The closer they came, the heavier the air grew.

At first, it was just the steady grind of boots and hooves, the rattle of shields, the wheeze of leather straps straining under the weight of armor. But as the taken town rose higher in their view, the atmosphere shifted. Soldiers stopped whispering. They stopped laughing. The only sound was the rhythm of marching, like a drumbeat that pulled them toward the edge of a cliff.

Ludger felt it crawl across his skin, prickling like static.

Figures moved between shattered walls, shadows darting where rooftops had caved. The barbarians weren’t scrambling or surprised. They were waiting. Spears lined the barricades, shields lifted in grim discipline, and behind them… the shamans.

Even at this distance, Ludger could see them raising staves of bone and wood, smoke curling around their shoulders. The air around the town thickened, carrying a pressure that made the soldiers stiffen in their armor. It wasn’t just the sight of the enemy—it was the atmosphere. A killing intent that seeped out from their formation, pressing down like a storm about to break.

“They’re ready,” Ludger muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. And they want us to know it.

Men around him gritted their teeth. Some gripped their weapons tighter, others muttered prayers under their breath. That dangerous aura—the enemy’s confidence, their bloodlust, their hunger—settled over the battlefield like a shadow.

Ludger clenched his fists. His [Tactical Insight] worked, showing him ripple points in the enemy line—where the barbarians were coiled to lunge, where one wound could fracture Torvares’s wedge if they weren’t careful.

The boy swallowed the tension, eyes locked on the shamans. This isn’t just a fight. It’s a collision of storms. Whoever bends first, breaks first. And right now, neither side looked ready to bend.

The arrowhead formation slowed, then stopped just short of the town’s reach. A thousand boots ground into the wet ground, shields lowering in perfect rhythm until the wedge bristled like a single weapon. The silence that followed was suffocating.

On the other side, the barbarians finished their preparations. Spears leveled from behind jagged barricades. Shamans stamped bone staves into the dirt, smoke curling higher into the dawn air. Both sides stared across the killing ground, waiting for the first horn to break the world open.

The atmosphere shifted again. It wasn’t nerves anymore. It was focus—sharp, terrible, final. Every soldier in the wedge breathed heavier, eyes narrowing, jaws clenched. Even with a healer standing in their midst, they knew the truth: many of them wouldn’t walk back from this ground. The boy in their center might keep the line standing longer, but no one here was preparing to retreat.

Ludger felt it like a weight pressing down on his chest. His gaze swept the ranks, then settled on his father and the others.

Arslan’s grin had vanished, his shoulders rolled forward, the sword in his hand humming with hunger. The easy recklessness in his posture had hardened into something colder—a predator’s focus. Selene cracked her neck, gauntlets sparking faintly as she muttered a harsh mantra. Harold, usually all jokes, looked like he’d swallowed fire, his axe resting steady on his shoulder. Aleia’s eyes had narrowed to slits, her bowstring already taut. Cor stood still as stone, lips moving in silent focus.

Their auras had changed. Not the invisible magical kind, but the raw, palpable tension of killers who had flipped a switch inside themselves. Ludger felt it wash over him, an edge he hadn’t realized he could sense until now.

So this is what it means to step into blood with no thought of turning back, he thought, swallowing dry air.

His own hands curled inside his sleeves, red-silver armguards pressing against his skin. He had prepared himself to heal, to think, to play his role. But as he watched his father and his party shift into this terrifying focus, he felt the same switch begin to turn in himself.

The horns hadn’t sounded yet. But the battlefield was already alive with the promise of death.

The horn sounded once.

Its deep, rolling note carried through the valley, echoing against the ruined walls of the town. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as if bound by the same string, every soldier in the wedge slammed weapon to earth.

Thoom.

The ground shook beneath thousands of boots and blades. The vibration climbed through Ludger’s legs, rattling his teeth.

Thoom.

Again, shields and spear butts struck the soil, iron hammering the frozen ground in perfect rhythm. A thousand men, a single sound.

Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

The earth trembled as if the wedge itself was a heartbeat, pumping blood into its veins. Even the air quivered with it, the weight of men stoking their own fury, pounding away hesitation, daring death to come closer.

The horn echoed a second time—longer, sharper. And the world erupted. Voices surged into the air, not words but a roar, raw and ragged, every throat in the formation screaming defiance. The wedge surged forward, the ground shaking harder as it gathered speed.

Arslan, turned his head toward Ludger. Amid the chaos, his grin had returned—feral, dangerous, proud. He met his son’s eyes, and for a moment there was no noise, no thunder, no roar—just a father and son on the edge of hell.

“Don’t leave my back,” Arslan said, voice rough but certain.

The wedge pounded forward, dust rising under the rhythm of boots and hooves. The ruined town loomed larger with every step, broken walls jagged like rotten teeth. The air stank of smoke and old blood. Ludger’s heart thudded, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the barricades.

That was when the shamans revealed their magic.

Figures emerged along the fractured walls—dozens, then more, until the horizon seemed to ripple with their presence. They raised staves of bone, wood, and twisted iron, the shapes weird in the dawn light.

Their appearances were a patchwork of terror. Some wore cloaks stitched from animal hides, fur matted with blood. Others draped themselves in chains of teeth, claws, and fragments of skulls that clinked as they moved. A few had painted their faces in jagged streaks of red and black, the patterns curling like the open jaws of beasts.

Their eyes glowed faintly under the war paint, not with natural light but with mana burning like coals. Many had shaven heads, their scalps tattooed with spirals of runes that twisted as though alive. Others had long, tangled hair threaded with bones, feathers, and charms that rattled with every breath of wind.

Their clothes were crude but purposeful: leather vests hardened with tar, skirts of chainmail stitched into rawhide, belts lined with bone charms and pouches of powder. Some carried shields fashioned from ribcages, others bore talismans that pulsed with sickly green or purple light. Every movement screamed ritual—men who lived as much in the spirit world as in the flesh.

One shaman at the center stood taller than the rest, draped in a cloak of black feathers that gleamed oily in the sun. His staff was crowned with a wolf’s skull, its jaw still slick with dried gore. When he lifted it, the others followed, raising their implements high.

A wave of pressure rippled across the battlefield. The very atmosphere thickened, sour with mana, heavy with the promise of slaughter. The soldiers around Ludger stiffened, some spitting curses, others muttering prayers.

Ludger narrowed his eyes. So many of them. More than I thought… His chest tightened. He knew one thing: these weren’t ragged hedge-wizards. They were prepared. Trained. Ready to tear the wedge apart with ritual magic the moment they struck the walls.

And the town behind them—those ruined streets and broken alleys—already felt less like ground and more like a trap.

The wedge rolled closer, but before steel could clash with spearpoints, the shamans lifted their staves in unison.

A guttural chant rose from the walls—low at first, like the growl of some beast awakening, then climbing in volume until it thundered over the battlefield. The rhythm was strange, uneven, almost painful to hear. Words that weren’t words scraped against the ears, syllables older than the tongue of men.

Smoke bled from their wands as they spoke, curling skyward in black and crimson streams. Runes inked into their flesh flared bright, crawling up their arms and throats. The staves shook with raw mana, bones clattering like teeth in a jar. The taller shaman in the cloak of feathers thrust his wolf-skull staff high, and the chorus of voices twisted into a single roar.

The air grew heavy—so heavy even the wind seemed to choke. Mana pressed down on the soldiers like the weight of a collapsing mountain.

“Shields!” came the order, barked sharp and furious.

The wedge obeyed instantly. Thousands of shields snapped up in unison, forming a wall of iron and wood. The sound rattled across the ground like a drumbeat. Men braced behind them, spears angled forward, breaths held tight.

The front of the formation darkened as the shadow of the shamans’ ritual spread outward. Sparks of red and green fire spat from the walls, streaking the sky. The soldiers clenched tighter around one another, the wedge becoming less a line of men and more a fortress of flesh and iron.

Ludger stood at the center, the roar of chanting digging into his bones. He exhaled, eyes narrowing. It’s starting. If those spells land clean, the cascade begins.

Arslan turned his head just enough to flash his son a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Stay close, Luds. This is where the real storm starts.”

The shamans’ chant peaked in a single, shrill cry. Then the sky broke.

Bolts of sickly green flame screamed down from the walls, jagged streaks of fire trailing smoke. Shards of bone, sharpened and hardened by mana, spun like arrows across the field. From the tall feather-cloaked shaman, a black mist rolled outward, thick and crawling like a swarm of insects.

The first impacts shook the front line. Green fire splashed against shields, hissing as it burned through wood and iron. Men roared but held, shoving the fronts of their shields into the dirt to keep them upright. Bone shards ricocheted off helms, punching holes into armor, tearing screams from unlucky throats. The mist sank low, clinging to the ground, making lungs burn as if breathing glass.

“Hold! Hold the wall!” captains bellowed, voices ragged but firm.

The wedge buckled but did not break. Shield after shield slammed against the earth, absorbing the next volley. Flames streaked down again, exploding in bursts that scorched the edges of the formation. Soldiers cursed, some howling in pain, but those beside them locked tighter, pressing shoulders together, filling the gaps before they could widen.

Behind the wall, Ludger felt the pressure hammering in his chest. Smoke, fire, blood—it came all at once. The line was holding, but barely. Already he saw men staggering, shields cracked, arms trembling from the weight of impact.

If this keeps up, the cascade will hit. First a shield breaks, then a man falters, then a hole opens—and the wedge dies.

Arslan’s sword hummed faintly in his grip as he laughed, teeth bared. “Hah! Let them rain all they want. The closer we get, the harder they’ll fall.”

The wedge pressed forward again, shields raised, pushing through the storm of spells. And Ludger tightened his fists, readying himself—because soon, it would be his turn to keep the line alive.

The storm kept hammering the wedge—flames crashing, bone shards splintering, the black mist crawling over boots and biting at throats.

Ludger’s [Tactical Insight] came to work again, dragging his gaze toward the left flank. One shield had gone red-hot under the shamans’ fire, the metal glowing faintly at the edges. The soldier holding it—broad, scarred, a man twice Ludger’s size—was faltering. His arms shook, skin blistering where the heat bit through his gauntlets. He was seconds away from dropping the shield.

If he fell, the gap would rip the flank open. Ludger shoved forward without hesitation. He slipped past the staggered line, crouched at the man’s side, and grabbed his burned forearm with both hands.

The man gasped, his blistered skin cooling, the worst of the burn knitting before it could rot. The tremble in his arms steadied. With a roar, he slammed the shield back into place, locking shoulders with the men beside him. The wedge held.

Ludger exhaled sharply, sweat rolling down his temple. Denied.

The soldier looked down, eyes wide. “Boy…” he rasped, voice half disbelieving, half grateful, but the next volley screamed overhead before he could say more. Ludger pulled his hands back into his sleeves and melted into the press again.

Arslan glanced over his shoulder, grinning through the chaos. “Good! That’s it! Keep them standing, Luds!” He turned back, sword raised high, ready for when the line finally hit steel.

Ludger clenched his fists tighter, the glow of healing still buzzing at his fingertips. The storm was only beginning—but now he knew. He could keep the wedge alive, one wound at a time. And as long as he did, they would keep pressing forward.

The wedge groaned under the barrage. Shields rattled, men cursed, the acrid stink of burning leather filled the air. But Ludger didn’t stay in place. He darted forward, then sideways, slipping through gaps between soldiers, weaving through the press as if he’d trained for this very storm.

A man on the right flank staggered, a bone shard lodged deep in his thigh. Ludger slid low, hands snapping onto the wound. Mana surged, green light pulsing between his palms as the shard popped free, flesh sealing just enough for the soldier to rise again.

“Back in line!” Ludger barked. The man roared and shoved his shield forward, rejoining the wall before the gap widened.

Ludger was already gone, moving to the next.

A soldier crumpled, coughing blood from lungs scorched by green fire. Ludger pressed both hands to the man’s chest, [Healing Touch] flooding him. The fire’s damage dulled, the soldier’s breath rasped back into rhythm. Another failure denied. The wedge advanced.

Everywhere Ludger passed, men found strength they thought they’d lost. His small frame flashed between them, arms glowing, sleeves streaked with blood and soot. To the soldiers it was almost unreal—one moment they were breaking, the next the boy was there, and then they were standing again.

Arrows hissed down, flames burst against the shield wall, but Ludger didn’t slow. His body moved on instinct, fast, efficient, clinical. To him it was simple math: heal, deny collapse, keep the arrowhead sharp.

He could feel eyes on him—the soldiers nearest, wide-eyed at the speed he moved; captains on the edge, realizing the boy’s presence was knitting the formation together. Even Arslan, sword dripping blood, glanced back with a grin wide enough to split his scarred face.

“Keep running, Luds! You’re the spine holding this beast together!”

The chant of the shamans still thundered, another volley already building, but the wedge didn’t break. Not yet. Because one boy moved like a spark through the storm, denying death one wound at a time.

Ludger’s breath came ragged, each spell tugging at the core in his chest. His vision flickered at the edges, warning signs flashing in his head.

He hissed through his teeth, dragging his hands off another half-burned soldier. His core almost empty, heat pooling in his gut. Damn it. Rock bottom already? If I keep spamming like this, I’ll collapse before the real fight begins.

He forced his pace down. Slower, sharper. Heal only when necessary. Let minor wounds bleed. He used his sage skills to control the amount of mana from Healing Touch and that really helped him avoid expending himself too much. He saved himself for the breaks that would split the wedge. The next horn shattered the air.

The front lines collided.

The sound was a storm—steel slamming into steel, shields shattering, voices roaring. The wedge slammed into the barbarian barricades with the force of a battering ram, the entire ground shaking. Spears cracked, men screamed, bodies flew backward.

Ludger pushed toward the heart of the chaos. Through the forest of raised shields, he glimpsed the front: his father at the tip of the spear, laughing like a madman as his sword carved through wood and bone. Selene crashed beside him, gauntlets blazing, fists breaking shields apart. Harold’s axe sang as he split a barbarian down to the ribs, roaring like thunder. Aleia’s arrows whistled into exposed gaps, each shaft striking true. Cor muttered behind them, runes sparking and bursting into bursts of fire. The wedge wasn’t just holding now—it was biting.

But Ludger felt his knees wobble. The temptation to throw another heal at every scream pulled at him, but he clenched his fists. No. Not yet. I burn myself out here, I’m useless later. I have to pace it.

Still, slowing down meant he had to watch. Watch the soldiers falter, watch the screams, watch the blood. It gnawed at him, but he forced his jaw tight.

This is war. If I try to save everyone, I’ll save no one. Focus. Precision, not panic.

His eyes locked on his father’s back in the maelstrom ahead. Arslan hadn’t looked back once—not out of negligence, but trust.

Ludger grit his teeth and followed, sleeves rolled, fists glowing faint green. The storm had only just begun.

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