Arin’s death did not mark the end of the battle.

  It marked the moment hope finally burned away.

  When the tower was set ablaze, its defenders understood instantly what it meant. The archer was gone. The shadow that had stalked the goblins through the night—silencing torches, breaking assaults, turning narrow paths into slaughter grounds—had finally fallen.

  And without him, there was nothing left to hold.

  Those still inside the tower fought anyway.

  They fought with the fury of men who had already accepted death, storming out through smoke and flame in one last, desperate charge. Blades dulled from days of fighting hacked and thrust until arms gave out. Shields shattered. Spears snapped. One by one, they were swallowed by the horde, their final screams lost beneath the endless roar of goblins.

  The tower collapsed soon after, engulfed in fire.

  Across the remaining defensive lines of humanity, similar scenes played out.

  Fortifications that had held for days finally broke. Units that had once been disciplined formations dissolved into last stands and scattered resistance. The final legions guarding humanity’s first great defensive arc fell almost simultaneously, as though some cruel conductor had given the signal for collapse.

  But the true scale of disaster extended far beyond the smoking ruins of Legion 23’s camp.

  Far to the south and north, beyond the ruined fortresses and blood-soaked plains, humanity’s so-called “fast armies” were meeting their own annihilation.

  These forces—once a shining symbol of human adaptability—had stretched across the horizon, advancing in near-perfect synchronization. Their task had been simple in theory: sweep around the Great Lake, bypass the main goblin concentration, and strike at the second goblin defensive line.

  The distance had been calculated precisely.

  Five hundred kilometers.

  They never reached it.

  As predicted by central command—but not truly believed—the goblins were waiting.

  The moment the human forces rounded the Great Lake, the battlefield exploded into chaos. Massive goblin armies surged forward, meeting the advancing legions head-on. In some regions, open-field engagements erupted—brutal, fast, and catastrophic. In others, fragmented defensive pockets formed, or desperate assaults against hastily prepared goblin positions.

  For central command, these battles were data.

  For the soldiers fighting them, they were hell.

  Millions died in a single day.

  The human armies, despite superior weapons and tactics, lacked one critical advantage: choice. The goblins dictated the terrain, the timing, and the scale of engagement. Even when humans won locally, they paid for it in blood they could not replace.

  By the time the final resistance on the main battlefield collapsed, humanity had been pushed entirely back to its second defensive line. Fortresses guarding the entrance to the great bridges—lifelines leading deeper into human-controlled territory—fell one by one, almost in sync with the destruction of the last forward legions.

  Somewhere, unseen and uncelebrated, a countdown began.

  High above a violent, roaring river that carved through the land like a wound stood Sea Fortress No. 3.

  The fortress was built entirely of stone, anchored into the sheer cliffside as if grown rather than constructed. Though it had existed for less than six months, wind, rain, and river spray had already weathered it into something ancient. From a distance, it looked as though it had guarded the river for a thousand years.

  Spanning the impossible torrent below was a structure that defied reason.

  Calling it a bridge felt insufficient.

  It was a slab of granite—two kilometers wide and a hundred meters thick—stretching across the river without visible supports. It simply was, floating in defiance of gravity and logic alike.

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  The soldiers stationed there had long since stopped questioning it.

  There were already too many impossible things in this Trail.

  Deep within Sea Fortress No. 3 sat European Marshal Herman Merz, alone in his office, staring at a map that no longer made sense.

  Moments earlier, the last sub-fortress across the river had fallen.

  Five elite legions had been sent to defend the Sub-fortress across the river.

  None survived.

  More troubling still was the goblins’ behavior afterward.

  They had not advanced.

  They had not attacked.

  They waited.

  As if preparing something.

  Or building something.

  The lack of intelligence gnawed at Herman more than the losses themselves. Humanity had spent centuries refining warfare—only to be thrown back into a brutal, pre-industrial nightmare where information traveled slower than death.

  The door opened quietly.

  Herman looked up to see Rian, his right-hand man, entering without ceremony.

  “Herman,” Rian said, closing the door behind him.

  Herman leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Tell me you have a better answer than waiting,” he said sharply. “Because I hate doing nothing.”

  Rian sighed. He rarely spoke at length, and when he did, it was never good news.

  “I know,” Rian said calmly. “But we have three major problems that prevent us from acting.”

  He raised a finger.

  “First, we still don’t know how the goblins moved behind our lines in such numbers. That path should not exist—or if it does, it should have been impossible to traverse unnoticed. Our scouts missed it completely.”

  Herman scowled.

  “I don’t expect the special forces we sent to find that answer,” Rian continued. “They weren’t trained for this kind of reconnaissance. If anyone can uncover it, it’s Karl and his family.”

  A second finger rose.

  “Second, we need full accounts from both the attacking legions and the collapsed defensive line. We need to know what worked, what failed, and why. Without that data, any counterattack is suicide.”

  A third finger.

  “And third—logistics.”

  Rian’s voice hardened.

  “We need time. Horses. Cattle. Transport. Supply chains. An army runs on logistics, and frankly, ours are terrible. We do not currently have the means to sustain a proper offensive.”

  He finished speaking and took a sip of whiskey, which he had poured for both of them without asking.

  Herman was silent for a long moment.

  “…You’re right,” he said at last. “But I still can’t accept that our scouts missed something so obvious.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration etched deep into his face, then downed his drink and poured another.

  The war was unfolding faster than anyone had anticipated.

  And worse horrors were clearly waiting.

  “Next week,” Herman said quietly, “we should see the first soldiers revived back home. The ones whose caravans were cut off.”

  “Yes,” Rian replied. “Roughly. A few days earlier or later, perhaps.”

  Herman nodded. “I’ve ordered all officer testimonies to be recorded.”

  “The messenger should have arrived by now,” Rian said.

  Herman glanced at the clock on the wall.

  “…Right,” he muttered. “Time for bed.”

  He stood slowly, feeling every year of his age settle into his bones.

  “Hopefully the goblins attack tomorrow,” he said dryly. “These old bones could use a chance to blow off some steam.”

  Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon.

  And somewhere beyond the river, beyond the fallen towers and burning camps, the goblins continued to wait.