Arrows flew from Arin’s bow in an unbroken rhythm.

  Loose.

  Draw.

  Loose.

  Each release was precise, efficient—mechanical. His arms moved on instinct alone as goblins clawed their way up the walls in endless waves. Bodies stacked, slipped, and crushed one another as the creatures screamed and climbed, driven forward by numbers alone.

  Then—suddenly—it changed.

  The pressure broke.

  Like a wave hitting a cliff, the goblins at a certain section of the wall were violently pushed back. Arin could see it clearly from his elevated position: a sharp boundary where goblins were still scrambling upward—and beyond it, a cascading collapse of green bodies tumbling down.

  They weren’t being killed.

  They were being pulled away.

  “What…?” Arin muttered, fingers tightening on the bowstring. “What’s happening?”

  His eyes followed the movement. Goblins peeled away from the wall in droves, shoving and trampling each other as they surged toward something else—something below.

  The gate.

  “Is this what the commander was waiting for?” Arin wondered. “Is this the plan?”

  His thoughts spiraled dangerously close to distraction.

  “No,” he said sharply, slapping his own cheek hard enough to sting. “Focus.”

  He forced his breathing to steady and turned inward.

  Inventory check.

  Arin stood atop the raised platform above the gate—a reinforced lookout chamber that had become his last station. Around him was chaos neatly contained: chest after chest stacked high, filled with sleeves of arrows; crude wooden barrels packed tight with loose shafts for quick access when there wasn’t time to reload properly.

  It was a mess—but an intentional one.

  He was completely enclosed. Most windows could be sealed with iron latches. There was only one entrance, narrow and easy to barricade. If he closed everything, goblins would have no simple way inside.

  Food and water for two days.

  Roughly two thousand arrows.

  They had left him here because he couldn’t retreat.

  If the fortress walls fell, Arin wouldn’t make it to the central tower in time. So instead of forcing an impossible escape, command had turned him into a fixed weapon.

  A final sentry.

  “Guess this is where I make my stand,” Arin murmured.

  He pulled arrow sleeves from an open chest, shaking the shafts loose and sliding them into the empty barrels around him. He’d gone through three full barrels in just two hours—each holding about fifty arrows.

  Refilling them took five minutes.

  Five precious minutes of calm.

  When he finished, his hands trembled. His vision swam slightly at the edges.

  Eat, he told himself.

  Arin grabbed an MRE packet from a crate and sighed in relief.

  “Thank the gods for military rations,” he muttered.

  Earlier in the siege, when logistics still functioned, meals came from a communal kitchen. Hot food—barely seasoned, painfully bland. Feeding a million soldiers burned through spices faster than any campaign ever could.

  When the supply lines were cut, they’d eaten what remained in storage.

  Then came the MREs.

  They weren’t good. But they were warm. And right now, warm mattered.

  Arin activated the heating pouch and leaned against the wall, peering through a narrow slit overlooking the battlefield. Below, goblins streamed in a single direction—toward the gate. A living river of bodies, jostling and shrieking.

  Something nagged at him.

  I forgot something, he thought.

  The MRE finished heating. Arin grabbed it eagerly—then froze.

  “…Utensils.”

  He stared at the pouch. Looked around the room.

  Nothing.

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  No spoon. No fork. Nothing remotely usable.

  His eye twitched.

  “Of course,” he growled. “Of course you cut the spoons.”

  His mind drifted bitterly to the officials back home—the brilliant minds who had decided to slash all “unnecessary expenditures” during pre-Trial mobilization. Survival of the species demanded sacrifice, they said.

  Apparently, spoons were optional.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. Governments had suddenly discovered tax laws they’d ignored for decades. Capitalists cried real tears as their hidden money was dragged into the light.

  Not that it mattered now.

  Money won’t save anyone, Arin thought grimly.

  With a resigned sigh, he tilted the pouch and drank the contents straight.

  “Ugh—” He gagged. “That’s vile.”

  He swallowed anyway.

  “I will personally hunt down whoever cut the spoon budget,” he muttered darkly.

  The moment he finished eating, the structure shook violently.

  A thunderous crash echoed from below.

  Dust fell from the ceiling.

  Arin was on his feet instantly, bow in hand.

  “Right,” he said calmly. “That’s my cue.”

  Below him, soldiers hurried through the walkways, finishing their meals with the same grim expressions. They picked up swords and spears—still dull, but sharpened enough to kill.

  The horns sounded.

  Another hour passed in a blur of blood and arrows.

  Arin covered roughly a quarter of the wall—far too much for one man, but there was no one else. He sniped emerging threats, broke ladders before they formed, and killed any goblin that looked remotely intelligent.

  Then the retreat signal came.

  Only a thousand soldiers remained on the walls.

  They fell back with discipline—an orderly withdrawal toward the central tower. The rear guard held the line, bleeding goblins dry as the rest escaped.

  Arin moved quickly.

  He sealed every window and barred the door, leaving only a single narrow opening facing the tower’s entrance. Then he waited.

  The goblins rushed past him.

  They didn’t even look his way.

  Their attention was locked on the tower—the last refuge of humanity’s defenders. The creatures followed each other blindly, driven by momentum.

  Perfect.

  Arin loosed arrow after arrow into their backs, thinning the horde without revealing his position.

  Soon, the tower gates slammed shut.

  Only three hundred humans made it inside.

  The rest died screaming—either cut down before reaching safety or holding the gate long enough for others to escape.

  The tower vanished beneath goblins.

  It was swallowed whole.

  From the outside, it no longer existed—just a writhing mound of green bodies.

  But the design held.

  The tower had only one entrance. Narrow gaps in its structure allowed defenders to thrust swords and spears outward, killing goblins by the dozens. The creatures lacked proper axes. Their throwing weapons chipped uselessly at the wood.

  Progress was slow.

  Painfully slow.

  Two hours passed.

  And then Arin saw it.

  A goblin pushing through the crowd, holding a torch.

  “Finally,” Arin whispered.

  This was why he hadn’t fired. Why he’d waited.

  He drew a deep breath.

  One arrow flew—pinning the torch to the ground.

  Another followed—piercing the goblin’s skull.

  The flame died.

  Arin retreated into the shadows, heart pounding.

  In the pitch-black night, the extinguished torch was obvious.

  The goblins shrieked in frustration.

  Arin leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.

  “It’s going to be a long night,” he said quietly.

  And he nocked another arrow.