As the weeks dragged on, the Trail did not slow.

  If anything, it became heavier.

  With each passing day, more fallen soldiers were revived and returned to the heartlands. They came back carrying memories soaked in blood—memories that no living commander had witnessed firsthand. At first, their testimonies filled in missing gaps on the battlefield: troop movements, goblin formations, and defensive failures. But as the reports piled up, something far more troubling began to surface.

  Problems that neither the military nor the governments had ever anticipated.

  One of the most dangerous discoveries was the growing clash between military troops and civilian combatants.

  At the war’s outset, vast numbers of civilians had been mobilized and sent to the front lines. These were not ordinary people. Many were awakened, strengthened by the strange new power system humanity had barely begun to understand. Stage 0.3 civilians—fighters stronger, faster, and deadlier than most trained soldiers—had fought alongside the military with terrifying efficiency.

  And that efficiency bred arrogance.

  Accustomed to crushing goblins with raw power, many civilian units began to view traditional soldiers as dead weight. Worse still, they saw the chain of command as an insult. No matter how strong a civilian fighter was, they remained unrecognized by the military structure. Officers were still chosen from career soldiers—many of whom were only Stage 0.1.

  To a strengthened civilian, being ordered around by someone weaker felt unbearable.

  Clashes began quietly. Arguments during briefings. Delayed obedience. Units acting independently “for efficiency’s sake.” Then came open defiance—refusals to follow orders, civilians bypassing officers entirely, reorganizing themselves mid-battle.

  Several incidents nearly turned catastrophic.

  The revived soldiers’ accounts made one thing painfully clear: this was not simple insubordination. It was a systemic failure. The existing military hierarchy had never been designed for a world where individual strength could so vastly outweigh rank, training, and experience.

  New systems would have to be created.

  But such reforms required discussion, agreement, and time—luxuries humanity did not possess.

  Another crucial discovery came from the analysis of goblin combat doctrine.

  Among the most heavily scrutinized engagements was the siege and destruction of Legion 23. Central command reviewed the data obsessively, updating projections daily. Something about that battle did not align with patterns observed elsewhere.

  It soon became apparent why.

  The goblin high command at Legion 23’s siege had been eliminated early.

  Without leadership, the goblins did not retreat.

  Instead, they attacked harder.

  Their assault on the camp was far more ferocious and relentless than those on other forts. Waves crashed against the defenses with unthinking fury, pushing bodies forward without pause. At first glance, it appeared worse than a coordinated siege.

  But it wasn’t.

  Leaderless goblins were predictable, slow and exploitable.

  Unlike other forts—where goblin commanders feinted, focused attacks on one wall for days, then launched sudden elite assaults on a different section under cover of darkness—Legion 23 faced something closer to a berserk horde.

  At other fortresses, goblins would grind defenders down, forcing commanders to commit most resources to a single wall on the verge of collapse. Then, in the dead of night, elite units would strike elsewhere. Entire legions had fallen to this tactic—not because they failed to anticipate it, but because they had no choice.

  Three days of nonstop fighting left no reserves.

  Legion 23, by contrast, faced no such deception.

  The goblins were everywhere—and nowhere clever.

  Their forces were spread thin. Their movements lacked coordination. And as a result, they died faster. Casualty rates among goblin forces at Legion 23 were dramatically higher than in other sieges.

  It was a grim realization.

  Leadership made goblins deadlier.

  The strategy chamber—once transformed into a tribunal hall—had returned to its original purpose.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Now, beneath towering stone walls etched with ancient maps, the highest military leaders of every major nation gathered once more. Generals, marshals, and commanders stood around a massive central table, eyes fixed on the latest compiled report.

  Central command was still one day behind reality.

  Even with relay stations and messengers running themselves to death, information took time. A full day of nonstop movement was required for reports to travel between the heartland and command.

  Herman Merz stood at the head of the chamber.

  “Everyone has read the summary,” he said, his voice steady but heavy. “Before we proceed, we need to address an issue raised in the previous session.”

  He turned slightly.

  “I believe Marshal Xian Mu has a proposal regarding civilian command conflicts.”

  Xian stepped forward.

  “Thank you, Marshal Merz.”

  His voice was calm, deliberate. The room quieted—not because of fear, but because of respect.

  “As we all understand,” Xian began, “the future of warfare will not be determined by tradition. It will be determined by strength.”

  A murmur passed through the chamber.

  “In a world where individual power can decide the outcome of battles,” Xian continued, “the strong will inevitably matter more than the weak. If forced to choose between one Stage 1 human and a thousand Stage 0.3 humans, we would choose the Stage 1. That is simply reality.”

  He paused, scanning the room.

  “No one disagreed.”

  “But,” Xian said, raising a finger, “strength alone does not make a commander.”

  A few heads nodded.

  “I do not trust a powerful individual to command an army by default. A foolish Stage 1 human could destroy an entire force through arrogance. Worse, their strength would silence dissent—no one would dare challenge them.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “When power becomes unquestionable, mistakes become fatal.”

  Xian clasped his hands behind his back.

  “After reviewing the reports of civilian–military conflict, I came to a conclusion. We do not have the resources to properly train and discipline such massive forces. However, if civilian factions wish to shoulder part of the burden, we should allow it—under controlled conditions.”

  Herman exhaled sharply. “Get to the point, Xian. We’re short on time.”

  Xian inclined his head.

  “One of our strategic analysts proposed an unusual idea. They suggested examining fictional military structures—novels, specifically.”

  A few eyebrows rose.

  “Yes,” Xian said calmly. “And before you dismiss it, understand this: many such works were written to explore power hierarchies in ways traditional militaries never had to.”

  He continued.

  “We propose granting strengthened civilians honorary military ranks.”

  The room stirred.

  “For example,” Xian said, “a Stage 0.3 civilian could be granted an honorary corporal rank. They would be permitted to command all troops below that rank—civilian or military.”

  Herman leaned forward.

  “But,” Xian added, “they would still be required to obey a trained military corporal of the same rank, even if that individual is only Stage 0.1.”

  Silence followed.

  “This preserves military discipline,” Xian said, “while acknowledging strength. It prevents civilians from feeling ignored, while ensuring trained leadership remains intact.”

  He raised another finger.

  “Furthermore, beyond a certain rank, advancement would require formal testing—not of strength, but of command capability. Strategy. Judgment. Emotional control.”

  Xian’s gaze swept the chamber.

  “Incompetent individuals must not be allowed to accumulate unchecked authority, no matter how strong they are.”

  He paused.

  “I welcome additional restrictions and suggestions.”

  No one spoke immediately.

  Some were calculating.

  Some were unsettled.

  But no one objected.

  Xian allowed himself a small, satisfied breath.

  The system was imperfect.

  But in a world where humanity balanced between extinction and evolution, perfection was a luxury long since lost.

  And as the meeting continued, one truth became impossible to ignore:

  The war was no longer just against goblins.

  It was against humanity’s traditional way of life.