As the standing army was preparing to storm through the massive iron gate, a steady stream of miners continued to pour out of the mansion's doors. The courtyard was now teeming with over two hundred miners.

Scaling the fence would only get them caught red-handed, so the 1,800-strong standing army had no choice but to keep funneling through the iron gate.

However, not everyone was keen on risking their lives against a bunch of grimy miners from who-knows-where. As a result, the army's progress into the courtyard was excruciatingly slow, with many soldiers slyly trying to slip away, either hoping to take pot shots from the back or avoiding combat altogether.

In a nondescript corner, the bound members of Witt's squad had already vanished without anyone noticing.

Inside the courtyard, the armored standing army wielding longswords clashed with miners carrying pickaxes and iron rods. Swords sliced through the miners' exposed skin, yet they seemed oblivious to pain, relentlessly bashing the soldiers' helmets with their iron rods.

The miners' bashing motions were practiced, almost reminiscent of their laborious toil in the mines had their iron rods been replaced with pickaxes.

Part of the standing army's standard gear included a poorly crafted iron helmet. The blunt force of iron rods smashing against these helmets left the soldiers inside dazed and disoriented.

Crammed in the tight space, they had no time to ponder why the miners they stabbed remained lively. Their sole focus was parrying the miners' incessant bashing to avoid concussions from brain trauma.

Finally, no more miners emerged from the mansion. The standing army's commander, who had been "directing" the battle, exhaled deeply. A rough estimate put the number of miners in the courtyard at around a thousand, while the standing army had 1,800 men. The odds should favor his troops.

What the commander failed to notice was that in such chaotic melee, the standing army and miners were tearing each other apart, dividing, surrounding, and being surrounded. The encircled army squads were slowly vanishing, as if being digested.

Empowered by their heightened intelligence, the skeletal miners were no longer their former selves. Their mining proficiency with pickaxes translated seamlessly to deftly wielding firearms, and their level advancement had taught them basic combat coordination.

Two skeletal miners would draw a standing army soldier's attention from the front while a third flanked from behind to ambush.

This rudimentary coordination would render any elite force from the capital utterly helpless. But the self-proclaimed "elite" standing army of City of Gath still fell prey, their numbers dwindling under such tactically inept maneuvers.

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The ambushed, unconscious standing army soldiers were promptly carried into the mansion by opportunistic skeletons. There, on a soft, flowing assembly line formed by hundreds of slimes, adjacent skeletons methodically stripped off the soldiers' armor piece by piece, as one would peel shrimp, until only their undergarments remained. Finally, a few skeletons would bind the soldiers and stuff them into a dug tunnel, transporting them all the way to the tunnel's exit outside City of Gath.

Whether it was Witt and his squad or newly captured prisoners from outside, they were all being sluggishly conveyed in a dazed state through the miles-long tunnel.

Time trickled by, yet the intensity of the courtyard battle only escalated. For some inexplicable reason, the standing army's defensive line was gradually contracting.

"Why can't we gain the upper hand despite our numerical advantage?" some soldiers wondered. "Wait, do we really outnumber them? There aren't any bodies on the ground. Is it possible no one actually dies in battle?"

A sense of oppressive dread began to spread among the standing army's ranks. So much time had passed, yet not a single fallen comrade lay in sight. Even a simpleton would realize something was amiss.

It was then that the commander spotted two scrawny miners darting through the fray, hoisting a "corpse" and scurrying back into the mansion with it.

The commander, stunned, plopped onto the ground. "That Murphy, could he be using the bodies for spellcasting?"

He dared not dwell on the thought. If the sorcerer Murphy could cast spells on corpses, then all those "bodies" ferried inside had undoubtedly become reagents for the enemy. Coupled with that seemingly bottomless mansion, the commander gulped hard, a indescribable terror gripping his heart. "Contract the defensive line! Prepare to retreat!"

The aide beside the commander had always been obedient. Upon hearing the order, he stood up and bellowed, "The commander says run for your lives!"

"When did I say to run?" the commander looked up at his aide, a hint of fury in his eyes.

"My apologies, sir, it slipped out..." The aide quickly attempted to correct himself, "The commander did not say to run!"

But words once uttered are like spilled water. The aide's shout had already caused a stir among the remaining standing army, and before their squad leaders could issue any orders, the soldiers began scattering in disarray.

"Run, dammit!" a standing army soldier, trapped by the crush of bodies behind him, yelled. "The commander's already fled. Why are we still here?"

The soldier charging forward behind him stopped in his tracks, utterly bewildered. "What? I didn't hear that!"

"He definitely said it! I heard that weasel's squawk with my own ears. Said for everyone to run. Think about it, if even that quacker is talking, the commander must've already made it home."

Convinced, the soldier behind turned and started pushing his way out. This contagion spread like a plague until, without any commanders, the remaining less than a thousand standing army soldiers spontaneously executed an about-face maneuver. Despite nearly 50% casualties, they retreated from Iron Gate Street at a pace well beyond forced march, leaving behind only some trampled armor and weapons. Their departure was as traceless as their arrival.

Inside, Murphy had watched the entire courtyard battle through the window, smacking his thigh in frustration. "Right, I forgot to teach them how to use guns..."

The remaining standing army soldiers fled through City of Gath's streets at sunset, a few dozen miners hounding them like hunting hounds. Citizens peeked through window cracks at the unforgettable spectacle, their bewilderment mounting.

Outside the city's forests, a well-constructed large camp had taken initial shape. Layer upon layer of wooden fences enveloped the central cave, resembling a decent-sized ranch. Except this "ranch" would briefly corral around a thousand trussed-up human captives.