The horn’s call tore through the camp like a blade.

  Its raw, brassy howl echoed across the hills, bouncing off tents and fortifications alike, ripping soldiers from sleep and thought in equal measure. All across the encampment, men and women jolted awake, instincts honed by weeks of repetition kicking in before consciousness fully followed.

  Boots hit the ground. Armor plates clattered. Someone cursed loudly as they tripped over a bedroll.

  Arin shot upright, heart pounding, the sound still ringing in his ears as if the horn had been blown directly beside his head.

  “Already…?” he muttered.

  From the neighboring cot, Tom groaned like a dying man. “I swear, if this is another goblin charge, I’m going to start counting how many times they’ve ruined my sleep.”

  He dragged himself up, fumbling with his gear, hands moving out of habit rather than thought.

  As they hurried out of the tent into the predawn gloom, the camp was already alive with motion. Lines were forming. Officers shouted orders. The dull red glow of torches and mage-lights flickered between the tents as people ran toward their assigned positions atop the hill.

  “Three weeks,” Tom said bitterly as they jogged. “Three damn weeks of this. First every three days—fine, predictable, manageable. But this last week?” He shook his head. “Every day. Sometimes twice.”

  Arin adjusted his quiver, making sure the arrows hadn’t shifted in the night. “They’re testing us.”

  “Testing us?” Tom scoffed. “With this? Charging headfirst into fortified positions again and again? They’ll never break the line like this.”

  Arin didn’t answer immediately.

  The truth was, Tom wasn’t wrong—and that was what bothered him.

  “I don’t know,” Arin said finally. “Let the commander worry about it. Our job is to hold.”

  He glanced at Tom. “Unless you want to be made an example of. Like Legion Forty.”

  Tom froze mid-step.

  “…Don’t joke about that,” he said, his face draining of color. “Absolutely not.”

  Then he bolted forward. “Move, move, move!”

  Arin allowed himself a grim smile before following.

  To understand why that single reference struck such fear into seasoned soldiers, one had to look back—back to the report that had arrived a week earlier and nearly ignited a political firestorm within Legion Twenty-Three.

  Legion Twenty-Three’s encampment had grown into something almost legendary among the other legions.

  Built atop a wide, flattened hill, it resembled an enormous Roman marching camp—only scaled to absurd proportions. Thick earthen ramparts reinforced with stone and timber encircled the perimeter, while the interior was segmented into five distinct zones. Each segment was independently defensible, with its own reserves, command posts, and fallback routes.

  If one section fell, the others would hold.

  It was a fortress born not of confidence, but of caution.

  That afternoon, as soldiers went about their duties under the relentless summer sun, a lone rider burst through the outer gate.

  “I carry an urgent message from Central Command!” the man shouted, horse lathered with sweat as he reined it in.

  The gate captain barely looked up from his post.

  “Yes, yes,” he said lazily. “Up the hill, then left. Officers’ camp. You can’t miss it.”

  He waved the rider through, utterly unimpressed.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  As the messenger spurred his horse onward—yelling for soldiers to clear the path—the guards at the gate broke into laughter.

  “I’m calling it now,” one of them said. “Five copper coins says he asks why we haven’t advanced further.”

  “No way,” another replied. “That’s too obvious. Bet on the commander’s reaction instead.”

  David snorted. “That’s gambling suicide. Eloi could do anything.”

  They all laughed.

  Central Command messengers were infamous. Often born into influence, insulated from consequences, and wielding authority like a club, they treated frontline legions as pieces on a board. Even though they did not hold any real authority, their position was important, and more importantly save, so they were given to descendants of politically important and rich people. Legion Twenty-Three wasn’t alone in despising them—but it was one of the few legions confident enough to laugh about it openly.

  The recent introduction of physical currency had only fueled the fire.

  Copper, silver, gold—each tied directly to points. One copper equaled 0.01 points, increasing by a factor of 100. It was important to note that legion 23 caused the system to create those coins as they were begging to have real currency to bet with, as that felt more real. So it was partly obliged because the soldiers were complaining, but more importantly, because it reduced its computing load. The soldiers were over the moon.

  Inside the command tent, Eloi sat hunched over a map, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.

  “Eloi,” Selvijs said brightly as he entered, rubbing his hands together, “we have a visitor. Messenger from Central Command.”

  Eloi didn’t look up. “Let him come in. What is the delay?”

  “Well…” Selvijs tilted his head. “He demanded food and drink first. Said he’d been riding for a full day.”

  The wooden armrest beneath Eloi’s grip let out an ominous creak.

  “…Of course he did.”

  “Sofie,” Eloi said sharply.

  “Yes, sir,” came the immediate reply.

  “Please escort the messenger here,” Eloi said, voice tight. “Immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Sofie exited, Eloi turned slowly to his vice-commander.

  “You’re enjoying this,” he said flatly.

  “Me?” Selvijs replied, adopting a look of mock innocence. “Never.”

  Eloi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me what you bet on.”

  Selvijs sighed dramatically. “A silver coin.”

  “…On what?”

  “That you’d attempt to detain him for dereliction of duty.”

  Eloi stared at him. “You’re going to lose.”

  “Worth it.”

  Eloi exhaled slowly, forcing his temper down. “Now—why are supply carts disappearing?”

  That wiped the smile from Selvijs’s face instantly.

  “No tracks. No bodies. No signs of goblins,” he said seriously. “Captain Sofie searched personally. Ten-kilometer radius. Nothing.”

  “That’s what scares me,” Eloi muttered. “The left flank attacks are too clean. Too controlled.”

  And making not enough ground for the time it takes.

  Selvijs nodded. “Central Command thinks it’s a trap. They’re waiting to see it spring.”

  “And we’re the bait.”

  “Looks that way.”

  Before either could say more, raised voices erupted outside the tent—sharp, urgent, and angry.

  Eloi closed his eyes.

  “Here we go,” he said. as the tent flap opened up.