By the time the sun had completely vanished beyond the horizon, darkness settled heavily over Legion 23’s encampment. The battlefield beyond the walls glowed faintly with scattered torches and the eerie reflection of moonlight on blood-soaked ground. The goblins were still there—always there—but for now, the relentless pressure had eased just enough for the defenders to rotate their forces.

  Arin and his family were finally relieved from duty atop the wall.

  They were replaced by regular infantry units, heavily armored and equipped with long spears and shields. This change was not because the archers had failed—far from it—but because the walls themselves imposed harsh limitations.

  The wooden ramparts were only ten meters high, and the walkways atop them were merely five meters wide. That might sound generous on paper, but once reality set in, space became a precious resource. Infantry presence was mandatory. Goblins, after all, did not need ladders. If enough of them died in the moat—an ugly, grim truth—their bodies would eventually fill it. Once that happened, more goblins could climb over the corpses, scramble up the wall, and overwhelm the defenders through sheer numbers.

  It was crude.

  It was horrifying.

  And it worked.

  Because of that, the walls had to be packed with infantry whose sole job was to push goblins back down, stab anything that crested the edge, and keep the line intact at all costs. A narrow lane—about a meter and a half wide—was kept clear for rapid troop movement and emergency resupply. That left barely three and a half meters of usable space.

  Not nearly enough for massed archers.

  Only proven marksmen—those who could shoot accurately under pressure, at long range, without wasting arrows—were allowed on the walls. Everyone else was restricted, issued limited ammunition, and effectively reassigned as reserve infantry, waiting for orders to fire over the wall if the situation demanded it.

  Arin was one of the few exceptions.

  By the time he loosed his hundredth arrow of the battle, his arms were trembling.

  The bowstring snapped forward one last time, and the arrow vanished into the darkness below. A heartbeat later, a distant screech confirmed the hit.

  Then, from behind him, a voice called out.

  “Archer, you’re relieved.”

  Arin turned his head and saw the man who would replace him.

  He looked to be in his early thirties, with a rugged face marked by old scars and exhaustion that ran deeper than fatigue. His eyes, sharp and hollow at the same time, were the eyes of someone who had seen far too much death—and expected to see more before the night was over.

  “Thanks,” Arin said quietly.

  For the first time since the battle had begun, he lowered his arms fully. The tension drained from his shoulders all at once, leaving behind a deep, aching soreness that made him hiss softly.

  He stepped aside to make room as the crossbowman took position. Behind him came several strong-looking men carrying spare loaded crossbows. They moved with efficiency born from grim necessity.

  Arin didn’t linger. He had never been particularly social, and small talk felt out of place amid the screams and clashing steel.

  As he descended the wooden steps, the crossbowman began firing.

  The sound was different from a bow—heavier, more mechanical. The rate of fire was astonishing: six to seven shots per minute. The only real delay came from switching crossbows after he had fired and taken aim.

  From below, Arin could hear goblins howling as bolts punched through them. It had become easier to identify evolved goblins now. They no longer hid. They shouted orders, shrieked commands, and waved their arms wildly as they tried to direct the enraged masses into something resembling an organized assault.

  They were loud.

  Which made them easy targets.

  At the base of the stairs, Arin found his family waiting for him.

  “There you are,” Teun said, relief evident in his voice. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”

  He gestured toward the inner camp.

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  “And you’ll want to see this,” he added with a grim smile. “They’re using the Greek fire tonight.”

  Arin blinked. “Greek fire?”

  “We’re back on duty at the same time tomorrow evening,” Teun continued as they began walking. “Might as well eat and watch while we can.”

  As they moved, Teun explained.

  Despite having a number of snipers, the legion still faced a serious shortage of long-range specialists. Crossbows helped somewhat—skills translated a little—but true sniping was a highly specialized profession. Most of the best shots chose warrior or mage classes instead, leaving archery-focused roles critically understaffed.

  A warrior could fire a crossbow, sure—but without archery-specific mana infusion skills, the bolts lacked penetration. They might bounce off armor or sink shallowly without lethal effect.

  Archers who could reliably hit targets beyond fifty meters were rare.

  Painfully rare.

  “Okay,” Arin muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I definitely need food.”

  His arms throbbed. His bow had an absurd draw weight—one he had never properly measured—, and frankly, it was excessive for goblins. Most of the arrows he fired exited the other side of their targets unless they struck bone. Even then, goblin physiology offered little resistance.

  Still, the strain was catching up to him.

  They joined the food line, where tired but efficient cooks were ladling out large metal containers. Dinner consisted of tomato soup, thick bread, and mashed potatoes mixed with carrots and onions.

  Simple.

  Warm.

  Life-saving.

  As they ate and walked toward an observation post—a secondary defensive position designed as a fallback in case the first wall was breached—Arin pressed his father again.

  “So… Greek fire. What exactly is that?”

  Teun glanced at both his children. Tilly was already yawning, rubbing her eyes, clearly far past bedtime. Still, she stubbornly listened, curiosity burning brighter than exhaustion.

  “Well,” Teun began, “you know how we’ve had trouble disposing of the bodies.”

  Arin grimaced. He did.

  Burning goblin corpses took far more fuel than expected, and transporting enough fuel for mass disposal was unrealistic. Cargo space was far too valuable.

  “A historian at Central Command heard about our situation,” Teun continued. “He remembered the formula for Greek fire—an ancient incendiary weapon. When Command realized what it could do, they ordered it produced and sent here.”

  “It doesn’t take much space,” Teun added. “And it was one of the last shipments that made it through before the goblins cut off our supplies.”

  Arin frowned. “And it burns on water, right?”

  Teun nodded.

  “That’s why the commander approved its use tonight. The goblins are piling up in the moat. In a few hours, they’d have a ramp made of bodies.”

  His expression darkened.

  “So we’re setting the moat on fire while we still can. It’ll slow them down. Reduce the ramp. Maybe buy us a little more time.”

  He sighed.

  “The bodies also blocked the river, turning it red. In hindsight, that was a failure in design… but what can we do now?”

  Before Arin could respond, a sudden green flame arced through the air.

  It sailed over the wall.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The Greek fire ignited upon impact, spreading instantly as fuel-soaked cloth carried the flames across the piled corpses. The fire burned unnaturally—green and furious—crawling over flesh, water, and wood alike.

  The heat was overwhelming.

  Both goblins and soldiers were forced to retreat from the wall, shields raised, faces covered. Screams echoed across the battlefield—not just from pain, but from terror.

  The fighting slowed.

  Then, for the first time that day, it stopped.

  The goblins recoiled from the heat and the stench. The defenders leaned against walls and spears, breathing heavily, eyes burning.

  Night settled in fully.

  The first day of the siege was over.

  No one slept.

  Not with that smell in the air.