Avela smiled weakly. “That’s… nice, Tilly.”

  Johnny, who had been listening quietly, glanced toward Teun. “Dad, what’s with the rumor going around? People are saying the commander wasn’t happy with how the legion performed.”

  He frowned slightly. “I thought we did well, especially considering it was our first major engagement—and we were outnumbered.”

  Teun sighed and leaned back, staring into the fire.

  “It’s not about casualties,” he said slowly. “It’s about what almost happened. For about an hour, fear and exhaustion were written on too many faces. In a battle like this, that’s dangerous.”

  Arin frowned. “It didn’t look like a rout from where I was. I saw fatigue, sure—but not panic.”

  “You’re right,” Karl said as he took over from his son. “Our section held. But remember—nearly half our legion is made up of trained soldiers. They’ve endured worse. The rest are civilians who’ve only seen war in movies or games.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “If we didn’t have so many professionals anchoring the line, today could have ended very differently. A single break, one person running… and the rest would have followed. A million deaths, unnecessary and avoidable.”

  Silence followed his words.

  Arin shifted, then changed the subject. “So… how was the bow, Grandpa?”

  It was the first time Karl had used it in real combat. Arin had been forbidden from touching his own profession until just a month before the teleport, so he’d been eager for feedback.

  Karl’s expression softened. “It performed beautifully. You already knew that, though.”

  He smiled faintly. “What surprised me most was the fatigue reduction. Long-term shooting felt… lighter. Less strain.”

  That wasn’t surprising. Both bows had been crafted from branches of the same Twilight Yew. Each arrow fired drew a trace of mana—too little for non-mages to consciously notice, but enough to wear down the soul over time. The wood eased that burden, quietly restoring balance with every breath.

  “That’s great to hear, Grandpa,” Arin said. “I can’t wait to go back and see what our forest becomes when we win.”

  Karl nodded slowly. “Me too.”

  His gaze drifted upward, past the firelight, past the darkened hills—toward a distant Earth that felt impossibly far away. The thought of it all—the system, the battles, the absurdity of their new reality—pressed heavily on his chest.

  Still, around the fire, laughter returned. Exaggerated stories spread. Numbers grew taller with each retelling. Goblins were slain again and again in words, if not in reality.

  But far to the east, beyond the camp, near the sea—

  Something else was already moving.

  And it was not laughing.