Cyrus’s eyes were bloodshot. The skin below his eyelids were puffed and bloated. His mouth was pressed in a thin line. His forehead scrunched up in frustration.
He didn't know where it had gone wrong. Humans, the hardiest and most cunning species, having dominated the landscape since the dawn of time couldn't stand up to mere goblins…
The thoughts of wasted mana and energy fed his murderous attitude like fresh corpses to a pack of vultures. While growing the fern seeds into adulthood, adjusting the terrain and summoning goblins were no easy feats, the costs would have paid themselves off in dividends if his troops had improved in skill. They didn’t.
Their swings were as clumsy as ever, their ranks disorganized and chaotic as close-quarter combat ensued. His men were meat shields with a slice of personality, not the disciplined soldiers he wished for.
The roman's eyes hardened. His voice was stripped of its humanity, growing cold and inhuman, “Perhaps a trial by fire would be more effective... Let them see their friends die from their mistakes. If not…I can always summon more.”
The roman exited his mortal shell with a brief thought and concentrated on the image of a goblin. His mana molded themselves into the form of an ugly deformed human with dwarfism, finished off with a fresh coat of green paint.
After repeating the process a dozen times, Cyrus manifested a long, thick iron pole, cut it into 12 equal pieces and distributed it to the goblins.
His gaze turned towards the ground, raising several areas upwards to form miniature valleys and hills. Moving to the side furthest from the tunnel entrance to his banner, he planted a palm in the dirt. Several bundles of ferns materialised, forming a dense undergrowth.
Returning to his avatar, the roman pointed at the ferns while waving his will through the goblin ranks. Acknowledging the command, the green creatures rushed into cover.
He then turned towards his men, instructing them to form up before giving them a rundown of the incoming battle.
Cyrus slowly strode to a safe distance, enough to observe the fight clearly but far enough to have no interference.
Green beasts with elongated noses and scalene triangle ears charged through the undergrowth. Iron flashed in the air. The green forms awkwardly dashed forward, barely keeping balance as their skinny arms trembled from the weight of their iron batons. "PARATI," a distant voice rang out. Shields were drawn, forming a symmetrical line of red. Glimpses of grey helmets, pale skin, armour and weapons were visible through the small cracks and crevices between the circles.
Not a moment too soon for the blurred forms of the goblins rammed into the shields like bulls. Their feet propelled them into the air like stone balls from a catapult. Most of the monsters smashed into the centre of the shields, leaving a trail of red speckled with white fragments. A lucky few leapt inches above the iron rim of the oversized buckler, greeting the startled expressions of unsuspecting soldiers with iron sticks to their faces. The impacts knocked the brains offline briefly but just enough for the shields to lower.
The reserves of the goblin force hurtled out of the nearby bushes, stampeding towards the gaps. It was a duel between muscles and brains. Would physicality bring the human's victory to heel or would intelligence recover and reign supreme? Deformed feet pounded on the dirt, sending dust and pebbles flying in their wake. 5 metres. The men stumbled and grasped their heads, desperately trying to escape the confines of the white wall of nothingness. 3 metres. Men blinked furiously, tracing the ground in hopes of detecting the rough texture of a shield, the bastion of their survival. 2 metres. Men began to stagger to their feet, digging the soles of their shoes into the ground to find purchase while leaning on the circular panels like crutches. A meter now, the whites of their enemies' eyes were visible to the viridescent creatures. Streaming past the puddles of green and red blood, past the limp bodies of their comrades, past the struggling forms of men and goblins alike, they rushed onwards. They had eyes for one thing only, victory.
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Muscularity won. The fresh troops breached the formation. Smacking the unperceptive men aside, they charged into the exposed backs of soldiers still fending off the goblins from the previous assault. Meaty thuds mixed with the screams of pain, creating an orchestral piece soaked with despair and defeat.
Small green figures trod the hill composed of mismatched green, red and white. Crooked tree trunks of white and green jutted up from the ground, melding with the slabs of cold, polished rock almost seamlessly. Pillars of this shiny rock were scattered across the slope, some protruding from deep underground, bringing a wellspring of lifeblood to the surface. Fed by streams of red and green, a brown river flowed down the cooling landmass, forming a small oasis upon the barren, stone land.
Cyrus sighed as he kicked a shield aside in rage. Despite all resources deeming the goblins as inferior and lesser to all other "enlightened" life forms, his men didn't possess the capabilities to even fight them on equal footing. His troops had been clumsy in their maneuvers, blunt in their sword swings and constantly over-extending themselves, exposing their vulnerable arms to enemy steel. Even a half-decent swordsman from Carthage in the third Punic War could have easily defeated his soldiers in formation. They were a disgrace. Massaging his temples, he removed the bushes and dirt revealing the stone surface beneath.
"At least he could take pride in having a veteran force of goblins at hand," he snorted.
Cyrus had an epiphany! What he needed was for each man to train their skills individually, like pieces of a puzzle that formed one whole picture! The roman required a training field.
Composing himself, he snapped his heels to attention and swivelled around, striding towards the five remaining troopers. Gesturing for the men to follow, he walked to the back of the final room and carved a human-sized incision in the wall. Jumping out of his human form, the Decanus scouted ahead, carving out a new cavity after a few minutes of digging in a straight line. Pushing his awareness into the walls room, he scanned the surrounding area for caves or air pockets. None were nearby, perfect.
Satisfied that the training ground wouldn't impact the main dungeon, he returned to his avatar. Calling out "MOVE!" Cyrus began walking into the newly built tunnel. His troops silently marched behind him, trailing a couple steps behind as dictated by roman decorum.
Cyrus felt incomplete. There was a strange disconnectedness to the ground, he couldn't feel what was below him using his dungeon senses, relying on the human, in-built mechanoreceptors alone.
A slight rumble. The stone ceiling slowly cracked, the growing splinters and fissures formed the shape of a wonky spider's web. The ground groaned as if under strain. Small pieces of earth and stone fell upon the troops like snowflakes. A massive roar shook his earlobes.
[ERROR] 2nd Dungeon Floor is unavailable ~ increase core rank to access! [ERROR] No rooms are allowed after the core room!
[Removing violations...]
RUN!
Herded forward by the falling, ever-enlarging debris, the men rushed towards the end. A massive boulder crashed into the latter half of the column. three men were cut off from the pack. One had been pulverised, shards of bone, blood and flesh were flung into the surroundings like shrapnel from a grenade, lacerating stone and flesh alike. The two soldiers banged their firsts on the jagged, stone barrier, calling out to their commander and comrades in vain. Their hoarse voices were overwhelmed and lost to the crashing of rock on rock and the rumble of the collapsing tunnel. The serrated surface ground their hands into unrecognisable, mounds of flesh but they didn't stop, couldn't stop. Tears of terror flooded down their faces like waterfalls. The two men called out for salvation, for aid from their brother's-in-arms. No salvation nor rescue came.
Cyrus dared not turn back, dared not look into the pleading, terror-filled eyes of his trapped troops through the gaps in the blockade. Nor could he bare to see their tear-wet faces, their hands pressed up against the walls like men on death-row pleading for mercy. He couldn't bare to see their hope quenched in the frigid waters of certain death, to see the light fade in their eyes as they gave in to the murky depths of despair.
He had seen those looks before, too many times. Each look was a scourge coated with poison ripping into his heart.
The squad of three crashed into the small room a split second before the final slab of rock descended upon the entrance, sealing them in.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE CREATED A NEW AREA [UNNAMED]! YOU NOW HAVE [228/230 TROOP] and [1/2 OFFICER] CAPACITY REMAINING!