“Very well.”

  Herman Merz let his gaze sweep across the long strategy table, his hands resting flat against the polished stone surface. The chamber was quiet—too quiet for a room filled with the most powerful military leaders humanity had.

  “I have no objections to the proposal presented by Marshal Xian,” Herman said calmly. “Before we proceed further, does anyone here see an immediate and critical flaw in it?”

  Silence answered him.

  A few marshals shifted in their seats. Others frowned, their expressions carefully neutral. No one spoke.

  Herman nodded once, as if expecting that outcome.

  “Good. Then we will move on.”

  Before anyone could relax, his voice hardened.

  “And before some of you begin entertaining complaints about losing authority,” he continued, eyes locking onto several restless figures, “I suggest you abandon those illusions immediately.”

  A ripple of tension passed through the chamber.

  The time when a person could not resist the control of the state is gone. Herman said. “That reality ended the moment power became quantifiable. If a person is strong enough, they can defy the state—or at the very least, make any attempt to suppress them so costly that it becomes meaningless.”

  He paused, letting the words sink in.

  “Binding such individuals to our chariot is far safer than driving them toward cult-like structures.”

  His expression darkened.

  “We have already seen what happens otherwise,” Herman added. “The remnants of North Korea are proof enough.”

  A flicker of disgust crossed his face as memories surfaced—fanatics still scouring the globe for fragments of constitutions, convinced they could ascend to immortality through blind belief and raw strength alone.

  “We will not repeat that mistake.”

  A low sigh broke the silence.

  Marshal Slobozhanin leaned back in his chair, his weathered face etched with resignation.

  “As much as I dislike relinquishing control over officer appointments,” he admitted, “desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “We cannot afford internal fractures while the enemy is at our gates.”

  A softer voice followed.

  “Well, it’s not all bad,” said Arin, a marshal whose calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the room’s tension. “Some of us accepted long ago that total control was an illusion.”

  A few eyes turned toward him.

  “In India,” Arin continued, “hierarchy has always existed beyond formal rank. Caste, lineage, influence—these things shaped authority long before the military did.”

  He shrugged faintly.

  “At least this system might finally make civilians cooperate with orders.”

  Then his expression grew serious.

  “Still, we cannot approve this proposal today. It affects civil authority, economic interests, and factional power structures far beyond our emergency mandate.”

  Arin exhaled.

  “Our think tanks and governments must be consulted. If there’s one thing leadership hates more than losing soldiers, it’s losing profit.”

  A few bitter smiles appeared.

  “Agreed,” Herman said. “We will reconvene on this matter in two days.”

  He straightened, tapping the table once.

  “Now—let us turn to the latest battlefield report.”

  The room grew heavy.

  “For the first time,” Herman said quietly, “we have what can be considered a reasonably accurate preliminary casualty assessment.”

  No one interrupted him.

  “There will be additional refinements in the coming days,” he continued, “but based on survivor accounts and confirmed kill zones, we can now present the numbers.”

  He inhaled.

  “We lost slightly over one billion humans.”

  The words landed like a physical blow.

  “And in exchange,” Herman continued, voice steady despite the weight, “we killed approximately seven billion goblins.”

  Silence swallowed the chamber.

  This time, it wasn’t disbelief.

  It was the finality of confirmation.

  Everyone had read the report. Everyone had seen the numbers. But hearing them spoken aloud—formalized, sealed into history—made them real in a way documents never could.

  Seven to one.

  A favorable exchange.

  And yet completely unaffordable.

  To Herman’s left sat John Harris, the United States Marshal. A middle-aged white man with sharp features and a scar running down his left eye—a relic from the Civil War that had nearly torn his country apart.

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  “How did this happen?” John demanded, his voice sharp with anger.

  His fists clenched.

  “The data shows our legions performed the worst among the major powers. Worse than Japan. Worse than several second-tier nations.”

  Bitterness crept into his tone.

  “I was told—assured—that our military would dominate this trial.”

  No one answered immediately.

  Xian Mu finally spoke, his voice flat.

  “What did you expect?”

  John turned toward him, bristling.

  “Your country does not possess the historical foundation ours does,” Xian continued. “Cold-weapon warfare, disciplined formations, endurance campaigns—these are not skills you developed organically.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “And when a military is controlled by capital rather than doctrine, this is the result.”

  John’s jaw tightened.

  After the Civil War, the United States had survived—but at a cost. International prestige had eroded. Deterrence had weakened. And while everyday citizens were kept placated with spectacle and propaganda, proper governance had quietly shifted.

  Politicians barked when billionaires commanded.

  Live on air.

  The only reason the military remained functional at all was necessity. Deterrence still mattered—especially when ordinary citizens had discovered that assassinating a CEO every few years was the most reliable way to relieve pressure.

  Herman cleared his throat.

  “That is enough.”

  He leaned forward.

  “These numbers are not here to assign blame.”

  A pause.

  “They are here to force adaptation.”

  He gestured toward the projection.

  “We lacked a complete map of the Trail. The fact that our forces found defensible positions at all prevented an even greater catastrophe.”

  Herman’s gaze sharpened.

  “And in exchange for these losses, we gained something invaluable.”

  “Intelligence.”

  The word echoed.

  “We now understand goblin behavior. Their command structures. Their weaknesses.”

  A spark of grim determination ignited in his eyes.

  “That will be our greatest strength going forward.”

  He straightened again.

  “Which brings us to restructuring the legions.”

  Several marshals leaned forward instinctively.

  “We must properly integrate mages,” Herman said. “Especially in defensive roles.”

  He tapped the data.

  “Legions with a high proportion of trained mages performed significantly better—both offensively and defensively.”

  He raised a finger.

  “Make no mistake. If a legion is completely overwhelmed, mages will not save it.”

  But then—

  “In defense,” Herman said, “they are worth their weight in gold.”

  A ripple of agreement spread through the room.

  “They consume minimal logistical resources. No arrows. No siege engines. No heavy supply lines.”

  He allowed himself a faint smile.

  “Given that supplying arrows alone consumes nearly half our transport wagons, this advantage cannot be overstated.”

  A murmur of approval followed.

  “As for archers,” Herman continued, “they remain essential. But against goblins, they are often overkill.”

  He gestured again.

  “Our arrow designs were meant to pierce heavy armor. Goblins only recently began using it.”

  He nodded once.

  “We will disperse mages more widely and increase the number of legions committed in future offensives.”

  He exhaled.

  “That concludes my points for today.”

  The room remained silent.

  “Any additional concerns?”

  No one spoke.

  They had too much to process.

  Too many dead.

  Too many changes looming.

  Slowly, the marshals rose from their seats and filed out of the chamber. Some looked exhausted. Others looked grimly focused. A few stared at nothing at all.

  Herman remained behind.

  As the doors closed, he glanced at the final line of the report still displayed before him.

  A small note.

  A personal one.

  A friend.

  Killed while loosing his final arrow—missed, his report said—aimed at a hiding coward.

  Herman smiled faintly.

  Not with joy.

  But with resolve.

  The Trail would go on.

  And humanity would change with it.