Alto Jachs, the general-turned-Minister of Defense, stood at the head of a rectangular table, surrounded by officers of the General Staff. Spread across the table was a sprawling, meticulously detailed map of Rozafyr, marked with troop positions and lines of suspected enemy movement. Colored markers denoted strategic points—some secure, others dangerously contested—and thin arrows swept across the map like serpents, indicating shifting fronts and potential threats.
After hours of methodical planning, poring over reports and maps, the general staff have reached a consensus, they would have to draw Eras’ forces into a battle and earn a decisive victory there. It would, in theory, destroy the daemon army and would allow them to retake a large part of Rozafyr back.
An officer leaned over the table, his finger tapping a cluster of wooden pieces on the map. “Our latest reports place the Daemon forces here, near these hills.” He traced the uneven terrain with deliberate hand. “They’ve taken the high ground, and we’ll be fighting them on open plains.”
“Before we make any advance, we’ll soften them up with a full artillery barrage.” He swept his hand across the hills, as if the shells were already falling. “Continuous shelling for an entire day or three; high explosives, incendiaries, anything we can throw at them. By the time we’re done, they’ll be too battered and disoriented to organize a proper defense.”
The officer adjusted the wooden markers, repositioning pieces to show the next stage of the assault. “Once the barrage concludes, we’ll launch a coordinated strike.” He jabbed his finger at several points on the Daemon line. “Mages will create the opening, using the arcane arts to shatter arcane barriers, disrupt communications, and create chaos in their ranks.”
The officer pressed on. “Once the mages are done, shock trooper detachments will follow immediately behind. They’ll move fast, exploiting any weakness the mages create. Their goal is to smash through the gaps and widen the breach.”
The officer straightened, drawing a breath as he concluded. “Once the breach is secured, the rest of our infantry will pour in. The momentum of the assault should be enough to overwhelm whatever remains of their defenses.” He dragged a few pieces across the map to show the final surge as waves of soldiers sweeping through the broken enemy lines. “Speed will be everything. If we give the Daemons even a moment to regroup, the entire offensive could stall.”
He straightened, folding his arms over his chest, and locked eyes with Jachs. “If the Daemons regroup before the breach widens, we’ll get bottled up. And if that happens...” His voice dropped, cold and matter-of-fact. “We’ll be throwing men into a meat grinder.”
Jachs smiled as he listened carefully. It was a good plan, clean and calculated. There were risks, of course. If they got bogged down in the breach, the offensive would collapse, and they’d bleed men for nothing. But Jachs knew better. These Daemons had been little more than primitive tribals just a few years ago. Discipline and strategy were foreign concepts to them. A counterattack from such a fractured enemy?
Highly unlikely.
And as for their allies—Valkoria and Boria—Jachs dismissed them with a wave of thought. They wouldn’t arrive in time to change the outcome. By the time those reinforcements crossed the border, the hills would already be strewn with the corpses of their allies.
"Excellent. We’ll put down these upstarts the west failed to kill," he said smoothly, as if crushing armies were no more troublesome than swatting flies. Then, with a smug grin, he sat down on a nearby chair and looked at the assembled officers. "Golf, anyone?"
Laughter rippled through the room, the officers chuckling at the absurdity of the suggestion. It was a brief moment of levity, a luxury only men far from the battlefield could afford. For those gathered around the table, the horrors awaiting on the plains outside Starfall were no more than numbers on a chart, obstacles to be solved, not endured.
But Jachs’ mind was already elsewhere, skipping past the battle as if it were a foregone conclusion. Once the Daemon army lay in ruins, all he had to do was wait—wait until Nay and consortium of war financiers, decided the conflict had squeezed out every last drop of profit. War had become a commodity, and Jachs knew better than anyone how to play the game.
The campaign against the Aquileans was another matter entirely, but one already well in hand. Their aquatic metropolises had been bombarded daily with depth charges, sending shockwaves through their coral towers and glass domes. Their navy can only utilize hit-and-run tactics and can’t keep up with the empire out-producing them at every field.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the glowing ember briefly illuminating his weathered features. He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it drift lazily toward the low ceiling before setting the cigarette down on an ashtray already crowded with stubs.
So long as they don’t suffer any major defeat, they’ll be fine.
----------------------------------------
Over the next few days, the now three-hundred-thousand-strong Valerian Army—dubbed the "Expeditionary Forces"—set to work carving trenches and constructing fortifications across the windswept plains.
These were once known as the Emerald Plains, a vast expanse of lush, green fields where the cool breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, and herds grazed freely under the open sky. The land had been a symbol of tranquility.
But now, the beauty was gone. In its place, trenches snaked across the landscape like scars ripped into the earth. Tunnels burrowed deep underground, and towering fortifications rose where groves once stood. The emerald hue of the grass and pale snow was trampled under boots and churned into mud by the ceaseless march of soldiers and machinery. The gentle breeze was now laced with the scent of wet earth, sweat, and the distant stench of burning fields.
For the past few days, Herman had been driving supply trucks to the front lines, hauling crates of rifles, ammunition, rations—and shovels. Always shovels. When he enlisted, he hadn’t expected to find himself so close to a warzone, though, in hindsight, that might’ve been wishful thinking.
At least logistics kept him out of the direct fighting. A safe assignment, they had told him. His job was simple: keep the supplies flowing. That was the only expectation. The pay was decent, the benefits even better. If—God forbid—he died, his family would receive extra welfare. But the thought of that payoff only darkened his mind.
Because Anna was waiting for him.
His truck rumbled to a halt as soldiers approached to unload. He let out a quiet breath of relief. Half a day of running the same route back and forth had left his body stiff and aching. The only moments of respite came when the soldiers swarmed the truck to load or unload equipment, giving him a few minutes to stretch or sip water from his flask.
Just as Herman rested his head back against the seat, a voice called from outside the cab.
“Catching your breath, old man?”
Herman glanced through the lowered window and saw Mateo, a soldier even younger than him, with a crooked grin plastered across his dirt-smudged face. Mateo had been the first to explain how things worked around here when Herman arrived, guiding him through the unspoken rules of survival at the front. The kid was only twenty-five, barely a man—and a “shock trooper,” whatever that was supposed to mean.
Herman gave a tired chuckle. “If you call this breathing, sure.”
Mateo leaned against the truck, arms crossed over his rifle slung casually across his chest. His uniform was stained with mud and sweat, and a ragged strip of cloth was tied around his arm like some makeshift badge.
“Must be nice riding around all day while the rest of us get our boots sucked off in the mud and forced to dig,” Mateo teased, though his grin took the sting out of the words.
“Yeah, real nice,” Herman muttered, tapping the wheel with a grimace. “Nothing like spending half the day hauling crates of shovels and hardtack.”
Mateo snorted, shifting his rifle to a more comfortable spot across his chest. “Could be worse. You could be one of us poor bastards digging the trenches you’re stocking.” He gave Herman a curious glance, cocking an eyebrow. “But I gotta ask—what’s a guy in his forties doing enlisting in the army? No offense, but you’re a bit past the age for heroics. Not much promotion in it for you either, I bet.”
Herman huffed out a laugh, though it held no humor. “Promotion? Nah, I ain’t here for medals.” He adjusted his seat, feeling the ache in his back from hours behind the wheel. “I needed the money. My daughter got accepted into the Valerian Academy—bright kid, top of her class. But you know how it is… three hundred Golden Virs a term.”
Mateo gave a low whistle. “Three hundred, huh? That’s rough. No wonder only nobles can attend there.”
Herman snorted, rubbing his face with a rough hand. “Yeah, no kidding. That place wasn’t built for folks like us.” His fingers drummed absently against the wheel, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones. Then something caught his eye—an odd group standing on the ridgeline above the trenches. “Hey… who’re those people?”
They were a strange assortment, a mishmash of races: humans, elves—and was that a pair of rabbit ears? Herman vaguely recalled hearing that trait belonged to the Palushian race. A beastman was among them too.
Mateo glanced over, following Herman’s gaze. “Oh, them? Western Heroes.” He said it with a chuckle. “Rumor has it they took down a Daemon Heavenly General—or something close to one. Supposed to be all kinds of powerful.”
“Heroes?” Herman leaned forward to get a better look, his brows furrowing.
The figures stood out starkly against the grim backdrop of mud and ruined earth, like out-of-place actors in some fantastical drama. There was a silver-haired elf with a longbow slung across her back, a young man swaggering with a sword and shield in hand, and a girl dressed as if she’d wandered off from a ballroom, her gown was pristine despite the mud all around. Another wore a western cleric’s robe, clutching an oversized staff that seemed too large for her frame.
Then there was the beastman girl, her short hair wild and her predatory gaze scanning the horizon like she expected trouble to leap from the shadows. And finally, the Palushian woman, her rabbit ears standing straight.
“They look like they belong in a storybook, not out here.” Herman shook his head.
Mateo adjusted his rifle strap and shrugged. “Yeah, Heroes from the west. Supposedly, two of them are from another world entirely—summoned, or so the rumors say. They’re not military, but they represent the western church and some exiled kingdoms. Command’s been tight-lipped about what they’re really doing here.”
Herman scoffed. “Heroes, huh? Never thought I’d see real ones.”
Mateo smirked. “That’s what they call anyone good at killing nowadays.”
Before Herman could respond, an officer barked orders from across the trench. “Driver! Get back to Starfall! We need more equipment on the next convoy—move it!”
Herman sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess that’s my cue." He shifted the truck into gear, the engine sputtering to life. "Be safe out there, Mateo. You’re a fine man."
Mateo leaned away from the truck, giving a half-hearted salute with two fingers. “We’ll see about that.”
As the truck rumbled away and Mateo left. There was another conversation going on between the heroes.
“Can we please leave this place? It’s dirty, and—ugh—yucky!” Elise whined, fanning her mud-smeared gown as if waving at the stains might make them vanish. She huffed dramatically, her expression twisted in disgust.
Saitou barely acknowledged her, his gaze locked on the soldiers digging tirelessly in the mud. The scene felt surreal, like walking into the pages of a history book. It was as if someone had plucked him from the modern world and dropped him into the trenches of the First World War—but with magic, strange creatures, and sigils carved into barricades. And yet, despite these differences, the war’s harsh reality felt all too familiar.
He was jarred from his thoughts by Carla’s exasperated voice. “We were coming to a battlefield, Elise, and this is what you decided to wear?”
“Well, excuse me! It’s not like you understand fashion, Carla.” Elise sneered, flicking a strand of hair over her shoulder.
Carla’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her daggers. “Is there supposed to be a hidden meaning behind that, or are you just being insufferable?”
And just like that, the bickering started again, with Elise puffing herself up while Carla rolled her eyes, fingers twitching as if itching to draw steel.
Saitou sighed, already tuning them out. They fought like this constantly, and no one ever won.
A quiet presence appeared beside him, and he turned to see Asumi standing there. She wasn’t like the others, she had been transported into this world alongside him. Her soft, dark hair framed a gentle face, and she held a serene composure despite the chaos around them.
“What do you think we should do, Saitou-kun?” she asked softly.
Unlike the others, Asumi carried the title of "Saintess." Her abilities were absurdly powerful, bordering on the divine. One of her most remarkable abilities, [Hales’ Grace], created a shimmering barrier that constantly healed and invigorated anyone within it. It was the same ability turned the tide in the battle of Paluushtag.
Saitou shrugged. “Not much we can do right now, Asumi. Just... get through it, I guess. Same as always.”
“Huh… looks like we’re at a world war looking by these trenches… do you think Mr. Tanaka would’ve loved this?”
“That old man?” Saitou chuckled. She was referring to their history teacher. “He would’ve been ecstatic.”
Asumi smiled faintly. “Yeah... He used to go on and on about trench warfare and how it shaped modern history. I bet if he were here, he’d have us writing essays on the ‘socioeconomic implications of magical warfare’ or something.”
“He’d probably call it a ‘once-in-a-lifetime learning experience.’”
Asumi’s giggle was soft, almost lost in the hum of soldiers moving around them. “And you’ll get detention if you failed his class.”
For a brief moment, they were back in that tiny classroom—listening to the droning lectures of Mr. Tanaka while sneaking glances at the clock, praying for the bell to ring. It felt distant, like another lifetime.
Elwyn, approached them with a serious expression. “Saitou, Asumi... what are our plans moving forward?”
Saitou sighed, snapping out of the nostalgic haze. “Well, technically, we’re representatives of the Church, so I guess we’re not supposed to be on the frontlines.”
When Saitou had first been summoned to this world, told he was a Hero, the thrill had been overwhelming. It was like stepping into one of the countless manga or novels he’d devoured. Magic, swords, and the chance to be someone legendary—no need for the classic ‘truck accident’ isekai setup. Plus, the bonus? OP abilities from the start. It had seemed like the dream. Who wouldn’t want that?
At first, everything had been exciting. He had met Elwyn, Carla, Elise, and later Kali—all of them strong, skilled, and admittedly beautiful women. Sure, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was dangerously close to a harem setup, but he wasn’t about to complain.
But that initial rush of adventure had quickly dulled. After killing one Heavenly Demon General, the demons retaliated fiercely, launching a blitz across the western kingdoms. The leisurely life of an adventurer had crumbled, and before he knew it, Saitou was dragged into military service. The West fell soon after, and now he was little more than a glorified symbol of hope for humanity.
That didn’t mean he was weak—not by a long shot. But being the "last line of defense" wasn’t quite the heroic, action-packed fantasy he’d envisioned. He and Asumi had been told that it was their duty to slay the Demon Lord, to end the war and save humanity. It sounded noble, but Saitou knew the truth.
Wars weren’t won by pure heroism, flashy heroics, or powerful individuals. They were won by iron and steel, armies marching in unison, factories to produce weapons of war.
This was supposed to be a fantasy world, goddamnit!
Before Saitou could voice his frustration, a nearby howitzer fired with an ear-splitting boom. The sheer force of the blast shook the ground beneath them, causing soldiers to flinch instinctively.
Elise and Carla immediately stopped their argument, their faces pale from the sheer volume. Kali, however, was visibly shaken. Her rabbit ears folded flat against her head, trembling uncontrollably.
“By God! Those things are loud!” Elise covered her ear.
Saitou’s chest tightened at the sight. Kali had been through too enough artillery barrages that practically levelled her home. It was like a caveman suddenly being thrown into a nuclear war, primitive instincts overwhelmed by the sheer scale of destruction.
“By God! Those things are loud!” Elise shrieked, pressing her hands over her ears in an exaggerated motion, as if that would block the deafening roar.
Saitou sighed. Of course, Elise would focus on the inconvenience rather than the fact that shells were flying overhead.
He glanced at the group. Most of his companions came from the western kingdoms—a world still clinging to knightly ideals and traditions. To them, war was supposed to be fought honorably, with swords and lances on open battlefields. Of course, during the course of the war with the demons, line battles became increasingly common and ‘modern’ warfare became the norm.
This new form of warfare was utterly foreign to them. The blast of a shell, the whine of bullets slicing through the air, these were things they hadn’t been prepared for.
He remembered the first time they’d encountered modern weaponry, not just muskets and bronze cannons. Elwyn had stared in stunned silence, as if she couldn’t comprehend the raw, destructive power. Elise had cried out in frustration, demanding to know how anyone could fight honorably against explosions you couldn’t block or dodge. And Kali... well, artillery had always unsettled her since the battle of Wilten. Carla was the only one who hid her surprise well.
One by one, more howitzers begin firing, and soon enough, they were firing nonstop.
Only then did Saitou realize that the battle has already begun.
----------------------------------------
Six days into the battle.
Mateo had grown numb to the incessant thunder of artillery firing overhead. The deafening booms were now just background noise, a monotonous rhythm he could almost ignore. He sat slumped in the narrow confines of the trench, cigarette dangling from his lips, his journal resting on his knee. Dirt rained down every few minutes from the sheer force of nearby howitzers, but Mateo didn’t flinch. He just wiped the dirt off the page and kept writing.
The howitzers fired without reprieve, twenty-four hours a day. The artillery crews only got ten minutes of rest between shifts, just enough to keep from collapsing. No one complained, though. Complaints didn’t stop shells, and exhaustion was a luxury few could afford.
Mateo scribbled a few more lines in his journal, squinting through the smoke drifting through the trenches. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had joined the military. At first, he thought it was rebellion, a final act of defiance against his parents, who had tried to force him into the family business. They owned vast estates and enterprises, and he’d been groomed to take over ever since he could walk.
But he didn’t want to be a businessman.
He wanted to be a novelist. He wanted to write stories, not balance ledgers. But the military wasn’t exactly the dream career either, it was just a way out. Or so he’d thought.
Now, sitting in a trench surrounded by mud and snow, he wondered if it had all been a mistake. But even in the chaos, there was something... honest about war. No fake smiles or business meetings. Just survival, stripped down to its rawest form. That was worth writing about, wasn’t it?
He flicked ash from his cigarette and scratched another sentence onto the page.
An officer trudged toward him, boots squelching in the mud. “Captain Loris, you are called to the command tent.”
Mateo sighed, snapping the journal shut and tucking it into his coat pocket. It’s time.
The lull in the fighting wouldn’t last much longer. The real battle was about to begin.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Mateo crouched at the lip of the trench, peeking over the parapet toward the hill where the daemon forces were entrenched. The enemy’s fortifications stretched across the hilltop like a jagged scar in the snow, bristling with machine guns and shielded by their own trenches. But these weren’t ordinary soldiers—they were daemons. Stronger, faster, and more savage than any human soldier, with skin tougher than leather and instincts honed for war.
The plan was simple. Though simple never meant easy.
Mages would be the first to strike.
Then came him and his shock troopers.
Then came everybody else.
Simple on paper. Deadly in practice.
Mateo glanced down the trench at his men, scarred veterans and fresh recruits, all wearing the same haunted look in their eyes. They knew the odds. Hell, they’d been living them every day for the past six days.
It’s quite something when their captain is a twenty-five-year-old from a rich family who joined the military on a whim.
“Listen up!” Mateo called, turning to his men. “We’ve only got one job—hit them hard, hit them fast, and keep moving. If we stop, we die. Stick to your squads, cover each other, and no goddamn heroics.”
The men nodded, their faces hardening. They all knew what was coming, and they were ready, at least, as ready as anyone could be when charging into the jaws of death.
At the far edge of the trench, mages began their work. Quiet chants turned into guttural syllables that burned the air, weaving ancient magic into reality. Spells this powerful took time, something they didn’t have in combat. That’s why idiot mages stayed in the frontlines. The smart ones found cushy posts behind desks, teaching classes or warding banks. But the fools? The fools came here, and they were the only reason anyone had a fighting chance.
The lead mage raised his staff high, shouting through the freezing air. “Ready! Fire!”
A searing barrage of fireballs, lightning bolts, and ice shards tore through the air, arcing over the trenches and crashing into the enemy lines. The hilltop erupted into chaos as snow vaporized in blasts of fire, bunkers shattered under crackling arcs of electricity, and daemon machine-gun nests that had survived the earlier artillery were shredded by the onslaught.
Before the enemy could respond, the mages shifted targets, hunting artillery and arcane nodes bolstering daemon defenses. They weren’t here to fight in the mud. Each mage was worth more than a platoon, and they knew it. They were surgeons with magic, precise and devastating.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Move! Move! Move!” Mateo roared, vaulting over the trench wall.
The shock troopers surged forward behind him, feet pounding through the snow, rifles clutched tightly to their chests. A mortar shell screamed overhead, slamming into the ground nearby and showering them with dirt and snow. Mateo didn’t stop. Stopping meant dying.
The hill seemed impossibly far away, every step a struggle against the biting wind and the heavy weight of his gear.
The daemons recovered faster than expected. Machine guns barked to life, stitching lines of fire down the hill. Mateo heard the wet thunk of bullets finding flesh—a soldier to his left crumpled with a strangled scream, his blood splattering crimson across the snow. Mateo didn’t look back.
To his right, a mage unleashed another fireball, streaking across the battlefield and detonating inside a bunker. Mateo dove into a shell crater just as a storm of bullets ripped through the air where he’d been moments before.
“Captain, we’re pinned!” one of his men shouted, huddling beside him in the shallow pit.
Mateo gritted his teeth and peered over the crater’s edge. The daemon gunners were entrenched just ahead, their black, soulless eyes gleaming with malice as they swept the battlefield with suppressing fire.
“Not for long,” Mateo muttered.
He yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin with a metallic click, and lobbed it toward the nearest gun nest. It hit with a dull thud, followed by a bone-rattling explosion that turned the nest into a mess of shattered wood, twisted metal, and daemon limbs.
“Now! Go!” Mateo hauled himself out of the crater, slipping on ice but catching his footing.
His boots hammered the ground as he charged toward the daemon trench, rifle raised. One daemon lunged at him, but Mateo fired three rounds into its chest—crack, crack, crack—and the beast crumpled into the snow, gurgling on its last breath.
They hit the enemy trench like a hammer striking an anvil. The shock troopers fought with brutal efficiency, gunning down daemons and tossing grenades into dugouts.
“Hold the line!” Mateo shouted over the din of combat as more of his men flooded into the trenches, firing and reloading in seamless synchronization.
The daemons fought savagely, but they weren’t invincible. One by one, the shock troopers cleared the trench, forcing the daemons to fall back toward their second line of defenses.
Mateo took a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the bloodied wall of the trench. His heart pounded in his chest, and every muscle screamed in protest, but they’d done it—they’d cracked the enemy’s first line.
“Captain! More of them coming from the ridge!” a soldier shouted, pointing toward the summit.
Mateo barely had time to react before bullets raked the trench. He ducked as the wall beside him exploded in a shower of dirt and stone.
“We need smoke!” Mateo barked. One of the troopers yanked a cylindrical grenade from his belt and pulled the pin, tossing it onto the open ground between them and the ridge. A thick plume of white smoke hissed to life, billowing across the battlefield and masking their advance.
“Push through! They’ll dig in again if we give them time!” Mateo ordered, gesturing toward the hill.
The shock troopers reloaded on the move, storming out of the trench and into the smoke, rifles at the ready. Mateo led the charge, his heart pounding as he sprinted through the swirling haze. Every sense was on edge—he could hear the faint click of claws on stone, the guttural growls of daemons waiting just beyond the smoke.
They burst from the smoke in unison, just as the enemy's second line came into view. Daemons scrambled to react, but Mateo and his men were already among them.
“Bayonets! Close the gap!” Mateo bellowed, surging forward as the first daemon raised its rifle to fire. His shot was quicker, a sharp crack from his rifle echoed through the smoke, and the daemon dropped with a snarl, black blood misting the air.
The enemy fired one last frantic volley before the lines collided in brutal melee. Daemons unsheathed jagged swords and curved blades, snarling as they threw themselves at the shock troopers. Mateo’s soldiers answered In kind with steel and fire.
A daemon lunged at Mateo, its blade arcing toward his throat. He sidestepped, driving his bayonet deep into its ribs and wrenching it free with a sickening crunch. Another daemon rushed him from the left, but a soldier tackled it mid-leap, burying a knife between its shoulder blades.
“Stay tight! Don’t give them space!” Mateo roared, blocking a downward slash with his rifle’s stock. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, but he held firm, smashing the rifle’s butt into the daemon’s jaw. It reeled backward, and Mateo finished it with two quick stabs to the chest.
The battlefield devolved into chaos—snow stained red and black, the air thick with smoke, screams, and the clash of steel. A trooper to Mateo’s right was locked in a desperate struggle, fending off a daemon wielding twin blades. Mateo stepped in, firing point-blank into the creature’s skull.
“Grenades! Clear the trench!” a soldier shouted from behind. Mateo nodded, yanked a grenade from his belt, and lobbed it into a dugout where daemons were regrouping. A dull thunk was followed by a deafening BOOM that tore through the enemy’s ranks, sending limbs and shrapnel flying.
The daemons fought savagely, but the shock troopers were relentless. They drove into the trench like a hammer through glass, using rifle butts, knives, and bayonets to dismantle every line of defense. One daemon swung wildly with a chipped sword, only to be gunned down before it could get within striking distance.
“Captain! Left flank collapsing!” a soldier warned, panting as he reloaded.
Mateo glanced toward the left trench section. A cluster of daemons had regrouped, pouring gunfire into his men and trying to push them back toward the ridge’s base.
He gritted his teeth, feeling the pressure mounting with every passing second. The daemons were regrouping faster than he’d hoped, and the shock troopers, already stretched thin, couldn’t hold the line for much longer.
"Suppressive fire, now!" he shouted, popping out of cover to fire a quick burst. The bullets cracked through the air, hitting a daemon in the chest and sending it sprawling backward.
His men responded instantly, rifles barking as they sprayed the daemon positions with lead. Several troopers lobbed grenades to disrupt the enemy’s advance, their explosions momentarily halting the daemon momentum. But Mateo knew it wouldn’t last—the shock troopers were meant to break enemy defenses, not hold them indefinitely.
“Captain!” another soldier shouted, “We’re low on ammo!”
Mateo swore under his breath. Come on, where’s the damn infantry?
He peeked over the trench edge and saw the daemon cluster digging in, setting up makeshift barriers. The enemy was preparing to turn the momentum against them. If they manage a counterattack, it’s over.
“Fallback point secured, sir!” a trooper to his right called, gesturing toward a shallower trench behind them.
Suddenly, he felt faint rumbling, as if the ground itself tremored. He didn’t notice it at first, but the rumbling got louder and louder until he and his soldiers couldn’t ignore it.
“What the hell is that?!” Mateo raised his rifle above the trench where the sound is creeping closer.
Then, he saw it.
A hulking mass of steel, treading the trenches with two big guns on its side.
What is this… a landship?!
Mateo barely had time to duck when the machine roared to life, filling the air with a thunderous cacophony of gunfire and explosions. A BRRRRRRT from its twin machine guns tore through the trench, kicking up geysers of dirt, stone, and bodies. The heavy cannons boomed in unison, belching fire and smoke as shells detonated among the men. The shock wave slammed Mateo against the trench wall, the air knocked from his lungs.
“What the hell is that thing?!” one of his soldiers screamed, his voice barely audible over the deafening barrage.
Mateo gritted his teeth and peeked over the edge again, feeling the earth tremble beneath the relentless advance of the steel monstrosity. It was a beast unlike anything they’d ever encountered, massive treads crushed the mud under its weight, while thick slabs of riveted armor gleamed dully beneath a layer of grime. Black smoke billowed from its exhaust pipes like the breath of some mechanical dragon, and its cannons swiveled slowly, seeking new targets.
Another blast rocked the trench, sending men flying. “Fall back! FALL BACK!” Mateo shouted, yanking a stunned soldier to his feet. They had no answer to this monstrosity. Not with rifles and bayonets.
The enemy had no intention of waiting. Through the thinning smoke, daemon soldiers poured forward behind the tank, using it as cover. They were quick and ruthless, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
“Suppressive fire! Keep them off us!” Mateo ordered, firing his rifle wildly into the advancing daemons. His men rallied behind him, rifles cracking in quick succession. But for every daemon they cut down, two more seemed to appear, returning fire in kind. The enemy’s momentum was building, and if the landship reached their position, it would crush them and their hopes of holding the ridge.
“We need to move!” Mateo shouted over the gunfire. “Pull back to the fallback trench NOW!”
His men scrambled out of the first trench, sprinting toward the shallower line behind them. Machine-gun fire from the landship raked across the ground, mowing down the slower soldiers as they ran.
Mateo reached the fallback trench and threw himself over the edge, landing hard in the mud. His men followed, panting and bloodied, but alive—for now.
“Captain! This can’t hold! That thing will roll right over us!” a soldier shouted, fumbling to reload his rifle with shaking hands.
“Where the hell is the infantry?!” Mateo snapped.
“Sir! Look, they’re pinned at the trench!” The soldier pointed toward their original position, now overrun by daemon soldiers and multiple similar landships grinding forward like steel leviathans.
“Damnit!” Mateo cursed. “Did they attack from the flank?!”
“If that’s true, we’ll get encircled!”
Mateo clenched his jaw, assessing the situation with grim determination. The offensive had already failed. The mages had struck hard, and the shock troopers had fought fiercely, but without infantry support to secure the ground they’d taken, the assault was collapsing. They were cut off, the daemons closing in like wolves circling wounded prey.
They had one option, retreat down the hill. If they could regroup with the pinned infantry, they might have a chance to push back or at least survive.
The earth trembled as the landship’s cannon roared to life, the blast shaking the air and sending soldiers diving for cover. A shell exploded nearby, kicking up a cloud of snow and debris that rained down in choking showers.
“Someone throw some goddamn explosives at it!” Mateo barked, wiping dirt from his eyes as the blast left his ears ringing.
“I’m out!” a soldier yelled, patting his empty belt.
“Me too!” shouted another. Supplies were running low, and Mateo cursed the reckless push that had brought them this far with no way to finish the fight.
The landship lurched forward, gears grinding, its treads churning through snow and mud. Twin machine guns roared, sending arcs of death across the field. Soldiers scrambled, desperately throwing themselves behind anything that could shield them from the hail of bullets. Mateo threw himself against the trench wall.
Mateo’s thoughts raced. They need explosives, and fast—without them, the landship would crush their fallback line beneath its treads like so much wet earth. But they couldn’t just sit here waiting to die.
As the machine guns on the landship reloaded, he peeked up from the trench, trying to find something, anything, that could destroy that monstrous construct. Then, through the smoke and chaos, he saw it—a glint of hope in the form of a shattered crate half-buried in the mud.
Looks like the daemons have been stockpiling grenades of their own.
“Demolitions! There!” Mateo pointed toward the broken crate just thirty meters away, where sticks of dynamite spilled out like forgotten treasure.
“You! Grab those explosives!” Mateo shouted at a nearby soldier, a young recruit with a fresh scar down his cheek.
The machine gun begin firing again as bullets rked the landscape.
“Me?!”
“Yes, you! Get moving or we’re all dead!” Mateo barked, slapping the soldier on the back. The recruit didn’t hesitate any further—he sprang from the trench and sprinted through the snow as gunfire snapped all around him.
“Cover him!” Mateo ordered, raising his rifle and firing bursts toward the daemon soldiers using the landship as cover. His men followed suit, unleashing a volley of suppressive fire. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the daemons from gunning down the runner outright.
The recruit bolted through the snow, his boots slipping as bullets chewed the earth around him. Gunfire cracked in his ears, but he kept his head low and arms pumping, determined not to die halfway there. A stray round whizzed past his head, close enough for him to feel the rush of air.
“Move, kid! MOVE!” Mateo roared from behind, firing rapidly to keep the daemons pinned. His rifle kicked against his shoulder with every shot, the sharp clink of spent casings mixing with the chaos of the battle.
The recruit skidded to a halt beside the broken crate, panting, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Grenades, dynamite—whatever was left. He frantically scooped up several sticks of dynamite, cramming them into his jacket. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to focus. If he fumbled now, they were all dead.
“Get back here!” Mateo shouted.
Just as the recruit turned, the landship’s cannon fired again. The blast hit just to his left, throwing snow and mud into the air. He was lifted off his feet by the shockwave and slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling thud. For a heartbeat, he lay stunned, gasping for breath, his ears ringing.
“GET UP!” Mateo’s voice cut through the haze like a whip. “You’ve got this! Run, damn it!”
The recruit staggered to his feet, legs wobbling beneath him. He was still alive, and he had the explosives. That was what mattered. Gritting his teeth, he sprinted back toward the trench, bullets nipping at his heels.
The recruit dove into the trench just as another volley of machine gun fire raked across the battlefield. He landed hard, gasping for breath, but when he looked down at his jacket, the precious sticks of dynamite were still intact.
“Got it, sir!” he wheezed, shoving the explosives toward Mateo.
“Good work, kid.” Mateo patted the recruit’s shoulder, then turned to the rest of his men. “Listen up! I need two volunteers to help me get close to that thing.”
“We’re with you, Captain,” one of them said grimly, loading the last few rounds into his rifle.
Mateo nodded. “Alright. The plan’s simple, we’ll loop around and plant the dynamite under the treads. The rest of you, keep their heads down. We don’t need a clean shot, just enough chaos to keep them from noticing us.”
He turned to the young recruit. “You did good. Now stay low and keep those grenades handy.”
The recruit gave a shaky nod, still catching his breath.
Mateo cut the fuses on the dynamite down to half-length, his hands steady despite the chaos around him. He couldn’t afford to give the enemy time to react once the fuses were lit.
“Alright, on my mark,” Mateo said, stuffing the dynamite into a satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. He took a deep breath. This was it. Make or break.
They were shock troopers, and they thrive in the explosion.
“MARK!” he shouted.
The trench erupted in gunfire and grenades. Rifles cracked in frantic bursts, and explosions boomed as Mateo’s men gave everything they had, unleashing chaos to distract the enemy. The din was deafening—just the way Mateo needed it to be.
He vaulted over the trench wall, his two volunteers hot on his heels. They sprinted low through the smoke and snow, shadows among the cacophony of war. The enemy's attention stayed locked on the trench, exactly as planned.
"Keep moving!" Mateo urged, heart hammering in his chest.
The landship groaned like a beast awakening, gears grinding as it struggled forward, crushing debris and bodies beneath its massive treads. Its twin machine guns rotated, sweeping the battlefield, but they weren’t fast enough to catch Mateo and his men as they slipped through the fog of war.
"Left flank!" Mateo whispered to the others, veering toward the side of the steel behemoth. The smoke and churned mud provided cover, though every step closer made the roar of its engine more oppressive, a grinding, throaty rumble that vibrated through the ground.
One wrong step. One stray sound, and they'd be crushed beneath the treads or cut to ribbons by daemon infantry.
They pressed on.
“Here!” one of the volunteers hissed, dropping to his knees beside the gargantuan tread. Mateo joined him, yanking the satchel open and pulling out the dynamite sticks quickly.
"Fuse is live in five," Mateo muttered, striking a match. The sulfurous scent stung his nose as the fuses hissed to life, cut short to ensure they detonated quickly.
He shoved the dynamite into the gaps of the giant tread assembly, packing them deep enough to do catastrophic damage. This monster would never move again.
Then he slapped the satchel shut. "Move!"
They broke into a sprint, boots pounding against the snow-covered mud. Behind them, the sizzling fuses burned faster than their pounding hearts.
They had seconds.
"RUN, RUN, RUN!" one volunteer shouted as the landship’s turret began to swivel, sensing the movement too late.
They dove into a nearby trench just as the dynamite ignited.
BOOOOM!!!
The blast rolled across the battlefield like a thunderclap, shattering the tension as the landship buckled and contorted. The explosion ripped through its hull, sending molten shrapnel flying in jagged arcs. One massive tread snapped free, spinning wildly through the air before slamming into the mud with a ground-shaking crash. Flames erupted from the exposed machinery, belching black smoke that choked the sky.
The mechanical beast groaned, tilted awkwardly, and then collapsed, its armored bulk sinking halfway into the mud with a heavy, final whump. The roar of its engine sputtered out, leaving only the chaotic noise of battle in its place.
Mateo acknowledged it with a nod, wiping soot from his face. One monster down, but this fight was far from over.
“Move! Now, while they’re off-balance!” he barked, rallying his men. The daemon soldiers, stunned by the sudden loss of their landship, scrambled to regroup amidst the wreckage. This was their chance.
“RUN!” Mateo shouted.
They took off at a sprint, boots slipping over the churned earth, dodging broken weapons, shell craters, and bodies. They needed to find new cover—fast.
Their original trench was lost, swarming with daemons like a nest of angry wasps. Going back there would be suicide. They had to find somewhere else, somewhere defensible, or they’d be slaughtered in the open.
“Stick together! No one falls behind!” Mateo yelled, glancing back to make sure all of his men were with him, everyone climbed out from the trenches and ran with him.
The recruits, grizzled veterans, and wounded alike pushed forward in grim silence, fueled by instinct and desperation. Gunfire cracked behind them, forcing Mateo to duck as stray bullets whizzed past.
“There!” one soldier shouted, pointing toward an abandoned stretch of trench half-buried under snow and debris. “We can hold there!”
Mateo squinted through the smoke and nodded. Not perfect—but better than dying in the open.
“Go, go, go!” he ordered, firing a few wild shots over his shoulder to discourage any pursuers.
The squad stumbled into the ruined trench, panting and covered in mud. They dropped behind the collapsed earthworks, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the battlefield. The trench was a mess—partially collapsed and littered with the remains of men who hadn’t been as lucky—but it would have to do.
“Check ammo!” Mateo barked, glancing around at his exhausted soldiers. Some of them still had a few rounds left, others only knives and bayonets.
The young recruit with the dynamite gasped for air beside Mateo, shaking but alive.
“You still with me, kid?” Mateo asked, slapping him on the back.
The recruit nodded shakily, gripping his rifle like a lifeline. “Yeah... yeah, sir.”
“Good,” Mateo muttered. “We’re not dead yet.”
“Captain!” one of his men called from further down the trench. “We’re out of rifle ammo! Only sidearms left!”
Mateo cursed under his breath. “Shit.”
He glanced toward the enemy positions, they were deep behind enemy lines now, too far to be rescued and too close to death for comfort.
Retreating downhill was out of the question.
The open slope would make them easy targets, and the daemons would cut them down before they took ten steps. Even when they’ll reach their original trenches, it had been overrun so why bother?
He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, forcing himself to think. Options. They needed options.
Mateo’s gaze drifted to the right, where the battlefield faded into dense, frost-coated woods. The trees were a jagged wall of black against the smoky sky. It was a long shot, but the forest might offer enough cover to slip past the daemon patrols.
“Through the woods...” Mateo whispered to himself, then made up his mind.
He turned to his men. “Listen up! We can’t stay here, and the hill’s a death trap. We’re heading into the forest. If we move fast, we might lose them in the trees.”
The soldiers exchanged weary glances, but no one argued. They trusted Mateo—he was the kind of leader who brought them through hell alive.
“Alright,” Mateo continued, crouching low. “We move in two groups. I’ll take point with three of you. The rest stay close but spread out—if they catch us, we scatter and regroup deeper in the woods. Stay quiet, stay low, and no one plays the hero. Understood?”
“Understood, sir,” a burly sergeant replied grimly, clutching his bayonet. The others murmured agreement, adjusting their packs and pistols.
Mateo turned to the recruit one last time. “Kid, you’ve done good so far. But this isn’t over—stay close, stay quiet. We make it through this, and the first drink’s on me.”
The recruit nodded, swallowing hard but giving Mateo a shaky grin.
“Alright,” Mateo whispered. “On my mark... we move.”
They waited, tense, as the sounds of enemy soldiers grew louder. The heavy clink of boots and shouted orders echoed across the battlefield. Time was running out.
“Mark!” Mateo hissed.
They vaulted from the trench, hunched low as they sprinted across the frozen ground. Bullets snapped in the distance, but the daemons hadn’t spotted them yet.
They reached the edge of the forest, and the world seemed to shift—the trees swallowed them whole, the shadows offering a fragile refuge.
The forest floor was a mess of roots, ice, and underbrush, but Mateo pushed ahead without hesitation. His breath puffed in clouds, the cold biting at his skin. Behind him, his men followed like shadows, their boots crunching softly through the snow.
They pushed deeper into the forest, each step taking them further from the chaos of the battlefield. The gunfire faded, muffled by the dense canopy overhead, until only the occasional crack of distant explosions could be heard—muted, like echoes from another world.
The ground beneath their boots shifted from jagged roots and frozen mud to softer earth. Snow lay in uneven patches, undisturbed save for the tracks they were leaving behind, a trail that could lead the enemy straight to them if they weren’t careful.
Mateo slowed, raising a hand to signal the squad to stop. They crouched instinctively, breath ragged but controlled, their weapons still clutched tightly. The air around them was eerily calm, the forest exhaling in low whispers of wind through branches. For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustling of pine needles underfoot. They had escaped the frontlines, but the feeling of danger hadn’t left them.
Mateo scanned their surroundings with sharp eyes, his instincts on high alert. Too quiet. No birds, no animals—just silence. An uneasy stillness. The day had become dark, he just realized just now.
“How far you think we’ve come, Captain?” one of the soldiers whispered, wiping frost from his cracked lips.
“Not far enough,” Mateo muttered grimly, shifting his gaze deeper into the woods. They weren’t safe yet.
“Captain,” the recruit—still catching his breath—nodded toward the tracks they had left in the snow. “They’ll follow us.”
“Not if we make them lose us first.”
He pointed toward a narrow stream, its icy waters trickling quietly through the forest. “We follow the river. Keep to the rocks and avoid leaving tracks in the snow. We’ll move upstream—it’ll slow us down, but it’ll keep them guessing.”
Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t know the layout of these lands. They were in a foreign land, fighting for a foreign country.
The men exchanged tired glances but nodded. There was no time to rest, not yet.
They pressed on, moving along the water’s edge in near silence. Mateo’s breath came slow and steady, each step deliberate. The cold gnawed at his bones, but it was better than dying under daemon fire.
The forest began to shift again as they advanced—the undergrowth thickened, the trees grew closer together, their branches knitting into a tangled canopy that blocked out the sky. It was darker here, the only light coming from the faint silver gleam of snow and water.
Then Mateo stopped abruptly, raising his fist. The men froze.
Something was wrong.
He crouched low, scanning the treetops and underbrush with narrowed eyes. His fingers rested lightly on the grip of his handgun. The air felt heavier, charged with tension, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
A low rustle drifted through the trees, faint but deliberate. It wasn’t the wind.
Mateo’s heart tightened. They weren’t alone.
“Eyes up,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Stay close. Move slow.”
His men shifted quietly, weapons raised, their senses sharpened by the growing unease.
The forest around them seemed to stir, as if some unseen presence had taken notice of their intrusion. Then came a soft snap, a branch breaking underfoot.
Mateo’s blood ran cold. Not one of ours.
A shape moved in the shadows ahead—a fleeting figure too large to be a man but too quick to be anything natural. Then it was gone, swallowed by the dark.
“Captain…” the recruit’s voice was a shaky whisper. “What was that?”
“Stay low,” he ordered, voice steady. “No sudden moves. Keep moving, but slow.”
The soldiers exchanged nervous glances but obeyed, inching forward through the dense undergrowth. Every crackle of snow underfoot, every brush of a branch, felt like a death sentence. The thing in the forest wasn’t far—it was hunting, and it knew they were here.
Then… a branch was snapped underfoot.
The sound of the branch snapping reverberated through the still air, far too close. Mateo’s heart thudded painfully against his ribcage, every instinct screaming danger. His men froze where they stood, breath caught in their throats, hands tightening around weapons that suddenly felt too small against whatever was out there.
No one moved. Even the forest seemed paralyzed, as if sensing the predator lurking just beyond the veil of shadows.
Then it came again—a deliberate step, heavy and slow. Another branch cracked. Something was circling them, testing the limits of their fear, like a wolf toying with cornered prey.
Mateo’s eyes flicked toward the recruit. The kid was trembling, his knuckles white on his rifle. “Easy,” Mateo mouthed silently, holding up two fingers to remind him—two shots only if necessary. One to aim. One to kill. No mistakes.
More rustling now, low and deliberate. The thing was close, too close.
Mateo didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t a man, elf, or daemon. It moved with a purpose, something feral and cunning. It had been tracking them. And it wasn’t going to stop.
He gestured silently to the others.
Fan out. No sound. No panic.
They moved like shadows, spreading slowly through the underbrush, rifles raised. Their eyes darting between every dark corner of the forest.
Then, it appeared.
A pale, hunched figure glided between the trunks. Too fluid, too fast. Its sinewy limbs were long and unnatural, bending in places they shouldn’t. Mateo caught a brief glimpse—joints that twisted backward, and yellowed eyes burning like embers in the blackness. And just as quickly as it appeared, it slipped back into the shadows, melting into the night like smoke.
Not a daemon. Not a man. Something else.
“What the hell is that?” Mateo muttered under his breath, though no one dared answer. The creature wasn’t just hunting. It was playing with them, savoring the hunt.
His instincts screamed at him to run, but Mateo squashed the urge. Running was suicide. Soldiers didn’t run, they fight. If this thing wanted prey, it was about to meet a wolf.
If this thing wanted prey, it was about to get more than it bargained for.
The underbrush stirred again. Another shape slipped through the shadows—just as pale, just as quick. Mateo stiffened. There were more of them.
A flicker to the left. Then another to the right. Multiple shapes weaving between the trees. There wasn’t just one.
“Shit...” one soldier whispered, gripping his bayonet tighter. “There’s more than one of ‘em, Cap.”
“Eyes open. Keep calm,” he whispered, more to himself than the others. His mind raced, searching for options. They needed a way to even the odds, “can anyone cast light magic?” He whispered, turning to his men.
“I— I can…” The recruit meekly said. Which earned a surprise from him.
“You can? Then do it!”
The recruit hesitated only for a second, fumbling with his nerves. Then he raised a shaking hand, aimed toward the darkness, and whispered a chant under his breath. Mateo held his breath, praying it would work.
A burst of brilliant light shot from the recruit’s fingertips, flooding the woods in an instant. The shadows peeled away, exposing the horrors lurking within.
There they were.
Thin, gaunt creatures with sickly pale skin stretched tight over their bones. Their limbs were unnaturally long, bending at sharp, grotesque angles. Yellowed eyes gleamed with malice, filled with hunger and cruelty. The light burned them, and they recoiled with shrieks and sharp, animalistic sounds that clawed at the men's ears.
“OPEN FIRE!” Mateo roared, raising his rifle and squeezing the trigger.
Gunfire erupted all at once, sharp cracks splitting the cold air. Those with ammunition unleashed everything they had. The muzzle flashes danced in sync with the recruit’s light spell, painting the forest in bursts of chaotic brilliance. Bullets tore through the creatures, ripping through thin flesh and brittle bones. Blood sprayed—black and steaming in the cold air.
One of the monsters took a round to the head, its skull snapping back with a wet crunch. It crumpled mid-lunge, a lifeless heap folding into the snow. Another stumbled, half its torso shredded by gunfire, but it clawed forward with sickening determination until a second burst of bullets ended its struggle.
But the creatures didn’t stop. For every one that fell, another surged forward, shrieking with unnatural fury.
Mateo’s rifle kicked against his shoulder as he squeezed off another shot. The bullet hit home, striking one of the creatures square in the chest—but it barely slowed. The thing snarled, spittle flying from its gaping maw, and sprang forward with terrifying speed.
In that instant, Mateo knew he was dead. The creature’s claws were already reaching for him, and its blackened jaws stretched wide to tear into his throat. He braced for the end—
—And then someone appeared.
A blur of motion. A figure materialized between him and the lunging beast with unnatural grace. The woman’s back was to him, but her voice came clear and laced with annoyance.
“Geez, you guys reaaally know how to mess up someone’s work, don’t ya?” she said, a hint of exasperated amusement in her tone.
Mateo’s breath caught—who the hell was she? He barely registered her presence before she raised a hand, her movements languid, almost lazy. Dark particles began swirling around her fingers, black mist coiling like smoke drawn to flame.
The snarling creature let out a high-pitched shriek and skidded to a halt mid-lunge, twisting violently as the dark magic took hold. The black mist seeped into its pale, sinewy flesh, spreading through its veins like ink in water. It thrashed, limbs jerking in unnatural angles, a horrible gurgling sound escaping its throat.
A gurgling, wet sound escaped its throat, more pitiful than menacing now. Mateo recognized this magic instantly, he’d studied it at the Valerian Academy. Dark magic. Notorious for its difficulty to control and its legal gray area—if not outright forbidden. Few wielded it. Fewer still mastered it.
The creature gave one last, agonizing shriek before it collapsed, twitching violently in the snow. Its pale body crumbled as the dark magic consumed it, leaving nothing but a blackened husk. And then, that too dissolved into ash, scattered on the cold wind.
The remaining creatures, sensing the shift, abandoned their hunt. With guttural snarls of panic, they retreated into the forest’s shadows, fleeing with the unnatural speed they’d once used to stalk the soldiers.
The woman lowered her hand and let out a long sigh, as if dealing with these horrors was just another day’s work.
"You’re welcome, by the way," she said, turning to face Mateo.
The very air around her seemed colder—colder than the snow beneath their boots. She wore a dark green robe, the hood pulled low over her head, concealing much of her face. Yet the parts Mateo could see told him everything. Her hair, as white as untouched snow, spilled loosely from the hood. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, like moonlight on ice. But it was the small, pointed fangs glinting behind her smirk—and the glowing red eyes—that sent a jolt through Mateo’s mind.
A vampire.