Barrett hit the ground at a dead run, boots thudding as he burst into the stretch of wall they’d grimly nicknamed the Kill Zone. The massive, black, jagged blade rode easily across his shoulder, as though it weighed nothing at all.
KRAA—KRAA!
Grimm shifted his talons against Barrett’s collar, feathers bristling.
“Easy, little buddy,” Barrett murmured, lips curling into a thin smile. “Plenty of work coming. I promise.”
This section of the palisade was intentionally bare, with fewer torches and fewer bodies. To an enemy’s eye, it would look weak. Under-defended. A mistake begging to be exploited.
It wasn’t.
The strongest-looking positions had been assigned elsewhere. Eidel and her guards held the side nearest the non-combatants, “wall three”. Vik and Wexel each anchored two flanks “wall one” and “wall four”, with Rei moving between sides like a living counterweight. That left the fourth side, “wall four”—the one Barrett now claimed—with the lightest village presence and the heaviest hitters.
Himself. Pippy. Maku.
The place where the fighting was meant to be the hottest.
As Barrett vaulted onto the inner rise near the wall, a young villager sprinted toward him, face pale and slick with sweat.
“Thank the heavens,” the boy gasped. “Imperator—you’re here.”
Grimm’s eyes swept the position in a single, sharp pass. Feeding Barrett all the information he needed.
“Where are Pippy and Maku?” he asked.
The boy swallowed. “They…they haven’t arrived yet, sir.”
“Dammit,” Barrett muttered, jaw tightening.
Before the boy could say more, a thunderous roar rolled up from beyond the trench, followed by screams. Wet ones. The sound of bodies meeting stakes, of traps doing exactly what they’d been built to do.
Barrett was already moving.
He reached the rise beside the palisade just as several villagers clustered there, weapons clenched too tightly, eyes fixed on the dark below.
“Just you, Imperator?” one of them asked, his voice betraying him.
Barrett’s grin came slow and dangerous. “It’s been a long time since anyone put the word just in front of Barrett Donovan.”
The man stiffened. “M-my apologies, sir.”
Barrett laughed. “Relax. You’re about to get a front-row seat.”
Below the wall, the trench vomited its contents.
Orcs hauled themselves free with some missing limbs, others slick with blood, armor mangled by spikes and hidden blades. Pain had only sharpened them. Rage burned bright in their eyes as they clawed their way forward, howling for repayment.
Barrett’s vision flickered as his instincts tagged them automatically.
[Orc Warrior — Level 17]
[Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[Orc Warrior — Level 17]
…
[Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[Orc Warrior — Level 17]
The list kept going.
Barrett closed the interface and exhaled slowly through his nose.
On either side of him, he felt the villagers’ tension. They’d thought this position would be easier. That the “strong side” meant safety.
That misunderstanding would soon be corrected.
“Alright,” Barrett said loudly, voice carrying over the wall. “Listen up.”
Every head turned.
“You hold this line,” he continued, tapping the palisade with his knuckles. “Don’t get fancy. Don’t get brave. Just make sure this wall stays standing.”
He rolled the massive blade off his shoulder, letting its jagged edge catch the torchlight. The sword hummed, eagerly.
“Me personally…I’m just feeling a little impatient.”
One of the boys stared at him. “You want us to…follow you?”
Barrett snorted. “Hell no.”
Then, without another word, he sprinted forward and vaulted the wall.
Grimm shrieked in delight, taking off into the sky as Barrett plunged into the waiting dark.
—
The first orcs to spot Barrett landing came at him with howls of triumph, sprinting as if fate itself had finally smiled on them.
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Barrett didn’t slow.
He slid his hands wider on the massive hilt, planted one boot, and swung.
The blade tore through the first orc with the sound of splitting timber, cleaving armor and bone clean in two. Momentum carried him forward; he stepped into it, rolled his shoulders, and reversed the arc. The second orc barely had time to widen its eyes before the black edge rose and took it from the chest up, the body folding backward in a wet collapse.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
Barrett exhaled, breath sharp and exhilarated.
“Damn,” he muttered, a grin breaking through the grime. “This sword’s got some bite.”
Behind the wall, the villagers erupted in cheers. Bows snapped. Slings whirled. Bolts of magic and stones rained down with renewed confidence, driving into the advancing orcs and shattering their momentum.
The next wave slowed.
Growls replaced reckless charges. The orcs spread out, circling now, weapons raised, eyes tracking the black blade with wary hatred.
Barrett rolled his neck once and tilted his head.
“What’s wrong, fellas?” he called out easily. “Nobody wants a free haircut?”
They answered with a rush.
One came in high, and Barrett caught the strike on the flat of his blade, twisted, and drove the pommel into the orc’s face with a crack that snapped its head sideways. Before it could fall, he kicked it square in the chest, sending it tumbling backward into the trench. A scream cut short on the spikes below.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
He dropped his stance and spun, muscles coiling, then uncoiling in a brutal arc. The sword swept low to high, a black crescent of death that took two orcs at once, bodies separating mid-charge as if they’d been made of straw.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
His [Iron Reflex] screamed.
Barrett twisted just as a spear hissed past his ribs, close enough to tug at his coat. He snapped his gaze toward the thrower, already moving.
He sprinted, slid between two attackers, and drove a vicious kick up between one orc’s legs. As it folded with a choking roar, Barrett vaulted off its back, leaping high, then came down like a falling guillotine.
The spear-thrower never looked up.
His blade hit with a wet, final crunch.
Barrett landed hard, boots sinking into churned mud, and his [Deadeye Domain] flared wide. The wall behind him still held. Villagers firing. Lines intact.
Good.
He surged back toward the palisade, carving into orcs that had slipped too close, striking from angles they hadn’t expected—behind, from the side, anywhere they didn’t expect trouble. One by one, they fell back, the pressure easing, the assault thinning to a ragged trickle.
At last, Barrett planted his sword into the mud and leaned on it, chest heaving. Sweat streamed down his face, steam rising from his skin in the torchlight.
A woman with cropped hair threw her fist into the air. “Hail Imperator Donovan!”
The shout caught like fire.
“Hail Imperator!”
“Hail Donovan!”
Barrett straightened, nodding once, the grin gone now, replaced by focus.
“Hope the rest of the walls are doing as well,” a young man said, trying to sound confident.
The sky answered him.
Three red flares streaked upward in rapid succession.
Barrett’s stomach dropped.
“Three flares…” the man whispered. “Wall Three needs help!”
“Our non-combatants are there!” the woman said sharply. “There are kids on that side!”
“My kids!” someone shouted. “Imperator! My kids are there!”
Barrett raised a hand, forcing his voice steady. “The Handomeans are holding that wall. They’re strong. They can hold long enough for me to get there.”
He turned, eyes sweeping the line. “Nobody breaks formation. If this wall collapses, the whole camp collapses. You stay. You hold.”
They nodded, fear wrestling with trust.
Then the ground began to shake.
A fresh wave poured from the dark—more orcs—charging straight for him.
Barrett rolled his shoulders and lifted the blade.
“Shit,” he muttered, jaw setting.
He stepped forward, breath slowing, rage sharpening into something colder and deeper.
“Blood Oath,” he growled quietly.
“Stage One.”
—
Barrett’s heart began to hammer, the rhythm so loud it drowned out everything else.
Fear flooded him, not the sharp, paralyzing kind, but something heavier, more corrosive. He saw Wall Three in his mind’s eye, splintering under pressure. He saw children—faces he’d just learned, names he barely knew—caught in the crush, screaming as steel and tusk tore through them. He imagined parents abandoning their posts, lines unraveling as they ran in blind desperation, turning defense into slaughter.
He would never make it in time.
He imagined Granny’s gentle smile gone, becoming nothing but a memory, just like Arthur’s .
The thought burned.
He didn’t push it away.
He fed it to the fire.
Power surged through him, raw and intoxicating, flooding his limbs until his veins felt too small to hold it. The world sharpened. Slowed. His breath evened out, fear transmuting into something molten and terrible.
Barrett moved.
Not faster in a frantic way, but cleaner. Deadlier. There were no wasted steps now, no hesitation, no corrections mid-swing. Every movement was final. Every angle chosen with certainty.
His blade cut.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
Again.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
Step. Pivot. Swing.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
Barrett became a rolling pressure, a living front line. Mud churned beneath his boots. Blood sprayed his coat, his arms, his face, but the orcs kept coming, climbing, howling, driven by numbers and fury.
Panic clawed at his chest when he saw it: his own people were breaking. Villagers pulling back from the wall, fear finally overpowering discipline. One gap widened. Then another.
He felt it twist inside him.
He burned that too.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
His [Deadeye Domain] told him the truth.
Even like this…it wouldn’t be enough.
There weren’t enough seconds. Not enough swings. He couldn’t stabilize this front and reach the others in time. No matter how fast he moved, the math didn’t bend.
“Shit—shit—shit!” he roared, fighting like something feral and cornered.
Bodies fell, stopping forever.
Time didn’t; time kept going.
Every heartbeat felt stolen. Every breath felt like a countdown. He wondered if at this very moment, the weak he was sworn to protect were already dying. If he was about to fail again. If he was about to arrive just in time to see the aftermath.
Just like before.
He drove his sword down into an orc still twitching beneath him, finishing it without slowing.
[You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 18]
A pulse rippled through his chest.
[LEVEL UP!]
[Congratulations, you are now Level 21!]
Barrett barely noticed.
He looked ahead.
More orcs poured out of the trenches, snarling, relentless.
His heart thundered.
And then—
The sky lit up.
A storm of light tore downward, and hundreds of mana javelins screamed through the air like falling stars. They struck with impossible precision, impossible speed, punching through armor and flesh alike, detonating the charge in a blinding cascade.
Orcs fell by the dozen.
The pressure broke.
“Mister Donovan!” a familiar voice shouted.
Barrett spun.
Pippy stood behind the line, glowing, hands raised, eyes blazing with gold.
“What’s up, ya big oaf?” Maku called from beside her, casual as if this were all perfectly on schedule.
Barrett sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
A small, stubborn flame of hope had just caught and held. Once again, Barrett dared to hope he’d see the morning suns with everyone he cared about.
