The sky outside was still black when the flap of Ludger’s tent rustled open. A cold draft swept in with Captain Darnell’s voice — rough, low, and clear.

“Ludger,” he said, tone flat as a drawn blade. “Time to move.”

Ludger groaned from his cot, half-buried under his blanket. “Just more five hours,” he muttered, half asleep.

Darnell stared at him, unamused. “Five?” he repeated, his frown deepening. “You’ve been running on fumes for a week. You’d think an hour would be a miracle, but five?”

Ludger didn’t move. “Just five,” he said again, like it was a reasonable number.

The captain exhaled through his nose — the sound of a man fighting the urge to throw something. He stepped closer, shadows cutting across his scarred face. “The enemy’s moving.”

That did it.

Ludger’s eyes snapped open, and he was up before the words fully settled. The blanket fell away, and his feet hit the dirt with a thud. “Moving?” he asked, voice suddenly sharp.

Darnell nodded. “Scouts just confirmed it. Columns forming in the treeline. They’re marching before sunrise. We’ll have contact within the hour.”

Ludger was already grabbing his boots, movements fast but deliberate. The last traces of sleep vanished as if burned away by adrenaline. “Guess that’s enough sleep after all,” he said, slipping on his armguards.

Darnell just shook his head, watching the boy’s calm efficiency with a mix of exasperation and grim respect. “You’re something else,” he muttered.

Ludger cracked a faint smirk. “So I’ve been told. Let’s go ruin their morning.”

He pushed past the tent flap, the cold air hitting his face, the distant sound of horns echoing from the north. The day had begun — and so had the war.

As Ludger stepped out into the cold predawn air, the torchlight hit his face — and for the first time, Darnell really saw him.

The boy’s eyes were sharp and awake, but the skin under them told a different story. Faint shadows clung there like bruises that refused to fade. His movements were steady, precise as ever, but there was a subtle stiffness in them — the kind that came from nights of half-sleep and too much focus.

Darnell frowned. The kid was what, nine? Ten at most? And yet he looked like a veteran who’d been running night watches for a month straight.

“You been sleeping at all lately?” Darnell asked, voice low.

Ludger strapped his armguards tighter, not looking up. “A few hours here and there,” he said. “It’s enough.”

“Enough,” Darnell echoed, crossing his arms. “Lack of sleep’s as deadly as a blade out there. Men start missing cues, spells misfire, formations break. Doesn’t matter how strong you are — the body cashes the debt eventually.”

Ludger gave a half-smile, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Then I’ll pay it after the battle.”

The captain’s frown deepened. He wanted to argue — to order the boy to rest, even for an hour — but the sound of horns from the north made the decision for him. He just sighed and shook his head. “You’re going to give me gray hair before the enemy does,” he muttered.

Ludger brushed the dust off his gloves and looked toward the horizon, where faint silhouettes moved through the trees. “Then let’s make sure you live long enough for that to happen.”

The horns kept echoing from the north — long, low notes that rolled through the mist and set every pair of eyes in the town on edge. By the time the first pale streaks of dawn reached the ramparts, the entire garrison was in motion.

Boots hammered against the cobblestones. Orders cut through the air like whipcracks. Armor clinked, buckles snapped, and the scent of oil and steel hung thick in the morning cold.

Men who had been half asleep moments ago now stood in formation along the northern wall, crossbows loaded, shields braced. Their breath fogged in tight, uneven bursts. Some whispered prayers under their breath; others just stared into the treeline, jaws tight, waiting for the movement they knew was coming.

The adventurers had gathered near the western gate — mercenaries in mismatched gear, laughing too loud to hide their nerves. From the higher walls, runners shouted last-minute orders, the voices overlapping until it all blurred into a single pulse of organized chaos.

The civilians had already been moved. Still, the echoes of crying children and the slam of heavy doors carried faintly through the alleys, reminders of what would happen if the line broke.

Up on the ramparts, the air was different — thinner, colder, heavy with that quiet tension before something irreversible. Every sound seemed too loud: the scrape of a sword leaving its sheath, the rattle of arrows being counted, the creak of leather gloves tightening on hilts.

Even the earth itself felt restless. Ludger could feel the vibrations through his boots — small, rhythmic tremors that told him thousands of feet were moving through the forest. The barbarians were coming fast.

Down below, Captain Darnell strode between ranks, voice steady and commanding. “Hold positions! No one fires until the signal! Keep your heads clear — they want you to break before they reach the wall. Don’t give them the satisfaction!”

Every soldier straightened at his tone, though the fear in their eyes didn’t vanish. It just hardened into something more focused.

Ludger stood above them, the wind tugging at his coat, watching the treeline. The first dark shapes began to appear between the trees — banners, armor, the glint of steel. Six thousand strong, moving like a tide.

The boy placed one hand on the cold stone of the wall, mana already humming beneath his skin.

Let them come, he thought. The faster they move, the faster they fall.

And as the sun finally broke over the horizon, the border town held its breath — balanced on the knife’s edge between dread and defiance.

Ludger stood on the northern wall, eyes tracking the dark movement in the distance — that steady, deliberate advance. Something about it didn’t sit right.

The barbarians shouldn’t have been ready yet. The scouts had said they were still rallying more clans, that their supply lines were thin, their shamans scattered. Yet here they were — marching before their numbers were full, before their preparations made sense.

He frowned, a slow unease settling behind his eyes. Did someone notice my plans?

It wasn’t impossible. They’d only make sense to someone who studied the town from the inside. Maybe one of the runners talked too much, or an enemy informant survived the last purge from the captain. Maybe the enemy didn’t know everything, but just enough to realize waiting would only make things worse for them.

Still, the timing was too sharp to be coincidence.

His gaze drifted along the streets below, where soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, nerves stretched thin under the sound of the horns. Nothing felt wrong here. No shadows that didn’t belong. No flicker of killing intent hiding in the alleys. The assassin from before had taught him what that sensation felt like — that knife-edge of danger pressing against the back of his skull.

But this? This wasn’t it.

He didn’t feel hunted. He felt… watched.

Not by spies in the town, but by someone out there — someone who had read his rhythm from afar and decided to break it.

He adjusted his gloves. If they think that means I’ll panic,” he muttered under his breath, “they’re underestimating me.”

Even without assassins inside the walls, he knew better than to relax. One successful trap bred arrogance — and arrogance got people killed.

He’d learned that the hard way. So while the rest of the town braced for the clash, Ludger’s eyes stayed on the treeline, his senses stretched thin across the stone. Someone out there noticed, he thought, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. Let’s see if they actually understood what they’re walking into.

The wall shook with the thud of boots and the sharp clatter of gear. One by one, the archers climbed the battlements, bows slung over their shoulders, quivers stacked two or three deep across their backs. They moved with the tense, economical focus of men who knew that in an hour, their hands would be shaking from recoil and blood.

Each archer checked his string twice, sighted once, and took a place along the upper rampart. Dozens of them lined the edge, their silhouettes merging into a jagged spine against the rising dawn. Spare quivers were laid out along the wall walk, bundles of arrows tipped with steel glinting like a row of teeth in the torchlight.

Below, the infantry marched into position just beyond the gates, shields raised, the front ranks already braced in a tight line formation. Their captains barked last-second orders—adjust spacing, close ranks, hold steady. The heavy cavalry took their place farther back, the sound of hooves drumming through the ground as riders lowered visors and readied lances.

The whole northern face of the town was awake now—every man and woman fixed on that dark treeline where the enemy banners swayed.

Captain Darnell was already out there, mounted and waiting behind the center formation, his spear upright like a signal flag. Even from the wall Ludger could pick him out—broad shoulders, no wasted motion, the look of a man who’d done this too many times and still hadn’t learned to fear it.

Ludger leaned his hands on the parapet, eyes narrowing. He wouldn’t see the captain fight, not yet. Darnell had his battlefield, his timing, his troops.

And Ludger had his own.

He drew in a slow breath. The earth beneath the wall answered faintly, alive and waiting.

Let’s see who breaks first, he thought.

The horns sounded again, low and grim. The battle had begun to breathe.

The sky bled from black to deep blue, the kind of color that came right before the sun tore through the mist. And in that pale light, the silhouettes began to form — hundreds, then thousands, marching out of the treeline like a dark tide.

At first, it looked like chaos. Their ranks were uneven, their pace strange — too loose for discipline, too steady for panic. But as they drew closer, Ludger saw the truth. They weren’t disorganized. They didn’t need to be.

He narrowed his eyes, the wind tugging at his hair. Hundreds of the barbarians were holding small bottles, thick glass catching the morning light. One by one, they uncorked them.

The sound was faint even from this distance — a series of hollow pops — followed by the glint of red liquid flashing across their rough hands. They drank. Every single one of them.

Ludger’s stomach turned slightly as he watched their posture change. The sluggish movement vanished. Muscles tensed. Heads jerked like animals sniffing blood. A low, distant roar began to rise, scattered at first, then building into a collective howl that rolled over the plains.

He exhaled through his nose. So that’s their trick.

No need for formation. No care for spacing or command. When that poison hit their blood, they didn’t march like soldiers — they charged like beasts. And beasts didn’t break because of fear.

“Fantastic,” Ludger muttered under his breath. “Just what I wanted. A wall of lunatics with no sense of self-preservation.”

He glanced at the archers beside him — some shifting uneasily, others gripping their bows tighter. The air felt thicker now, heavy with the smell of sweat and oil.

“Don’t wait for orders,” Darnell said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “When they run, we cut them down before they hit the walls.”

Ludger fingers brushed the stone, and the ground answered with a faint vibration — a promise waiting to be triggered.

Below, the captain lifted his spear, the signal glittering in the new morning light.

The battle was seconds away. And the field was about to drown in red.

The first scream shattered the dawn.

It wasn’t a war cry. It was something feral.

The entire barbarian line lurched forward at once, like a single beast waking from its cage. Six thousand throats erupted, and the sound rolled across the plains like thunder through bone. They didn’t march—they sprinted. Bare feet and crude boots hammered the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust that hung behind them like smoke.

Their eyes were wide and bloodshot, veins bulging along their necks as the berserker draught took hold. Muscles twitched. Faces twisted into manic grins. Some clawed at their own chests or slammed their weapons against their skulls, howling in laughter and pain at once.

Then came the stench—sweat, metal, and the sour reek of bloodlust.

Ludger leaned over the parapet, watching as the front ranks broke into a dead run. They had no formation, no sense of self-preservation—just raw momentum and rage.

Spit flew from their mouths as they screamed, strings of it glinting in the morning light like broken chains. Their teeth bared, eyes unfocused, they ran like rabid dogs, foaming and snarling, weapons raised high.

The ground itself seemed to vibrate under their charge. Arrows began to fly, black streaks vanishing into the swarm. Some fell, tripping the ones behind them—but the horde didn’t stop. They trampled their own dead and kept coming, faster and faster, a tide of fury too dumb to fear anything.

From below, Darnell raised his spear and roared, “HOLD! LET THEM COME!”

Ludger’s hand pressed against the cold stone beside him, mana already crawling up his arm. The moment the first of those monsters hit the kill zone, the ground would answer.

He squinted at the oncoming wall of flesh and madness. “Fine,” he muttered, voice low and cold. “Let’s see how far you get.”

The barbarians howled louder—mad dogs running headlong into the jaws he’d built for them.

The front line of barbarians thundered toward the walls, foam streaking their beards, eyes wide with red fury.

And then—

the earth moved.

Ludger raised his hand from the parapet, his palm glowing faintly brown-gold with a pulse of mana. The ground responded like a living thing.

The first collapse came with a sound like snapping bones.

The dirt under the charging line buckled, then sank—a dozen feet giving way in an instant. The first wave of berserkers stumbled mid-sprint, their roars twisting into startled shouts as their footing vanished.

Then the shaking started.

A low, grinding rumble rolled through the battlefield as fissures spidered outward from the trap lines he’d planted days before. Dust burst upward in violent plumes. Pools of earth liquefied into dark, swirling pits. Men tripped, stumbled, and screamed as they dropped waist-deep into shifting soil.

“Quicksand!” someone shouted from below—but it was too late.

Ludger clenched his fist. The ground answered.

The liquefied earth dragged faster, swallowing boots, legs, torsos. Warriors swung weapons wildly as if they could hack their way out, their faces twisted in confusion and panic. Others tried to leap across the sinking zones, only to land in another patch that gave way instantly.

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