Veylan’s voice thundered across the chaos. “Cavalry! Pull wide! Cohort Three, fall back, draw them in!”

  The manoeuvre was madness or strategic genius. The battle line sagged, retreating in a broken line. Goblins shrieked in triumph, pouring through the gap, dragging the trolls and orcs with them. The monsters surged into the killing ground.

  “Ballistae! Fire!” Veylan bellowed.

  The dozen surviving machines twanged as bolts the size of spears slammed through troll flesh. Two fell, shrieking, impaled clean through. A dozen mages slammed their glowing staffs into the mud, and where the goblin horde stood, a fiery inferno rose from the bloody ground. The mud boiled and transformed into scolding earth as shrieking monsters were consumed by magical flames.

  The army mages fell back, exhausted from expending so much mana on the large area of effect spell. As the stench of burning flesh rolled over the defenders, the cavalry wheeled back, slamming into the packed enemy like a blacksmith’s hammer into smouldering iron.

  Goblins that had avoided the worst of the flames were crushed beneath hooves, war orcs skewered on lances. The trap snapped shut, the army reforming behind Veylan’s gambit as over a thousand goblins, war orcs, and trolls were culled without remorse.

  From where he fought, William watched in awe. It was a battle strategy, precise and devastating, but not like in a game. This was mud, blood, and fire, not pixels and loot. The goblin horde fought back, and the men and women screamed as they died, their voices raw with pain. The stench of death permeated the air, cooked flesh, blood, faeces, and urine. Some begged for help: one soldier with a missing arm wandered past Will; he muttered about going home for his boy’s birthday.

  [XP: +1]

  ***

  On Dunholme’s walls, a mother clutched her child and wept as her eldest son fought with a spear on the parapet. Every time she saw him lunge, she prayed the next blow wouldn’t take him. Around her, women dragged buckets of water to douse flames, their faces streaked with soot and tears.

  In the square below, a priest knelt in the mud, his white robes brown with dried blood. He pressed glowing hands to wounds that would not close fast enough. Soldiers and villagers bled out in his arms faster than he could pray. For every one he saved, three more screamed his name for aid. Tears flowed from his cheeks, and from his cracked lips, he chanted the same words over and over: “Light, guide us. Light, guide us.”

  ***

  By dawn, the goblin horde, still over two thousand strong, broke away. Not shattered, not routed, simply withdrawing from the battle at the commands of the orc shaman. The drums faded into the forest as the survivors of Dunholme slumped where they stood.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Smoke curled from burnt homes, the defensive walls of Dunholme were in ruins, and over a thousand had fallen during the goblin siege. Many of the dead lay strewn in the streets and fields; others had been dragged away by goblins for food. Of the two thousand five hundred souls who had lived here, only fifteen hundred remained.

  William stood with the adventurers and Fredric, his armour dented and caked with gore. His chest heaved, his sword heavy in his hands. He’d received over two dozen XP notifications—all worthless—for felling goblins, orcs, and trolls. His stamina had dipped below 40% and he was feeling it.

  Fredric sat slumped against a wagon, eyes wide and unfocused, his freckles stark against the blood smeared across his cheeks. He had saved lives, fought alongside soldiers, but he had also seen men and women torn apart before his eyes.

  “We’re alive.” Marie patted Fredric on the shoulder. “You fought well. That’s enough for now.”

  Sibrek spat blood into the mud before gulping down wine from a skin. “Aye. But only just.”

  Of the two thousand plus soldiers who engaged in battle, over three hundred had fallen. In return, they’d killed over three thousand five hundred goblins, war orcs, and trolls. They’d even killed a handful of orc shaman, weakening their control over the goblin horde. Hundreds of goblins had fled the battlefield.

  William said nothing. His eyes drifted to his interface, to the title [Champion of the Gods]. He thought back to the other title notification, [Pawn of the Gods], which disappeared in an instant. [Pawn of the Gods], [Champion of the Gods]? I have no idea what any of this means.

  In the game, a player would gain a title after achieving something, like saving Brindlecross or killing the Slime Queen, but here, he couldn’t link those titles to anything he’d done. He had no idea what it meant; his interface was still broken, so he couldn’t check the new title’s description. He only knew that the line between game and reality had blurred beyond reason.

  Will’s thoughts were interrupted by a notification.

  [Quest Completed: Save the People of Dunholme]

  [Reputation Increase for The Kingdom of Mercia +500]

  [XP: +100]

  Of course. He dismissed the notification. That makes sense.

  Veylan rode before the shattered gates, his cloak torn and streaked with blood, yet his voice carried clear and unwavering. “Dunholme stands because of your courage, but we cannot linger.” He looked across the bloodied defenders manning the still smouldering walls. “The horde will regroup, perhaps in twice their number. Tend your wounded, honour your fallen, and ready yourselves. We march to Thrymwall in three hours. Spread the word and make ready to depart. We cannot delay.”

  Will received another notification.

  [Questline Updated: Escort the Survivors of Dunholme to Safety]

  There were no cheers. Only nods, weary faces, and the shuffling of feet as survivors clutched what little remained of their lives. After tending the injured and eating a meal, fifteen hundred more joined the column, their eyes hollow, their hope clinging only to the King’s banners.

  The column of wagons stretched thinner and moved slower than before. William, [Champion of the Gods] or pawn of some broken VR gaming system, walked among them; he and the adventurers had given up their wagon seat for the injured and elderly of Dunholme.

  William was more uncertain than ever what world he truly fought for; this wasn’t anything like the game he was used to. As he walked, he thought back to the voice he’d heard during the battle. ‘Hang on, William, we’re…’ He scratched the back of his neck. That sounded like Mom.

  Chapter 045 [Raid Warning: The Curse Of Blue Beard Returns]