Another arrow left Arin’s bow with a dull twang.

  The goblin reaching for the fallen torch jerked backward as the shaft punched cleanly through its skull. The flame sputtered once, then died in the mud, snuffed out by blood and ash.

  Arin exhaled slowly.

  How long is this supposed to go on?

  That question had been circling his thoughts for hours now. Ever since the siege had begun, nothing about the orders they’d been given made sense. A thousand legions to attack the goblins directly? Ridiculous. Even three thousand would have been laughable. The goblins didn’t fight like an army—they were a flood, a living disaster that drowned everything beneath it.

  And yet… the order had come.

  Advance. Hold. Die if necessary that was what the order boiled down to.

  Arin had the sinking feeling that even Commander Eloi didn’t truly know why the command had been issued.

  Focus, Arin told himself sharply.

  The thought vanished beneath the noise.

  The goblins were loud—obscenely so. They communicated through shrieks, grunts, and howls that grated against the ears like rusted metal scraping stone. Their voices overlapped endlessly, making it difficult to hear even one’s own thoughts.

  Arin reached into his quiver and drew four arrows at once, slipping them between his fingers with practiced ease. His eyes locked onto two flickering lights racing through the mass below.

  Torches again.

  He loosed.

  One arrow. Then another.

  Both flames dropped to the ground, extinguished along with their carriers. The goblins screamed—not in pain, but in rage.

  Arin allowed himself a grim smile.

  Night really is my ally.

  In the darkness, torchlight was a death sentence. Anyone foolish enough to carry one might as well have screamed their location aloud. Three times now, the goblins had tried to bring fire to the tower. Three times, Arin had cut them down before they came close.

  After the fourth attempt failed, something changed.

  No more torches came.

  Arin frowned slightly.

  That’s… strange.

  The goblins were stupid, but not that stupid. They learned—slowly, painfully—but they learned.

  Which meant something else was happening.

  Far from the tower, beyond the broken walls of the human camp, a different kind of silence reigned.

  Near what had once been the communal kitchen—now a charred ruin surrounded by corpses—sat a goblin clad in full armor. Unlike the others, he ate calmly, tearing into a slab of roasted meat while washing it down with alcohol scavenged from human stores.

  He listened.

  A subordinate knelt before him, shaking.

  “Gu screee gaaaa dkkkk,” the goblin stammered.

  Why is that tower not burning?

  The goblin leader—Tribal Chief Bealk—snarled.

  Bealk had been fortunate. Or cursed.

  His tribe was the weakest among the regional alliance, which meant the others had “honored” him by assigning his forces to the rear. In truth, they had simply wanted the glory for themselves. Bealk had been ordered to prevent desertion—no glorious battles, no heroic charges.

  Because goblins were cowards by nature.

  As a result, Bealk hadn’t arrived until the third day of the siege. By then, the camp should have been ashes.

  Instead, it still stood.

  What Bealk had found instead nearly shattered his sanity.

  The allied tribal leaders—one hundred of them—had strutted proudly to the front lines on the first day. They hadn’t even finished boasting before human arrows took their heads.

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  Ten seconds.

  One hundred leaders.

  Dead.

  The alliance had collapsed instantly.

  And somehow… Bealk had inherited all the credit. even though he was overjoyed by the oppertunity.

  He did not celebrate.

  He hid.

  Bealk had enough sense to know he was no match for those archers. Even the rain of arrows alone nearly broken goblin morale. Entire waves fled unless he sacrificed lesser leaders to hold them in place.

  After the walls fell, Bealk made a decision.

  He targeted the archers.

  Not the massed infantry. Not the shield walls.

  The skilled ones.

  Those who moved while shooting. Those who didn’t rely on formations. Those who kept killing even after they knew death was inevitable.

  He still remembered one of them vividly—a gray-clad human.

  That one had loosed a final arrow at Bealk himself.

  If Bealk hadn’t been wearing a chest plate…

  If he hadn’t thrown a 0.1-stage goblin into the path at the last moment…

  The arrow had pierced halfway into his armor.

  Even now, the memory sent chills through his spine.

  Another goblin spoke, voice trembling.

  “Gu ru da creee daa.”

  No one dares try to burn the tower anymore. They keep getting killed by an archer boss.

  Bealk slammed his fist into the ground.

  “Crue graa da nak!”

  Useless! Do I have to do everything myself?! I told you to kill the archer—and you tell me he’s still alive?!

  Bealk rose, striding toward the ruined gate of the fortress. The sheer number of goblin corpses underfoot unsettled even him. It had been a long time since his home world had seen a war like this.

  Not since the Emperor’s rise.

  As he passed through the gate, several goblins carrying torches rushed toward him in panic. Bealk recognized them immediately—0.1-stage goblins from a rival tribe.

  Cannon fodder.

  He waved them forward without hesitation.

  Moments later, arrows took them through the backs of their heads.

  Bealk watched calmly.

  There.

  The direction was clear now.

  After barking orders to concentrate fire on the archer’s position, Bealk turned and retreated to the rear lines.

  He had no intention of dying to a human arrow.

  Arin watched the three torch-bearers fall and felt his blood run cold.

  That was deliberate.

  This wasn’t another clumsy attempt. This was bait.

  Arin spun a barrel onto its side and fired an arrow toward the tower—high and fast.

  A warning, he hoped.

  Then he moved.

  Footsteps echoed below him.

  Scraping claws. Thudding bodies.

  And then—above him.

  The roof creaked under sudden weight.

  “They’re coming,” Arin whispered.

  The door to his enclosed platform shuddered violently as goblins slammed against it. He planted his feet and fired through the narrow opening, dropping the first few instantly.

  For nearly a minute, it worked.

  The goblins hesitated.

  Maybe… maybe there’s hope.

  Then they came again—eyes burning with grim determination.

  Arin loosed his final arrow at point-blank range.

  It struck true.

  Then hands grabbed him.

  He was dragged to the floor.

  Pain exploded as something pierced his eye.

  In that final moment, something deep inside him screamed to fight back—to resist—to live.

  But his body went limp.

  The night swallowed the tower whole.

  And the archer who had held it alone fell silent.