As it turns out the ‘good news’ Olev and Joe brought was that the expedition leaders decided that it was ‘too dangerous’ to proceed any further, and thus, an immediate return to the city was ordered.

  Right.

  So it wasn’t dangerous enough before huh?

  It seems like the quickly deteriorating weather with the increasingly ominous clouds was the final nail in the coffin. Whatever way you look at it, engaging in combat with orcs appearing out of nowhere, who possess superior knowledge of the terrain, is... unwise.

  But life has a twisted sense of humor.

  The rain started falling just an hour after we began walking home. A cold, steady downpour. Now a long, miserable column of people in heavy gear slogs through half-drowned roads as the few unfortunate scouts sweep the surrounding area for ambushes.

  It’s not a question of if but when we will be attacked.

  Shit.

  Previously, all the adventurers were just trailing behind the main group, but now new orders have come and we’ve been split into two groups, the front and the rear.

  While Brian, the bald ballsack, and his companions have been assigned to the front, our trio got the honor of trailing behind, together with the other unlucky adventurers, who are right now questioning their life choices. If people in front have to walk through a somewhat damp road, we get the mud left behind them. And the condition of the road is unlikely to become better.

  The forest hums softly as the sound of droplets hitting the leaves merges into an orchestra. It would’ve been quite pleasant to enjoy this ‘music’ from within a warm and dry cabin. Sadly the experience is more... direct and unpleasant.

  An angry groan escapes me as my foot sinks deeply into the mud and some of it gets into my boot which was previously dry.

  Why? Why the fuck are we in the rear? This doesn’t make sense!

  Shouldn’t the Army position the strongest warriors in the rear and front, while the more... soft... contingent is gathered in the middle? At least that’s what the books about strategy said, and the teachers in the clan were quite insistent on drilling the basics of group formation into us.

  Hm.

  Either the army leaders don’t know anything about group formation or... we are a bait.

  No. No way.

  They wouldn’t.

  ...Would they?

  Fuck.

  I glance over at Olev, a thought worming its way up.

  "Can’t we just... join the sentries in the middle?"

  "What?" Olev glances at me, brow furrowed.

  "We’re part of the army, right?" I lift my arm, pointing at the bracelet on my wrist.

  "Uh... yeah?"

  "Then why are we stuck with the adventurers at the back? Can’t we just show our bracelets and join the center?"

  Olev exhales.

  "Because we’re here as adventurers. We’re the auxiliary force. The ones in the center? They’re the core force. Handpicked by the army."

  I pause.

  Handpicked?

  What?

  I haven’t seen much of the core force, but from what I have seen, they didn’t look particularly special. Competent, maybe—but nothing impressive. They weren’t running in circles screaming, sure, but...

  This is the elite?

  Wait.

  I turn back to Olev.

  "Then why weren’t you picked?"

  Olev gives a tight, crooked smile. No answer.

  I keep going, undeterred. "Joe’s a merchant. I’m just a smith. Makes sense we weren’t considered or invited. But you’re different. You’re in the Army and way ahead of those guys."

  Joe suddenly finds the trees fascinating and starts studying them without saying a word.

  Huh?

  Olev’s expression turns a little guilty.

  "I didn’t tell you, did I?"

  He sighs, and then, after a breath, turns fully toward me.

  "I’m in the Reserve."

  I blink.

  "What? What does that mean?"

  "It means I’m officially part of the army... but I don’t participate in normal duties."

  He pauses.

  "You ever notice I’ve never been assigned any actual tasks? No patrols. No guard rotations. Nothing. Hell, even you as an Army smith have obligations and tasks assigned to you by superiors, right."

  Now that he says it...

  Why didn’t I notice?

  I just assumed he was busy with his own stuff while I did mine. I never questioned it.

  Olev clears his throat.

  "You remember my uncle, right?"

  I nod slowly.

  "He’s Captain of the Reserve Force in Rockwall. He’s allowed to gather a handful of soldiers and personally train them, with very little oversight. You’ve probably seen them—those guys who stick to him like glue."

  He pauses again and a dark smile appears on his face.

  "But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows either... We’re not allowed to leave the city vicinity, and what I’m doing right now is already stretching things. There’s also the fact that I can’t move away from Rockwall. Literally can’t. I’m supposed to be here for at least another decade."

  His eyes narrow.

  "And there’s no financial support. Nothing. So we do what we can. Adventuring, quests. Scraping by. My uncle encourages it. Thinks it builds character. Says it’s more useful than drilling formations for the hundredth time."

  Then his voice drops.

  "The Reserve exists for a reason. It’s not idle forever. If a rebellion breaks out—or something goes wrong, like it has in the East—then we get the call. No warning. No choice. Could be tomorrow. Could be next year. And once the order comes, we move out." he finishes with a resigned look.

  Well...

  That’s...

  Yeah...

  It’s quite a lot to take in at once.

  Hm.

  I picture myself in his place. Living day by day under a sword hanging by a thread. Knowing any moment could tear you away to some blood-soaked battlefield you want no part of.

  Wait.

  Actually... that’s not far from my own situation, is it?

  Well, not exactly. Mine was an over-glorified test, failing which could result in me ending at the Light Border. And I passed it and am safe.

  This is different. This is war... Real war. Of course not on the level of endless war like the Light Border, but still...

  The magnitude of danger is different.

  Olev never showed it. Never let it slip.

  But now, looking at him... the cracks are there.

  Shit.

  But wait a minute.

  On the other hand, if no tensions in the Empire had occurred, it would’ve been perfect.

  This ‘Reserve Force’ seems like a very well-designed loophole to evade the Light Border.

  VERY WELL-DESIGNED.

  A general-purpose solution.

  Better than even my own contract.

  Hm.

  So I wasn’t the only one who played the game from the side.

  Not the only one who bent the rules.

  Not the only one who cheated.

  ...

  Me and my fucking mouth.

  A few days ago, I was bitching about the gray clouds and the light drizzle. Soft little rain. Barely a nuisance.

  Well, since then things have changed. For the worse, much worse.

  I’m not even talking about the hellish nights—that’s a whole different trauma I’m not equipped to unpack right now.

  This morning the sky was so dark you couldn’t even tell dawn had come. And less than an hour ago something new arrived, a full-blown storm and with heavy rain all wrapped into a blend of nicely packaged general ‘FUCK YOU’ from mother nature. It’s like someone dumped a whole bucket of water on you, except that someone continued to do that again and again non-stop. Bucket after bucket, all while lightning is cracking overhead.

  And the road? Not a road anymore. Just a thick, churning sludge pit with aspirations of quicksand.

  I would love to go back in time and slap myself for complaining. Oh no, the road was slightly muddy? Some wet socks? Tragic. Real tearjerker. But hey, good news, Harv—your wish for "a change" came true. Just not quite the change you wanted.

  A few runners went ahead to inform the core force that we couldn’t continue with such pace. You’d think they’d understand, right? Wrong. Orders came back clear as daylight: Hurry up. Stop falling behind.

  Another groan slips out as I keep moving forward through knee-deep sludge of bullshit. A carts ahead is stuck, wheels sunken deep into the earth’s cold, hungry maw. I catch up just in time to witness the hopeless struggle—dozens of hands pushing, shouting, cursing. The amount of cargo on that cart? Laughable. It’s not going anywhere.

  And just like that, they give up. Abandon the cart, supplies and all, and join the endless line of bodies trudging forward through the storm. Can’t blame them. With visibility down to maybe a dozen meters, most people don’t even know the cart’s there unless they’re right behind it.

  No one wants to stop.

  Everyone just wants to see the walls of the city.

  If there’s one small mercy in this hellscape, it’s that it’s still summer. The rain’s miserable, sure, but at least it’s not freezing. Not yet. Give it a few hours, and half this column will be coughing up their lungs.

  I swallow another groan and focus on the only thing I can control: movement. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right.

  Ignore the voice. Ignore the buzzing that’s coiled tight in my skull like some cursed tuning fork.

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

  The healers in the expedition didn’t know what the hell to do with my symptoms. Not even when I offered gold. Lots of it. Just sympathetic looks and empty apologies.

  I just have to last until the city. Just hold on.

  One leg at a time.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  I keep the words in my head like a mantra. Not because they make me faster or steps easier. No. But they give me something else to focus on, shifting the voice and buzzing into the background.

  Hours crawl by anyway.

  Eventually, the storm starts to ease. Shifts from hellstorm to just... regular rain. But the damage is already done. Spirits shattered. Bodies sagging. The column is stretched thin—people can barely see those walking ahead of them. A few voices call out, urging the front to slow down, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s following someone else. And if one link breaks in this chain?

  We’re fucked.

  Someone stumbles and crashes into the mud just a few meters to my right. A few short seconds pass with the person still not rising. Did he get stuck?

  I stop. Just breathing, catching my breath and watching.

  No one else stops.

  A few march past the poor soul without even a glance. Either they don’t care, or they just don’t see. Olev and Joe? Worse off than me. They’re just trying to stay upright.

  I sigh.

  Well, who else is gonna help an idiot but another idiot, right?

  I trudge over to the fallen man. He hasn’t moved at all. Did he hit his head? Shit, did he drown there? I crouch down, flip him over—

  And dead eyes stare up at me.

  No breath. No movement.

  Then I see it: an arrow, protruding from his chest, perfectly centered.

  My pulse spikes.

  A faint whistle resounded.

  In my peripheral vision, I notice someone else going down. A soft squelch of body hitting mud resounded.

  [Force Aegis]

  My lungs suck in a sharp breath. Then I scream, voice raw and loud enough to cut through the rain.

  "AMBUSH!!!"

  I gather mana and slam it into a spell matrix, overloading it until it nearly shatters. A modified [Fireball] rockets into the sky and detonates, a flare for help. But its light barely cuts through the rain-drenched canopy.

  A fraction of a second later, arrows hammer into my [Force Aegis]. Others aren’t as lucky—cries of pain rise all around. One of them is Joe. An arrow is jutting from his thigh.

  I leap to him.

  More arrows slice through the storm, but I throw myself over his body. Steel bites into my [Force Aegis] and ricochets away.

  Olev joins me a heartbeat later. Back to back, we stand, mana layers around us flickering with each impact.

  I search the trees, frantic, but the rain and leaves swallow everything. The [Echo Pulse] I send out fizzles before reaching anything useful. Just noise.

  Others start falling in, forming a ring around the injured. Dragging them in. Holding the line.

  The arrows keep coming. A full minute of hell.

  Then—silence.

  Joe’s face is twisted in pain as he yanks the arrow from his thigh and slaps on a healing salve. A hiss slips out. He struggles to rise, only to be hoisted up by me and Olev. Joe grits his teeth, draws his bow, and nocks an arrow with a scowl on his face.

  We all look around in search of the foe.

  But there's no one. No enemy or friend.

  Just trees and dead bodies.

  We are the only one's standing in the clearing.

  Where is the help? The core force? Everyone else?

  Shit.

  The [Fireball] didn’t reach them, or maybe they were ambushed too. Either way... no one's coming.

  "We need to move," I whisper.

  Nods all around. We shift, slowly, me supporting Joe.

  Then the illusion cracks.

  We’re surrounded.

  Dozens of orcs in mismatched ugly plate armor, their weapons glowing with mana.

  Silent.

  Goosebumps crawl down my spine.

  Then—they charge.

  The buzzing in my hand rises to a scream. Joe looses arrows in a blur. Olev moves with me, blades flashing. A plated orc rushes me, and Light splits him down the middle.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Three to the left.

  One to the right.

  Four behind them.

  I move. No thought. No hesitation.

  Instinct takes over.

  A swing. A block. A kill. Again.

  Metal screams against mana. Blood sprays. I fight like I’m underwater, everything slowed, surreal.

  Another parry. Another cut. Another body falls.

  Minutes pass in a blur.

  Then—stillness.

  A ring of corpses surrounds us. Adventurers and orcs alike. Our numbers are fewer than before. All breathing heavy. Many bleeding. Alive—for now.

  Still a few orcs left. But they keep their distance. Watching.

  A deep, rhythmic beat cuts through the storm.

  Drums.

  My head whips toward the sound—and I freeze.

  Orcs. A wall of them. Too many to count.

  Hundreds—no, thousands.

  The front line towers above the rest—monsters, each the size of a troll. Power radiates from them like heat off a forge.

  No one moves.

  No thought of fighting them even occurs.

  Then panic takes over.

  We run.

  The orcs release a second volley.

  I grab Joe, send mana surging into my legs, and leap. Arrows fall like rain, whistling death around us. Olev’s just behind, his blade flashing as he bats them away with inhuman precision.

  But we only make it a few dozen steps before I hear it.

  A scream.

  A voice I know.

  I whip around.

  Olev is down.

  A massive arrow, pulsing with mana, impales him through the chest. Blood spills.

  I pour more mana into my legs, leaping to him, Light spinning to deflect smaller arrows.

  Joe scrambles to him, grabs Olev under the arms, and drags him backward through the mud, his own leg dragging uselessly behind him as I stand in front of both as a shield.

  [Echo Pulse]

  More people fall.

  Joe desperately pulls Olev away through mud with his injured leg.

  And the orcs—those fuckers—they’re not even chasing us. Just... watching. Studying.

  Their arrows start focusing on me now.

  Every block sends jolts of force up my arms, rattling my bones. Some pass through but I grit my teeth and pour mana into [Force Aegis] as it flickers, absorbing impact.

  Then one nearly breaks through—a huge one, the same kind that dropped Olev. The hit drives me back nearly a full meter.

  Then I hear it again.

  Joe’s cry.

  I turn. He’s collapsed, clutching his stomach where another arrow has lodged deep. Blood soaks through his shirt. And yet he’s still holding onto Olev.

  I dive to his side, swatting away more arrows—

  And then suddenly they stop.

  No more arrows. Just the rain.

  I breathe hard. My eyes lock onto the orc horde. Still there. Still watching. Their weapons gleam. Their armor hums with enchantments. They aren’t tired. They aren’t wounded. They aren’t done.

  Some start nodding, exchanging guttural sounds.

  And then one steps forward.

  A younger orc, massive even by their standards. A claymore almost as tall as he is rests in his hands. His body is a patchwork of scars. He slaps his chest and growls a challenge.

  I recognize the gesture.

  But I don't care about it.

  I look back.

  There is no one left standing.

  Just us three.

  Joe is next to Olev, pouring potions on his wound.

  His face pale. Hands trembling.

  He looks at me.

  Our eyes lock.

  We don’t speak.

  We don’t have to.

  We both know.

  We can’t run together.

  He nods toward the side. Toward the forest.

  Away.

  Away from him.

  A weak smile twists his lips.

  Desperation. Determination. Pain. Regret. Resignation.

  All in one look.

  A goodbye.

  No.

  NO.

  [Force Aegis] blazes around me.

  Light starts buzzing in my grip.

  I step forward, facing the lone orc. We stopped several meters apart.

  "Harv," I growled.

  The orc smiles—and moves.

  Too fast.

  Nearly too fast to parry.

  [Light] crashes against the claymore. Metal screams. We’re flung apart.

  Shock flashes across the orc’s snout, replaced a heartbeat later by rage. I’m not much better. Even with my edge in skill and oscillation, he pushed me further than I pushed him.

  Not good.

  I launch forward with a surge of mana. He braces. Light wails—high and sharp—and slams into his guard. The orc flies back, slamming into a tree that splinters apart on impact.

  Fuck. Why isn’t he in pieces?

  I didn’t finish it. I should have. Now he’ll fight smarter—

  But he doesn’t.

  He rages. Bloodshot eyes, roaring, the orc charges mindlessly.

  We clash. Again. And again.

  His blade’s heavier. His body, stronger. His reach, longer. He has more mana.

  But I’m better.

  I redirect each blow, circling, forcing him to twist, shift, lose footing. His balance is garbage. His technique’s worse. He’s a brawler, not a fighter.

  I drain him with every step.

  Until—

  An opening.

  Light strikes.

  His hands fly away from his body.

  I move to finish it.

  The blade arcs for his neck—and something screams in me. An instinct.

  I listen.

  I leap away, throwing Light up and pouring mana into [Force Aegis].

  A shockwave rips through my guard.

  Impact.

  The world spins.

  But I ride the momentum, rolling through wet mud, dispersing the energy, only ending on my feet.

  Another orc.

  Bigger. Stronger.

  He plants himself in front of the mutilated one I was about to finish. Their resemblance is clear. Family.

  Goddammit.

  I rise up.

  Light buzzes in my hand again.

  The two exchanged growls and the handless one moved away, while the new arrival turned to me.

  He said something as I brace for the next strike.

  It came.

  I try to parry—fail. Spectacularly.

  The blow launches me in a perfect arc through the air. I slam into a tree hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

  I roll. Move. Claymore crashes down where I was a moment ago, annihilating the tree behind me.

  Splinters fly.

  I’m already up, scrambling away. The bigger orc doesn’t wait. He leaps through the debris, weapon raised high.

  No time.

  No space.

  Light moves to intercept, but everything slows. Thought floods in.

  I can’t block this.

  I can’t dodge.

  Even max-frequency oscillation won’t save me.

  So I reach for something that doesn’t exist. Something I don’t have.

  I take the risk.

  Maybe the choice was already made before I even thought of it.

  Mana surges—blinding, burning—my palms sear from the gathered raw energy. As our weapons collide, I release everything.

  Detonation.

  Blinding light. A shriek of metal so loud it warps reality. Air slams into me. Mud consumes me.

  Seconds pass.

  Then more.

  Wait—

  I’m alive.

  I can’t see. Can barely hear. But I feel the rain on my face. I gasp—mud fills my mouth. I cough, spit, breathe.

  Orcs. Joe. Olev.

  [Echo Pulse]

  Two huge mana blobs next to me, quickly losing their energy.

  I force my limbs to move and slowly rise out of the deep mud prison.

  My body screams, but I rise out of the muck. Vision blurry, ears ringing. The white sear in my eyes fades slowly.

  I spot the bigger orc—his body and his claymore, both in two mangled pieces.

  Light in my hand glows dull red, hissing as rain touches it.

  It worked.

  The high-frequency burst overload worked.

  I look toward the orc horde.

  Still. Watching.

  No movement.

  My eyes drift—Joe and Olev are between me and the wall of enemies.

  Shit.

  Are they going to go for the wounded?

  I step forward—

  Something pierces my [Force Aegis] and slams into me.

  The world flips.

  I crash into something hard and slide down.

  I cough weekly. Blinking slowly, trying to understand what happened.

  My back is pressed against a tree.

  I can’t feel my left arm.

  My shoulder—cold. Spreading. Numb.

  I look.

  A massive arrow is buried deep in my shoulder. Just like Olev’s.

  The urge to pull it out burns inside me. But I crush it.

  You never pull an arrow without knowing how you’ll close the wound.

  Normally, I’d stop the bleeding with mana—but something is wrong. My mana doesn’t respond in that area.

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  What?

  Poison? No... it feels different, wrong.

  I isolate the blood flow. Doesn’t stop it.

  I isolate the mana pathways—finally, the cold spread stops.

  What the hell?

  A poison that spreads through mana pathways?

  I freeze.

  Only one thing fits—mananite. But that’s from the Far East and it's-

  No.

  Doesn’t matter.

  It’s inside me, and I only bought time.

  I look up.

  Thousands of orcs.

  No sign of the archer.

  Even if I saw him, I couldn’t reach him.

  I plant Light in the ground and use it to stand. My left arm dangles uselessly.

  I could hide behind the tree or run away, but then they’ll target Olev and Joe, using them as hostages.

  That’s not happening.

  One step at a time, I move toward them, using Light as a cane.

  The poison creeps further. I ignore it.

  Thunk.

  Instincts scream.

  Mana moves.

  Light rises.

  Impact.

  My body shakes from the blow. I slide backward, heels dragging through mud.

  An arrow landed in a puddle near me.

  My eyes move in search.

  No sign of the shooter.

  I keep walking.

  In the distance, the handless orc glares at me. Rage twisting his face. Another large orc—this one with a massive axe—growls something, quieting him. Then the axeman steps forward.

  Joe is still there, desperately trying to keep Olev and himself alive.

  I stare at the new orc.

  This whole "duel" is a joke. They started one-on-one, then interrupted, then started taking cheap shots. And now, another opponent.

  It’s a farce.

  But if I break the rules, they all come at once.

  I just need to hold.

  Someone must have escaped. The core force has to be on its way. Any moment now.

  Just hold.

  I steady my breath. Focus. Cold still creeps through my body.

  The axe-wielding orc stops a few meters away. He makes some guttural noises.

  Is he introducing himself?

  I stare at him.

  "Fuck you, green ballsack with teeth," I growl.

  For some reason, my words only enrage the creature more.

  Shit. Did it understand me?

  With a roar, it lunges.

  I drop into a low stance, reverse grip. My left arm still hangs uselessly. Light, wrapped in mana, clashes with the massive axe—animal skull embedded in the back. I let the blow throw me.

  The old orc charges after me.

  Stronger than the first, weaker than the second. But I’m not who I was at the start either—not with this damn arrow still eating away at me.

  I force more mana into my legs and leap aside, dodging the next swing. I want to channel into Light, block, counter—but there’s barely any mana left. And soon, there won’t even be that.

  So I dodge. I weave. The orc thrashes with wild, predictable swings, trying to crush me through sheer brute force.

  Every second, my mana drains further.

  Still—no help.

  Still—nothing.

  And then, it hits.

  Maybe no one made it to the core force.

  Maybe no help is coming.

  The cold creeps through my chest, fully claiming the left lung, nearing the heart. My strength bleeds out. My legs slow. My breaths grow heavy.

  Until my leg slips across the mud.

  I raise Light to intercept the incoming axe.

  It flies from my grip.

  A massive green hand wraps around my neck.

  I’m lifted into the air, breath crushed out of my lungs.

  Our eyes meet. His grin spreads wide.

  Fuck you. Eat shit.

  My hand rises. Pouring the last drops of mana left.

  A [Fireball] ignites—point-blank.

  It detonates against his face, scorching my own palm. The orc screams, dropping me.

  I hit the ground like a sack of wet stones. The air’s gone again.

  I lie there, coughing, gasping. Mud and blood in my throat. My ears ring.

  The orc howls behind me, swinging blindly.

  My eyes narrow.

  It’s blind. Rain muffles the sound. It can’t hear me. One hit. That’s all I need. One hit and it’s over.

  I force my will into my broken body.

  Move.

  MOVE.

  MOVE!

  My body obeys, slow and jerky like a puppet on strings I rise. I inch toward Light, lying half-buried in mud.

  Almost there—

  Something slams into my thigh.

  The world twists again.

  I crash, again, into the mud.

  I blink, dazed. Try to breathe. Try to think.

  My body ignores me.

  I reach for mana—nothing.

  There’s no pain.

  Only numbness.

  And cold.

  My eyes begin to close.

  I’m so tired.

  So—

  NO.

  NO!!!

  A final burst of rage surges through me, keeping the light from fading.

  Not like this.

  I turn my head.

  An arrow, thick and cruel, juts from my thigh.

  Movement.

  The orc—the one with the burned face and a single healed eye—is walking toward me.

  So now orcs can heal, too?

  I try to move. Nothing.

  Again.

  Again.

  Move.

  FUCKING MOVE HARV!

  Orc stopped over me.

  Is this it?

  Is this how I die?

  A failed smith. Killed by a migrating pest.

  Why did I stay?

  Maybe I should’ve run.

  But it doesn’t matter now.

  There was so much more I wanted to do.

  So much more to see.

  The orc raises his axe. That grin again.

  So much for being a hero.

  The orc’s head vanishes.

  A moment later, his body topples beside me.

  Then—

  Monstrous auras flood the forest. War Cries shake the air.

  Magic roars through the trees. Spells light up the darkness. Some strike near me—I can only watch, powerless, dazed.

  Warriors clad in halos of burning mana charge into the horde, cutting them down like wheat. Screams—inhuman, panicked, agonized—echo as the orcs try to flee.

  Slowly, sound fades.

  My eyes dim again.

  Someone approaches.

  Energy flows into me—warm, potent.

  But even that isn’t enough. It just slows the fading.

  More footsteps. More voices, blurred and echoing.

  "Report."

  A whisper. Distant. Or maybe imagined.

  A sharp laugh.

  "You owe this injured lad a mug of beer, Captain."

  "I owe him nothing," another voice replies, cold.

  "We lost at least nineteen adventurers," says a third voice. Steel in their tone.

  "Good," the cold one answers. "The plan worked flawlessly. Nineteen civilians for thousands of orcs is a good exchange."

  "WHAT?! Good?! How dare you?! We lost nineteen lives with this—this ridiculous bait!"

  "Do you have any idea what our losses would’ve looked like if these pests made it deeper?" the second spits venom. "And they’re adventurers. They signed up for this."

  "You feel no guilt? No remorse?"

  Silence.

  "No."

  "Lieutenant," the first voice cuts in. "I agree with you. Personally. But you know as well as I do—those orcs had a Tier 4 illusion spell. We didn’t have a choice."

  Silence stretches. Then—angry footsteps stomp away.

  "He takes it too personally, Commander," the cold one mutters.

  "He’ll learn, Captain. They all do. In the end... lives are just another currency."