“We made it!”

  Arin’s shout echoed across the ancient bridge, his voice raw and unrestrained as if the words had been clawing their way out of his chest for the past hour. The sound bounced off the stone beneath his boots and vanished into the mist hanging over the ravine below. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze.

  They had crossed.

  Around him, his family stood scattered across the bridge—some bent over with hands on their knees, gasping for breath, others laughing weakly, and a few simply staring ahead as if afraid that blinking might make this moment disappear. Every single one of them wore the same expression: relief so intense it bordered on disbelief.

  Dying hurt.

  That truth was carved into every soul present.

  Even those who had been resurrected before—especially those—felt a chill crawl up their spines at the memory. Death wasn’t a clean cut or a gentle fade. It was agony. It was the sensation of one’s soul cracking like fragile glass, the echo of pain lingering long after breath returned. Just remembering it made Arin’s chest tighten.

  They had escaped that fate this time.

  “We actually… survived,” Tom muttered, dropping onto the stone and lying flat on his back, arms spread wide as if surrendering to the sky. “I swear, if I ever say ‘this mission doesn’t look too bad’ again, someone knock me unconscious.”

  A few weak laughs followed.

  But the relief didn’t last.

  Bertho, who had been staring back across the bridge, frowned. His brows knitted together as he squinted into the distance, eyes tracking the green tide beyond the bridge’s edge.

  “…Why did they stop?”

  The laughter died instantly.

  Arin followed Bertho’s gaze. The goblins—tens of thousands of them—stood clustered at the far end of the bridge. They snarled, shrieked, and beat their weapons against the ground, but none stepped forward. Not a single one dared cross the threshold.

  They had chased the group relentlessly for over a kilometer.

  And then… nothing.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Bertho continued, his voice low. “They had momentum. They could’ve kept coming.”

  Arin exhaled slowly, forcing his racing thoughts into order. “I know. It’s strange. But we don’t have the luxury of standing around wondering why.” He turned, facing the fortress looming ahead. “We need to report. Now.”

  The fortress was impossible to miss.

  Even from this distance, its silhouette dominated the horizon. Towers rose like jagged teeth against the sky, banners snapping in the wind. There was no doubt—they had been spotted. The commotion on the bridge alone would’ve drawn every telescope and watchful eye in the garrison.

  “One theory,” Arin said as they began moving again, their exhausted legs carrying them forward through sheer will, “is that they’re under strict orders. Attacking the fortress directly might be forbidden. Following us past the bridge could count as that.”

  He grimaced. “If that’s true, then chasing us any further would’ve been disobedience.”

  “That explanation somehow makes perfect sense,” Bertho muttered, “and absolutely none at the same time.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Bertho added after a moment. “Feels like they’re waiting for something.”

  Arin didn’t answer right away.

  You’re probably right, he thought.

  But what they were waiting for—that was the terrifying part.

  As they closed in on the fortress, Arin’s thoughts drifted to a different kind of battlefield.

  Politics.

  “We’re about to walk straight into a mess,” he said quietly. “The mission’s success will strengthen Marshal Herman’s position. And there are plenty of people who hate that.”

  Tom groaned. “Great. We outrun goblins just to get eaten alive by politicians.”

  “A younger general would be easier to manipulate,” Arin continued. “They want leverage. Control. Herman doesn’t give them that.”

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  The massive gates loomed ahead.

  Ten meters tall. Twenty meters wide.

  They looked less like doors and more like monuments—entire trees stripped, shaved, and fused together into titanic slabs of reinforced wood nearly a meter and a half thick. Even a battering ram would struggle. And behind them…

  The portcullis.

  Just thinking about it made Arin’s skin crawl. That iron grid had a way of making one imagine the worst—what if it slammed down at the wrong moment?

  Thankfully, the gates were already opening.

  As they passed through, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The smell of stone, oil, and iron replaced the open air. Soldiers lined the walls, watching with guarded curiosity.

  Waiting just inside stood a man Arin recognized immediately.

  Rian.

  Marshal Herman’s right hand.

  Arin straightened, ready to greet him—but Rian raised a hand sharply, silencing them before a single word could be spoken.

  “Don’t,” Rian whispered. “Just listen.”

  His face was pale. Too pale.

  “High Command already knows someone crossed the bridge,” he continued rapidly. “They’re assembled. Waiting. You’re expected immediately.”

  Arin frowned. That was faster than expected.

  Rian leaned in closer. “Try to stall. Say you’re exhausted. Give Herman time. He needs to hear this first.”

  “What’s going on?” Arin asked quietly.

  They whispered urgently, relaying what they’d seen beyond the bridge. With every sentence, Rian’s expression worsened—his skin draining of color until he looked like he might be sick.

  When they finished, Rian turned without another word and nearly ran down the corridor.

  “Well,” Tom muttered, “that’s reassuring.”

  Arin cleared his throat. “I want water. First.”

  No one argued.

  They passed beneath the portcullis—Arin couldn’t help glancing up until they were safely through—and were soon met by a man who stood out immediately.

  He wore a clean, orderly uniform, his posture straight and disciplined. His features marked him as Chinese, his eyes sharp but calm.

  “Greetings,” the man said with a polite bow. “My name is Tian Cheng. I am a captain serving under Marshal Xian Mu.”

  Ah. So that’s how they’re doing this, Arin thought.

  “The Chinese marshal will preside over the council,” Tian continued. “To ensure neutrality. I’ve been assigned to guide you.”

  Tom swallowed hard. “Before that… water?”

  Tian’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah—my apologies. Of course.”

  He gestured, and a soldier hurried off.

  As they walked, Bertho spoke up. “The goblins stopped chasing us. About a kilometer out. Completely.”

  Tian glanced at them, interest flashing in his eyes. “That aligns with what we’ve observed. They haven’t attacked the fortress at all.”

  “…You were hoping we’d explain why,” Arin said.

  Tian smiled thinly. “If possible.”

  Arin frowned inwardly.

  Goblins not attacking.

  No siege weapons.

  No reckless charges.

  “That’s the problem,” Arin said slowly. “Their actions don’t add up.”

  Either something else is happening… or someone over there is thinking.

  And a smart goblin was far more terrifying than a thousand dumb ones.

  They stopped before a pair of massive doors.

  Carved stone. Heavy iron reinforcements.

  Behind them—

  The military council.

  As the doors opened, Arin felt a familiar knot settle in his stomach.

  Rows of seated figures. Uniforms from multiple nations. Sharp eyes measuring, weighing, judging.

  He hated this room.

  He hated politics.

  And somehow, he suspected this battle would be harder than the one they’d just survived.