“Scouts!” someone shouted. “From the west!”

  William was on his feet before the next call came down the line.

  “Goblins! Band approaching from the west! Fifteen minutes out!”

  A ripple of alarm tore through the camp. Soldiers scrambled for weapons, their faces pale beneath grime and exhaustion. Officers barked orders, clashed, and overlapped; soldiers and civilians moved as directed by the sergeants. The one-hour reprieve dissolved into a storm of noise and chaotic movement.

  “Circle the wagons! Protect the civilians!” came the next order, bellowed over the rising clamour.

  Teams of men hauled wagons into position, locking wheels and forming a rough ring around the weakest. The creak of timber and the clatter of chains filled the air as horses were unhitched and driven to the centre. Women and children huddled together, clutching what few belongings they still carried.

  Fredric appeared beside William, his expression concerned but determined. “How many do you think?”

  William shook his head. “Too many.”

  The adventurers gathered—Marie, Sibrek, Pip, Amra, Carl, and Brian—each armoured, each silent. There was no need for words. They knew their place was at the edge of the circle, where the first blows would fall.

  They joined the forward line, shoulder to shoulder with nearly a thousand soldiers and a few hundred volunteers from Brindlecross and Dunholme. The rest of the convoy, including most of the survivors, was being guarded deeper within the ring.

  A low murmur passed through the ranks; rumours spreading like wildfire.

  “Three hundred, I think they said!?” A soldier shouted.

  A woman carrying a spear responded. “No, near a thousand!”

  “Could be the vanguard,” another replied.

  “Hold the line!” roared a sergeant. But the uncertainty was already crawling through the ranks.

  William scanned the horizon. The eastern sky glowed with reflected firelight, whether from the goblins’ torches or the smouldering ruins of another village, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it was too close.

  Then Commander Veylan rode forward through the ranks, his battered armour reflecting the orange glint of lanterns. His face was drawn and shadowed, but his voice carried across the plain.

  “Men and women of Mercia!” he called, reining his horse to a halt before the line. “You’ve heard the horns. Scouts report a force of three to five hundred goblins moving fast from the west. They come to break us before dawn, to drive our people into the mud and feast on their flesh!”

  The murmurs stilled. All eyes turned to him.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “We are tired,” Veylan continued, his voice steady. “We have marched, we have bled, and we have mourned our own. But we are still standing. You are the line that guards Mercia’s heart. You are the wall between these beasts and every home that still flies our banner!”

  A few men raised their swords, voices shouting in agreement. Others gripped their spears tighter, the fear in their eyes hardening into grim resolve.

  “For Mercia!” one man shouted. An echoing chorus of, ‘For Mercia!’ from hundreds was the reply.

  William felt the call deep in his chest. “For Mercia!” he yelled as he raised his sword in the air. He checked his mana. 81; it should be fine. He only had the one battle spell to cast.

  Veylan waited for the calls to die down before continuing, his tone deepened. “I know you are weary. I know you ache, but hear me. If we hold here, if we break them, then the city stands ready ahead of us. Our people will see another dawn. And when they sing of this night, they will say Mercia did not falter!”

  The last words came like thunder, echoing across the field. A ragged cheer rose from the ranks, building into a roar. Even those too tired to lift their swords raised their voices, desperate for something, anything, to believe in.

  Fredric’s voice joined the renewed battle cry, hoarse but proud.

  William found himself shouting, the sound rising from his chest like fire in his blood. “For Mercia!” For a brief moment, the fear faded, replaced by something stronger. Hope and belonging to something bigger than himself.

  Through the din and the battle cries, a familiar blue screen appeared before Will’s eyes.

  [Optional Quest: Protect the Convoy of Survivors]

  I was going to do that anyway. Tutting while dismissing the notification, Will turned his attention to Commander Veylan.

  Veylan lifted his sword towards the west. “Cohorts one and two form up. Archers! Mages! Prepare positions! Infantry, break them on your spears and pikes! Let no beast cross this line alive!”

  Veylan’s officers barked orders, their voices carrying over the chaos as the army’s core of one thousand soldiers formed a line ahead of the wagons. Spears and pikes bristled like a living wall, shields locking into place with the steady rhythm of trained discipline. Behind them, the adventurers and villagers spread out. William stood near the centre, Fredric close at his side, the six adventurers fanning out across the line.

  Will could hear prayers murmured in the dark, some quiet, others desperate. A mother near the wagons hummed a lullaby to keep her child from crying. The sound was soft, trembling, and painfully human. He could see fear on the faces of the survivors of Brindlecross and Dunholme holding borrowed spears, their knuckles white, their eyes wide. They were farmers, blacksmiths, and tradesmen, not warriors, yet here they stood beside soldiers hardened by war.

  The contrast was stark, but so too was the quiet resolve that rippled through the line when Commander Veylan rode past, calm and unflinching. His armour caught the faint light of torches, and his clear, controlled voice cut through the noise like steel.

  “Hold steady. We fight as one. Remember your training. Protect your brothers and sisters. We are Mercia, and we do not falter!”

  William felt the shift in the air. Fear hardened into focus. Even the trembling stopped. He leaned towards Fredric. “Stay behind the first line. Keep your guard high and don’t try to be a hero. You see an opening, take it, then step back, and above all else, do not let the battle lead you too far away from me. Understand?”

  Fredric swallowed and nodded. “I understand.”

  Before William could say more, the thunder of hooves drew his attention. A scout galloped in from the darkness, his horse lathered with sweat, and his armour scored with claw marks. He half-fell from the saddle, saluting weakly.

  “They’re coming from the west!” the scout gasped. “Closer than we thought. A few minutes out, four hundred, maybe five!”

  A shudder went through the soldiers like wind through dry grass. Men shifted, checking grips and tightening straps. Somewhere behind them, a horse whinnied and kicked at its harness, eyes rolling white in panic.

  Then came the sound from the plains. Deep and distant at first, then growing louder. The beat of crude war drums and the guttural roar of voices carried on the wind. William’s pulse quickened. The goblins were coming.

  ? Mysteries of Sacra [Isekai] [Weak to OP] [Beast Companion] ?

  by Robert Wolf

  Thrown into a world of beasts and magic, Kai must fight to survive and hold on to the last pieces of his humanity.

  What to expect:

  In a world where kindness is weakness and morality is a luxury only the strong can afford, Kai must decide who he wants to be and what he's willing to sacrifice.

  Umbra, fierce and loyal, and Scry, wise and offlandish, refuse to let him lose himself to the darkness growing within.

  But every step forward brings him closer to a prophecy no one dares to speak.

  Chapter 050 [Quest Updated: A Fighting Retreat]