Mark's heart hammered a relentless countdown against his ribs. Each ragged breath he pulled into his lungs was a stolen second. The system's notification hung at the edge of his vision – six minutes and counting until the third wave erupted from the pulsating portal. Six minutes to survey the carnage and bolster his resolve.

The battlefield that had once been a sterile safe zone was barely recognizable. Goblin corpses littered the ground, their guttural cries replaced by an eerie silence. Amidst the debris, his fellow survivors moved with mechanical precision. Once terrified faces were now grim masks, streaked with blood and sweat. They had leveled, gained strength, but fear still flickered in their eyes – a stark reminder of the horrors that awaited.

He caught Bolu's weary gaze and offered a grim nod. The older man had found something within himself, a wellspring of courage that guided others. Anya, a whirlwind of lethality just hours before, now meticulously cleaned her daggers, her movements tense. Even Catherine, the defiance that had burned so brightly replaced by a cold determination.

Mark felt a surge of pride, a flicker of hope piercing the dread. They were adapting, evolving... but would it be enough?

His gaze swept over the ruined square, noting makeshift weapons cobbled together from scraps of the vanished buildings, when the weapons they had pooled at the beginning of the fight were not enough. Every survivor held themselves a little taller, a little straighter. Yet, there was no denying the weariness etched into their bodies, the flicker of despair in their eyes.

A glance at the timer… five minutes. His muscles tensed, not from fear, but an eager anticipation. He had become something more than human, a weapon honed on this brutal battlefield. It was time to push those limits even further, to become an unbreakable tide against the goblin waves. This wave was just another challenge, another puzzle to solve, another step closer to… to what? Survival? True understanding? Perhaps something more, a twist of fate he still could not comprehend.

Five minutes. The air crackled with a tension that rivaled the raw energy pulsing from the distorted portal. Every clang of steel against makeshift weapons echoed with a desperate finality. Mark watched, his gaze a hunter assessing prey, as the remaining goblins fought with a feral intensity. They were cornered, wounded, and fueled by a primal fear of annihilation.

Despite their desperation, the survivors held their ground. Bolu, his weathered face etched with determination, bellowed orders, directing attacks with a newfound tactical prowess. Anya, a whirlwind of emerald and crimson, danced a deadly ballet through the goblin ranks, her daggers leaving crimson trails in their wake. Even the once hesitant newcomers fought with a newfound ferocity, their movements honed by the brutal lessons of the previous waves.

Mark's watched as Catherine delivered a killing blow to a particularly large goblin. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. The strategy was working. By focusing on crippling the higher-level goblins in the first two waves, they'd inadvertently created opportunities for the lower-leveled humans to farm experience. The constant barrage of weaker goblins, coupled with the occasional takedown of a stronger foe, had propelled everyone to at least level 6.

Four minutes. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, a grim counterpoint to the ragged gasps of exertion. Mark surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning, decisively. The remaining goblins were a disorganized rabble, their initial bloodlust replaced by a gnawing terror.

A new thought struck him. Crippling wasn't enough. Time was a precious commodity, and every remaining goblin represented a potential threat in the coming wave. With a steely glint in his eyes, Mark abandoned his strategy of disabling and focused on eliminating. His movements became a blur of lethal efficiency, each strike precise and final.

Three minutes. The remaining survivors, sensing the shift in tactics, followed suit. The frantic clang of steel morphed into a symphony of death. Hope flickered in their eyes; a fragile ember fueled by the promise of a short respite.

Two minutes. The last goblin crumpled to the ground, its lifeless eyes staring eternally into the warped reality above. Silence descended, broken only by the ragged gasps of the weary survivors. Mark allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a sliver of triumph in the face of overwhelming odds.

One minute. Bolu's voice, hoarse but resolute, boomed across the square. "Rest! We have precious little time. Tend to your wounds, conserve your strength. The next wave will be unlike anything we've faced before."

A wave of exhaustion washed over Mark, a stark reminder of his own limitations. Despite his inhuman strength, even he couldn't fight endlessly. He slumped against a jagged piece of rubble; his gaze fixed on the swirling vortex that pulsed with an ominous energy. The third wave was upon them, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt flickered in the depths of his steely resolve.

The blinding flash faded, revealing a scene ripped straight from a nightmare. The third wave consisted of monstrous goblins; their hulking figures clad in crude but surprisingly durable armor. Some wielded massive clubs, others wickedly curved scimitars. These weren't cannon fodder – they were a disciplined force, their movements coordinated and brutal.

Panic threatened to engulf the survivors, but Bolu's booming voice cut through the fear. "Form ranks! Shields forward!

The remnants of the group, though visibly shaken, obeyed with practiced efficiency. Anya, a whirlwind of crimson and green, led the charge, her daggers flashing as she danced around a hulking goblin twice her size. Kai, the human bulwark, stood firm, his massive hammer a wall against the tide of monstrous foes.

But the difference in power was stark. The goblins slammed into the human line, shattering shields and sending bodies flying. Their weapons, imbued with a lick of dark energy, easily pierced through armor, drawing screams of pain and despair. The survivors fought with ferocious desperation, but their numbers dwindled with each passing second.

Mark watched the carnage unfold with a cold knot tightening in his stomach. This wasn't sustainable. Their carefully crafted strategy was crumbling under the sheer brute force of the third wave. He needed to act, and fast.

A desperate plan formed in his mind. "Bolu!" he roared over the din of battle. "Get everyone to huddle together! We need to change tactics!"

Bolu, his weathered face etched with worry, understood immediately. He bellowed orders, rallying the survivors towards the center of the square. They obeyed, their faces etched with terror and exhaustion.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

As the survivors regrouped, Mark materialized before them, a steely glint in his eyes. "Listen," he said, his voice ringing with unyielding determination. "I have something in mind, something risky, but it might be our only shot. You need to reach your attribute thresholds – that's what will give you the extra power to survive this."

Hesitation flickered across the survivors' faces. "What are you going to do?" Bolu asked, his voice hoarse.

Mark drew a long, thin sword from his inventory, its unassuming appearance a stark contrast to the brutal battlefield. "I'm going to buy you time. Get behind me, all of you! Bolu, keep your team covering the back!"

Before anyone could react, Mark sprinted towards the charging goblins. He felt a surge as he activated Perfect Body. This time, it felt different. Everything slowed down. The monstrous goblins lumbered towards him like sluggish beasts. He focused, channeling mana into his sword as fast as he could, drawing it out into a thin, almost transparent blade.

The effort was immense, draining his mana reserves at an alarming rate. But he gritted his teeth and pushed on, spending an estimated 4,000 mana points. Crouching low, he unleashed a devastating slash. The thin blade, imbued with a potent mana current, swept through the goblins' legs like a scythe through wheat.

Close to 60% of the charging goblins crumpled to the ground, their enraged roars cut short by surprised yelps. A roar tore from Mark's throat, a primal sound that echoed across the square. "Kill them!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse but laced with newfound power. "Focus on hitting your attribute thresholds! When you're strong enough, join the fight!"

The survivors, momentarily stunned, reacted with desperate fervor. They hacked and slashed at the remaining goblins, their movements fueled by a surge of adrenaline and Mark's unexpected display of power.

Bolu's team, positioned at the back, held firm, providing a much-needed barrier against the goblins flanking them. Mark, his vision blurring at the edges from the strain, weaved through the remaining goblins, his mana-infused blade leaving a trail of carnage in its wake.

This was a gamble, a desperate attempt to buy his companions precious time. Would it be enough? Would they reach their thresholds in time to turn the tide? Only time would tell.

The square became a desperate dance of steel and monstrous flesh. Each goblin that fell brought a flicker of hope, but it was hard-earned and fleeting. Mark's onslaught had bought precious breathing room, but he was not invincible. His muscles screamed in protest, mana reserves dwindling with every devastating strike.

Yet, with each swing, with every goblin he cleaved through, he felt change course through the survivors at his back. Their cries were shifting, fear tinged with an electrifying determination. The clangs of their desperate defense morphed into focused strikes.

A flicker of movement – a young woman, her once meticulously styled hair a wild tangle, parried a vicious goblin overhead smash. Before, she would've crumpled beneath the blow. This time, she held her ground, rage fueling a counter-attack that drove the goblin stumbling back.

Anya darted past, a red and green blur. Her daggers weren't just landing shallow cuts now; they were finding purchase. A flick of her wrist, and a goblin's artery erupted in a crimson spray. Another stumbled, a precise slash severing its Achilles tendon. Her grin was savage, teeth bared in exultation. Level up.

A roar from Kai, no longer a human shield but a force of destruction. His hammer rose and fell with practiced brutality, caving in chests and shattering bone. He moved with a surprising agility for his size, a whirlwind amidst the chaos.

One by one, Mark felt the change. Crude weapons were finding their marks with newfound power. The group behind him was no longer just surviving; they were fighting back. He wasn't sure if it was the leveling, hitting those attribute thresholds, or just the sheer bloody necessity that transformed them. It didn't matter. It was working.

A surge of reckless hope swelled within him. If a few minutes could ignite this change, what would happen as they continued to fight? His next swipe sent a trio of goblins sprawling, their crude swords skittering across the stone.

"Now!" Mark's voice cracked, but it carried. "Bolu! Move in on the flanks! Anya, Kai, spearhead the attack!"

Bolu's weathered face split into a grin. He rallied his team, forming a crude wedge in concert with Anya and Kai. They surged forward, the survivors behind them following suit. The goblins, no longer facing a desperate mob, found themselves under a focused, relentless assault.

It wasn't an elegant victory; it was a bloody, brutal brawl. But the tide was shifting, irrevocably. The air crackled with the notifications of levels gained. Every time a goblin fell, a human grew just that little bit stronger.

Each strike, each desperate dodge, became another brick laid upon the foundation of their survival. This wasn't about Mark anymore; it was about them. He was just the spark, a brutal catalyst in this crucible. It was up to the others to forge themselves into something that could endure.

As the last goblin fell, a wave of exhaustion hit Mark like a physical force. His knees nearly buckled. Yet, the square wasn't filled with the despair of earlier victories. The survivors stood tall, breathing hard. They were bloodied, bruised, at their limits – but in their eyes, he saw a terrifying new strength.

This was just the beginning, he knew. The trial wasn't easing up, and doubt lingered at the edge of his mind about the final wave.