CHAPTER 95: Northern Wall (Part 3)

Never-ending Wave

“Do not chase,” he said as the first rebel test line began to pull back. “Let them learn we do not break formation for bait.”

His aide saluted. “Yes, General.”

Beyond the eastern field, more rebel units waited.

This was only the beginning.

By the time the second day reached nightfall, the eastern border of the capital had already understood that the rebel militia did not intend to win through one glorious charge. General Archival watched them withdraw beyond arrow range with disciplined eyes, his hands behind his back, his expression untouched by the screams still echoing from the field below. The royal faction held the advantage in formation, training, and command response, but the rebels had numbers, dirtier methods, and enough disposable bodies to test every gate, every reaction time, and every soft-hearted officer who might mistake retreat for weakness.

The dead were being dragged from between the two lines.

Some wore royal armor.

Some wore rebel cloth.

Some wore nothing that made allegiance clear anymore.

Archival did not look away from any of it.

“Record their retreat angle,” he said. “The left group withdraws toward the broken granary road. The right group toward the eastern ditch settlement. Their center did not scatter. It bent backward and preserved command.”

His aide wrote quickly. “Yes, General.”

“They are not simple rioters.”

“No, General.”

“Then we will not insult them by treating them like fools,” Archival said. “Rotate the front shield line. Replace the second spear line. Mages will rest in thirds. Archers remain awake in halves. If they attack at dawn, I want them punished for assuming fatigue.”

The aide saluted again and moved to relay the order.

Beyond the eastern field, torches burned in the rebel camp. More units waited behind the first test group, their silhouettes shifting beneath dirty banners, stolen shields, and militia markings. It was not yet a full civil war, but it had already taken its first breath. The King had been correct. The capital would be forced to look inward while the North bled and the South moved beneath silence.

Far from Gothaeron, beneath the cold sky of Frosthelm, the second monster wave had not ended.

Nightfall settled over the Northern Wall like iron.

The battlefield below was no longer fully visible by natural light, so the defenders had raised rows of mana lamps, oil braziers, and signal fires along the parapets. The snow reflected the light unevenly, turning the corpse field into a shifting landscape of red, black, white, and gold. Monster bodies lay in heaps near the ditch, some frozen into grotesque shapes, some still twitching despite wounds that should have ended them. Smoke curled from burned Ent branches. Broken arrows stuck out of the ground like dead grass. The air smelled of blood, sap, charred fur, and the bitter scent of overused magic.

The command post remained busy.

Messengers moved in and out with reports from every wall section. Hadrin stood beside a large classification board, surrounded by three younger mages tasked with recording abnormal traits. Captains reported ammunition count, fatigue levels, injuries, structural strain, mage exhaustion, and confirmed monster types. Lesser lords argued only when necessary now. The wall had removed excess pride from their tongues. It was difficult to posture when spiderlings tried to crawl through drainage cracks, and lower wyverns circled above torchlight like knives with wings.

Simmon stood at the command platform, watching the field below.

Baldur Redock looked as though he was enjoying a warm-up.

That annoyed Simmon slightly.

The Mercenary King had been fighting for hours, and while blood stained his armor, most of it did not belong to him. His great axe rested over one shoulder between exchanges. His bronze-red barbarian aura still rolled around his body in low waves, hot enough that snow hissed where he stepped. Around him, the mercenary companies had taken over a large portion of the lower field engagement, especially against the remaining mid-level monsters. They did not fight as cleanly as the northern army, but they killed with purpose. They dragged, trapped, chopped, baited, burned, and looted with the efficiency of men and women who had survived by knowing which monster parts paid best.

Simmon turned toward Hadrin. “Take note of all important key points. Pattern, behavior, classification, and new traits. I want this wave recorded as if it were a military campaign.”

Hadrin bowed slightly. “Already underway, my lord. The abnormality is becoming clearer.”

“Say it.”

The old advisor looked toward the battlefield, where lizardmen were pulling back behind Ent roots while centaur archers maintained pressure on the lower wall. “The wave is not a level problem alone. The North can handle these classifications in ordinary numbers. What makes this difficult is volume, mixture, and timing. The monsters arrive like separate armies from different territories, yet they pressure the same wall in sequence. It resembles warfare between kingdoms more than natural monster aggression.”

Simmon’s jaw tightened. “A monster kingdom with no crown.”

“Or one with a hidden hand.”

The Marquis did not answer.

He did not need to.

Below, Baldur’s elite were still moving.

Altea stood near the center-left line, both chakrams in hand now, each circular blade marked by dark sap and monster blood. Rico and Udoff worked through the last clusters of lower-level monsters near the ditch, crushing and shoving bodies aside to prevent the corpse field from becoming a usable ramp. Reign had relocated to a raised platform made from broken siege stakes and frozen bodies, firing bolt after bolt toward the Ent and centaur line. Lira’s barrier field had thinned but remained active, a faint glow wrapping the mercenary front and the northern support knights. Shan appeared only in flashes, each appearance followed by a monster falling before it reached the support units.

For a time, some northern knights and mages were actually able to rest.

It felt unnatural during a monster wave, but Baldur’s command had taken over the most violent portion of the field. Exhausted northern units rotated back into warming shelters built against the inner wall. Mages drank bitter recovery tonics and sat with trembling hands over mana stones. Archers wrapped their fingers and closed their eyes for intervals counted in minutes rather than hours. The wall still fought, but the presence of the Mercenary King had redistributed the burden.

Nothing entertained a mercenary more than killing monsters and being paid at the same time.

At least, that was what Rico shouted after crushing an orc’s skull between both gauntlets.

“Paid work!” he laughed. “The best kind of work!”

Udoff slammed his shield into a dire wolf and drove it backward into three goblins. “Shut up and clear the ditch!”

“I am clearing it!”

“You are decorating it!”

Altea’s chakram passed between them, sliced the head from a lizardman attempting to exploit their argument, and returned to her hand.

“Both of you,” she said, “less noise, more corpses.”

Rico grinned. “Vice-Commander’s in a bad mood.”

“I will be in a worse one if a goblin scratches my boots.”

Reign was fired from above. “Your boots are already ruined.”

Altea threw a chakram toward his platform without looking. It passed close enough to shave a strand of his hair before cutting through a spiderling behind him.

Reign did not flinch. “Warning received.”

Shan’s voice emerged from the shadows beneath the platform. “It was not a warning.”

Lira sighed while maintaining the support field. “How Baldur raised all of you without killing you himself remains a mystery.”

On the command platform, Hadrin heard some of it and looked vaguely offended by their lack of solemnity.

Simmon did not care.

They were killing efficiently.

That was enough.

The leader of the centaur line tried to remain hidden behind the Ent trees and lizardman packs, but monsters were not soldiers trained in proper concealment. Its command pattern became visible after several movements. Whenever the centaur leader raised its spear, the archers shifted target. Whenever it dragged the spear sideways, the Ent trees adjusted direction. Whenever it struck the butt of the spear against the ground, spiderlings surged toward wall cracks. It was not a human-level strategy, but enough to threaten exhausted defenders.

Baldur noticed.

He stood amid the broken field, axe resting low now, his head slightly tilted.

“There you are.”

Altea saw his posture change and immediately signaled the others to widen.

“Back from the center,” she ordered. “He is using Mountain Rage.”

Rico’s grin vanished. “Oh, move.”

Udoff raised his shield and began pushing nearby mercenaries away from Baldur’s line. Lira pulled her support field tighter to prevent backlash from tearing through allied stamina. Reign stopped firing and marked the centaur leader’s position with a flare bolt that burst red above the backline. Shan vanished from the field completely.

The centaur leader realized too late.

Baldur lifted his axe with both hands.

The bronze-red aura around him darkened, then sank into the ground instead of rising around his body. The snow beneath his boots cracked. The frozen soil pulsed outward once, then again, each pulse heavier than the last. Earth mana mixed with barbarian core force, not refined like a mage’s spell and not elegant like a knight’s aura. It was raw, compressed violence driven into the earth and forced to obey.

Simmon leaned slightly forward.

Hadrin stopped writing.

Baldur brought the axe down.

“Mountain Rage.”

The ground split.

Not in a clean line, but in a violent rupture that tore through the corpse field toward the centaur backline. Frozen soil, buried stone, monster bodies, broken stakes, and shattered weapons erupted upward. A shockwave rolled through the battlefield like a landslide given direction. Goblins, lizardmen, spiderlings, and dire wolves caught near the path were crushed instantly, flattened, or thrown aside as if the earth had swatted insects. An Ent tried to brace with its roots, but the rupture passed beneath it and split its trunk from below.

The centaur leader took the full force.

Its body is separated at the waist.

The spear flew from its hand and vanished into the snow.

For several breaths, the second monster wave lost its rhythm.

Baldur did not waste the opening.

“Clear them!” he roared.

Mercenaries surged. Northern knights followed. Archers on the wall released coordinated volleys into the disordered line. Reign fired explosive bolts into clusters that had lost command. Altea’s chakrams carved through exposed Ent joints. Rico and Udoff smashed through the remaining lower monsters near the ditch. Lira shifted her support from barrier to speed, allowing front units to finish wounded monsters before they recovered. Shan reappeared behind a centaur archer and cut its throat before it could reestablish command calls.

The second wave collapsed faster than expected after that.

Not easily.

Never easily.

Men still died. A wyvern took one mercenary into the air before Reign shot it down, and both monster and man crashed beyond recovery. A lizardman spear pierced a northern knight beneath the ribs. Spiderlings poisoned three workers clearing debris near a drainage hole. An Ent fell against the outer barricade and nearly crushed two support mages. But without the centaur leader’s direction, the monsters returned to rage, and rage alone was something the North understood.

By the time the last Ent burned and the remaining lizardmen fled toward the dark field beyond the corpse piles, Baldur stood atop a mound of monster bodies and raised his axe high.

His voice thundered across the wall.

“Second wave cleared!”

Mercenaries answered with a roar.

Northern soldiers did not roar as wildly, but even they struck spear shafts against stone in acknowledgment. The sound spread across the wall, not celebration exactly, but release. The second wave had been broken before midnight. That meant time. Time to treat wounds. Time to repair defenses. Time to eat. Time to sleep, even if only a little.

On the command platform, Simmon nodded.

It was not a grand display of gratitude, but for those who knew him, the gesture carried weight.

“Treat all injuries immediately,” he ordered. “Fortify the damaged sections. Replace outer spikes. Clear corpse ramps near the left ditch. Burn Ent remains away from the wall. Collect poison samples from spiderlings. No one sleeps until their section is secure.”

The captains answered and moved.

Below, the mercenaries began their cleaning operation with startling enthusiasm.

Monster corpses were not merely waste. Dire wolf fangs could be sold to craftsmen. Orc tusks had alchemical use. Lizardman scales could reinforce light armor. Spiderling venom, if properly extracted, fetched good coin. Ent heartwood was precious for staves and enchanted bows. Wyvern claws and wing membranes could become artifact materials. Even lower golem cores, if not shattered beyond use, were worth recovering.

Mercenaries moved through the dead with knives, hooks, saws, and collection bags.

Northern soldiers watched with varying degrees of disgust and respect.

Baldur did not join the looting.

He stood still, looking toward the edge of the Dark Forest.

The fires behind him painted his back in orange light, but his attention remained on the black line beyond the corpse field. The second wave had ended. The battlefield should have felt lighter. Instead, something beneath his skin refused to settle.

Altea approached with her group.

Rico’s gauntlets were stained to the elbow. Reign had one shallow cut along his cheek. Lira looked pale from extended support casting, and Udoff had a cracked shield edge that he seemed more annoyed by than worried about. Shan appeared last, wiping his blade with a cloth that vanished into his sleeve afterward.

Altea stopped beside Baldur. “We need to eat and rest.”

“Mm.”

“The next wave will probably show in the morning.”

Baldur spat on the ground.

The others grew quiet.

For barbarians, instinct was not superstition. Their core technique sharpened bodily sensitivity beyond normal logic. A change in pressure, a wrong scent beneath blood, a tremble in the earth, a silence in the far field—things others dismissed could become warning. Baldur had survived too long to ignore the ominous feeling crawling under his ribs.

“Tomorrow will be different,” he said.

Altea’s expression hardened. “How different?”

“Worse.”

Rico rolled his shoulders. “That is not specific.”

“Specific enough to keep you alive.”

Lira looked toward the forest. “Upper-mid level?”

Baldur’s eyes narrowed. “At least.”

Shan’s voice was quiet. “And if the one behind this decides to test the wall fully?”

“Then the Enchantress better arrive before I get bored with saving northern pride.”

Altea sighed. “You call that diplomacy?”

“I call it hunger. Let’s eat.”

The dining hall of Marquis Simmons’ fortress was opened that night for the defenders’ command and the elite mercenary group.

It was not a feast in the peaceful sense. The war had not ended. A third wave might come before dawn. Yet food was necessary, and morale required more than survival rations when men had spent two days beneath claws, arrows, poison, and monstrous pressure. The kitchen served the best dishes available under emergency conditions: roasted fowl, thick barley stew, preserved northern fish, warm bread, root vegetables cooked with herbs, salted meat, hard cheese, dark wine, and heated spiced broth for those too exhausted to chew properly.

Mercenaries ate like men expecting to fight again before digestion finished.

Northern knights ate more quietly but just as seriously.

Vitality mattered.

At the leader’s table, Simmon sat across from Baldur. Hadrin remained beside the Marquis with notes still near his plate. Altea and her elite group sat at the same table as the leaders. Some courts would have considered that improper. Frosthelm did not care. Men and women who had broken the second wave deserved a chair where strategy was spoken.

Northern lords were not overly sensitive about polished etiquette when monsters stood outside the wall.

Baldur tore into a whole chicken with the calm authority of a man who believed utensils were optional inventions.

Altea watched him with narrowed eyes. “What did you mean earlier?”

Baldur continued eating.

“You said tomorrow would be different,” she pressed. “Different how?”

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and reached for wine.

“Upper-mid level monsters may show up tomorrow,” he said. “Together with lower-level monsters.”

The hall went silent.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations thinned.

Everyone in the North knew monster classifications.

Lower-level monsters killed civilians and careless soldiers. Mid-level monsters threatened trained units. Upper-mid level monsters required coordinated military action, strong mages, or experienced monster hunters. Lower-high-level monsters were another matter. One such beast could damage a wall section if mishandled. Several could turn exhaustion into breach. They were not the kind of monsters a territory wanted to face after two waves had already drained men, arrows, mana, and sleep.

Hadrin’s voice was low. “On what basis?”

Baldur leaned back. “Feeling.”

One lesser lord almost scoffed, but stopped when Simmon looked at him.

Baldur grinned. “Good. The cold lord understands manners.”

Simmon ignored the remark. “Explain the feeling.”

“The first wave was forced rage. The second wave had direction. The second group waited for exhaustion, like someone had taught them patience. That means the next push either tests the wall with stronger monsters or tries to break command by making us overcommit to the wrong section.”

Altea nodded slowly. “The numbers are beyond expectation.”

“And the wall is exhausted,” Lira added. “Even with rotations, support magic, and western supplies, mental fatigue will reduce reaction speed.”

Reign tapped one bolt casing against the table. “If lower-high-level fliers appear, archers alone cannot contain them.”

Udoff grunted. “If heavy ground beasts appear, the ditch line breaks.”

Shan said nothing, but his silence confirmed the concern.

Simmon looked at Baldur. “Can your mercenary companies hold another wave?”

Baldur’s grin faded into seriousness. “We can fight another wave. Holding depends on what comes. If lower-high monsters appear in numbers, we need the Enchantress.”

Hadrin looked toward the doors as if the woman might appear by being named.

“She is scheduled to arrive by tomorrow,” he said.

Baldur laughed dryly. “Amethyst arrives when she wants and claims it was destiny.”

A strange pressure touched the hall.

At first, it was so subtle that only Baldur, Simmon, Lira, and Hadrin noticed. A faint shift in mana. Not hostile, but invasive in the way perfume could fill a room before the person wearing it entered. The lamps did not flicker, but their light seemed to bend. The air warmed by a degree, then cooled again. Somewhere near the door, a guard straightened sharply.

The main doors opened.

Conversation died.

A woman in a dark green dress stepped into the dining hall.

The fabric moved like deep forest water, layered with enchantment threads that shimmered faintly when she walked. A serpent circled her body, coiling lazily around her arm, shoulder, and waist as if it were both familiar and an ornament. Its scales were black-green, its eyes amethyst, and its tongue tasted the air with quiet arrogance. Glasses rested on the woman’s face, delicate and gold-framed, doing nothing to soften the sharpness of her gaze. Her lips were dark red. Jewels hung from her ears and throat, each one carrying tiny enchantment arrays that pulsed with restrained power. A wand rested at her waist, slender and pale, more dangerous for how casually it was worn.

Her hair was long, white, and pale as moonlight.

Her skin carried the same eerie pallor, smooth and untouched by age.

She looked like a teenage girl if one judged only surface youth, but no one with sense would make that mistake. Her beauty was tempting, crude, and unsettling at once, as if time had failed to mark her body and had instead sharpened everything behind her eyes. No old remnants showed on her face, yet the weight around her carried years far beyond appearance.

The Enchantress of the Arcane Kingdom had arrived.

No one dared to glare.

No one except Simmon, Baldur, and Baldur’s elite group.

Amethyst looked across the hall with a smile that seemed to know which men had feared her before they remembered doing so.

Baldur lowered the chicken bone in his hand and stared at her.

“You are late, Amethyst.”