Explosions roared across the battlefield, and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air as the eastern wall was decimated by the attacks.

  A man crouched behind the crumbling barricade, one hand braced against the stone. Blood from a gash above his eyebrow ran into his vision, painting everything crimson through the haze.

  Despite the chaos erupting around him—the screams of wounded soldiers, the crackle of essence and spells tearing through their remaining defensive wards, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground—the man's hawklike eyes stayed locked on the enemy.

  A runner skidded in beside him, oversized leather garments hanging loose on a too-thin frame. The young volunteer, no older than sixteen, flinched at the sound of the blast, feeling the ground shake beneath her feet.

  “Stop flinching.” The man said calmly. “Report, Soldier.”

  “Lieutenant Jorn, sir,” the runner gulped nervously. “The wards are down to the last dregs of power, Sir. They won’t last long if the attack continues.”

  “Don’t I know it! Get those pesky warders to get to work.” Lieutenant Jorn ordered. “My men will provide cover and the distraction as usual.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” The runner saluted and, true to his name… ran off.

  His eyes scanned the enemy once again. The damned cultists had suffered barely any losses in the seven days. Jorn could count the number of cultists they killed on one hand. It wasn’t that they were extremely strong; no, the bastards never entered the fray. Only the gods know how they were sending hundreds of cursed abominations to attack each day.

  Death by attrition.

  “Heh…” Jorn paused and chuckled dryly. Gods were a very sensitive topic among the survivors since they realized the churches knew of this event, yet they never helped. There wasn’t a single member of the clergy from any god’s pantheon present in all of Vienna.

  Abandoned by fate. Abandoned by gods. Left to die in the dark.

  Jorn forced himself to take deep breaths and keep his eyes trained on the enemy.

  He had trust in himself and even greater trust in his men. Vienna might have been a quiet posting, all sea air, tourists, and merchant squabbles, but the Imperial Army had carved its habits into him over decades. Years of real wars, real lines, real deaths. A few calm years playing garrison hadn’t dulled that edge.

  That kind of instinct never vanished; it merely lurked, like a monster in disguise.

  "Lieutenant!" Sergeant Vans stumbled over. His face was pale beneath the soot. "We're down to forty-three combat-ready. Another fifteen wounded who can barely hold a cup, let alone a weapon."

  Before Jorn could respond, another volley hammered the ward-line. The barrier rippled like oil on water, visibly weakening.

  Jorn's voice cut through their fear like a blade. "Shields up, you useless bastards! They're not throwing flowers!"

  He turned, pushing essence through his mantle despite the Veil's crushing pressure. Pain lanced through his channels, but he shoved it down and roared.

  "Even if the wards fail, so what!" His voice carried across the battlefield, raw and defiant. "I asked—so what if the wards fail! We are soldiers! We are warriors!"

  He pointed down toward the shelter entrance. "You know what we're protecting! Hundreds of children, pure and innocent! Mothers, warm and caring! Elders, wise and forgiving! We have their blessings!"

  His mantle “Symphony of Battles” flared despite the suppression. "I'll be damned if I die cowering from enemies who can't even face us themselves!"

  The ward-line shuddered under another impact. Jorn caught movement in the ranks, soldiers straightening, gripping weapons tighter, fear giving way to grim determination.

  Good. Fear keeps you alive. Despair gets you killed.

  "Eyes front!" Jorn barked at a militiaman whose gaze kept drifting. "If you're going to piss yourselves, do it after the chanting stops!"

  “Vans! Left stair, now! Take five and don’t get clever!” Jorn said to his sergeant.

  "Acknowledged." Sergeant Vans nodded and turned to move towards his squad. "Pull back to secondary positions. Collapse the flank and funnel them toward—"

  "Hold!" Jorn's hand shot up, cutting himself off mid-sentence.

  Something had changed. Subtle and almost imperceptible. But his mantle, “Symphony of Battles,” existed for exactly this. It overlaid the entire battlefield across his awareness, translating combat into something akin to rhythms, patterns, and discordant notes, which usually meant death.

  And one of those notes had just gone silent.

  A cultist. Dead. Right in their encampment.

  Jorn pushed his essence outward, fighting past the Veil's resistance. His mantle groaned under the pressure but complied, feeding him fragmented visions.

  A cultist's head exploded in a spray of bone and brain matter. The sharp crack of a firearm echoed half a second later.

  Another cultist dropped before the first body hit ground, throat torn open by something fast and invisible. Shadows flickered at the edge of perception—there and gone so quickly he might have imagined them if not for the corpse they left behind.

  A figure with a greatsword carved through abominations like wheat before a scythe. White flames wreathed the blade, tinged crimson at the edges, and each swing left nothing but ash.

  A sense of familiarity washed over Jorn as he looked at the figure, but their identity eluded him.

  Behind it all were perfectly timed shots disrupting enemy casting, creating openings, coordinating with the other fighters like they'd been doing this together for years.

  Jorn's vision fractured as his mantle reached its limits. He gasped, pulling back, sweat pouring down.

  Three fighters. Unknown origin. Tearing through the cultist rear line.

  "Hold, men!" Jorn's voice cracked with renewed energy that felt foreign after days of grinding despair. "Let the new force choke those bastards!"

  Please don't be hostile. Please don't be another threat.

  He grabbed Vans by the shoulder. "Forward! Push now while they're disrupted! archers and casters…suppressing fire! Melee with me!"

  The ward dropped.

  Crossbows snapped. Spells flared. The front rank of abominations folded like paper as his men surged from defensive positions with a rallying cry that sounded more like desperate hope than confidence.

  Jorn vaulted the parapet with a grunt and met the wave head-on.

  This was the part he was still good at. The simple part of just killing.

  Steel met bone. Bone met boot. Jorn waded in, not thinking about the dead piling up. He thought about angles. Openings. Where his people were, and where they shouldn't be.

  An explosion rocked the cultist formation. Screams followed… the enemy's screams for once.

  "YOU SEE THAT?" Jorn roared, voice cracking like a whip. "YOU HEAR THAT? THAT'S WHAT PROGRESS SOUNDS LIKE! PUSH, YOU SONS OF WHORES! WE END THESE BASTARDS TODAY!"

  His men answered with yells that shoved exhaustion aside for crucial heartbeats. Despair replaced by the sudden, desperate possibility that they might actually survive this day.

  Jorn surged forward, dragging the line with him through momentum and profanity. He hacked down a robed fanatic, shoulder-checked another into the dirt, planted his boot on the man's chest long enough to finish him.

  The cultists were scrambling. They'd never mixed with the abomination waves before, but the newcomers' assault had forced their hand. Now they were exposed. Vulnerable.

  "Vans!" Jorn shouted over the chaos. "Collapse left! We're taking the square!"

  "Aye, sir!" Immediate and steady, just like always.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Jorn reached out with his mantle one more time, confirming the newcomers driving deeper, cutting off retreat routes. The enemy wasn't bleeding them slowly anymore. Suddenly, they were the ones scrambling.

  Something unfamiliar twisted in Jorn's gut.

  Hope. The dangerous kind.

  They cleared the square in brutal minutes. Bodies everywhere. Blood pooled in the cracks between the stones. The dark dome overhead pulsed, almost angry, as if aware something had gone wrong.

  Jorn held position, forming his men into defensive ranks.

  "Wards!" he barked, wiping blood from his eyes. "Get those damned warders down here now!"

  "Sir, but the enemies?" Someone on his right asked.

  "Leave them. We can't overextend into positions we can't defend." Jorn's eyes tracked the remaining cultists fleeing. "Let our friends handle the cleanup. We set up full wards here."

  "NOW!"

  Soldiers scrambled to obey. Warders stumbled forward on shaking legs, hands trembling as they worked. Chalk and blood smeared together. The first ward flared weakly, then steadied. The second took longer.

  Jorn stood over them, eyes already hard, scanning the newcomers through his mantle's fading awareness.

  "Vans," he said quietly. "Eyes on our friends. I want to know who they are, where they came from, and whether they're going to save us or stab us in the back."

  Vans nodded once. "Already on it, sir."

  "Good man."

  Jorn wiped his blade on a cultist's robe and looked around at his people… filthy, bleeding, exhausted, but standing. There were lights in their eyes now. First solid victory over the cult in seven days. Many needed this win.

  Hell, he needed this win.

  "Alright, men!" Loud enough for everyone to hear. "Don't get stupid ideas. We didn't win the war. We just told it to go fuck itself for an afternoon."

  A few tired laughs. A few grim smiles.

  "Stay vigilant. If we misstep, there's no one guarding our families."

  Jorn turned back to the dark dome overhead, jaw tightening.

  One victory. It was something.

  But it wouldn't be enough.

  ~~~

  Jin surveyed the aftermath, letting the Eternal Sovereign's breathing pattern center him into that familiar ice-cold clarity. His essence channels still ached from the rapid-fire use of the [Spellshot Synthesis]… he'd pushed so many one-verse sorceries through Iron Howl in under a minute, and his newly formed pathways were screaming about it.

  ? Good for tolerance building. ?

  "Yeah, silver linings and all that," Jin muttered. "How'd we do?"

  ? Yes, your coordination and synergy are increasing. Good work. ?

  “Thanks, the fight is over.” Jin sighed. “For now at least.”

  ? Fifteen cultists eliminated. Three peak ORDER III escaped. Acceptable losses for first contact.?

  "Could've been cleaner, but we needed to look competent without revealing actual capabilities," Jin said.

  ? Agreed. ?

  "Joe," Jin spoke into the mental link. "Status?"

  "Bored and beautiful," came the reply, Joe's voice carrying that mellow amusement that never quite left even during combat. "You said stay low-profile and play ORDER III. I'm being very low-profile. See? Nobody even knows I'm here."

  Jin glanced up at the building where Joe lounged against a chimney stack, completely visible to anyone who bothered to look up. "That's not what low-profile means."

  "You want perfect invisibility, hire a proper rogue. You want doors that defy physics and tactical superiority through strategic repositioning, you get me." A pause filled with audible grinning. "Also, incoming. Friendly-ish looking militia types approaching from your three o'clock. The leader's got lieutenant bars. Looks tired but very capable. And I’m sure he's calculating whether to thank you or put you down."

  Jin allowed himself a small grin behind his mask.

  "Noted." Jin turned smoothly, Iron Howl already holstered. His hands were empty, hanging loose at his sides.

  Posture relaxed but not sloppy. Nonthreatening but not helpless.

  "We've got company," Reyana said through the link. "Soldiers approaching. Ten of them. I’ll leave the talking to you."

  “I’ll try not to get us killed.” Jin shrugged.

  A group of soldiers was moving toward their position, led by a man whose bearing screamed someone capable despite the battered armor.

  ? Peak Order III ?

  Hmm, experienced, but currently running on fumes.

  The man stopped ten feet away. His hand didn't move toward his weapon, but Jin noticed his squad fanning out in a loose formation that could turn into an engagement posture in about two seconds.

  ? Professional. ?

  They've survived until now.

  "I'm Lieutenant Jorn, Vienna Garrison." His voice was rough, exhausted, but steady. "You're not from any of our units. That gear, those skills..." His eyes narrowed. "So who the hell are you, and why are you here?"

  "Lieutenant," Jin said, voice distorted by his mask. He caught Jorn's frown and sighed. "My apologies."

  Jin removed the mask. "We've been clearing outposts for the past week, and when fighting cultists, you never know what bullshit they'll pull.”

  Jorn's expression shifted the moment Jin's face was visible. There was surprise at Jin's age, but he suppressed it with a calm face.

  "Well," Jorn said finally, some tension bleeding from his shoulders. "You have our thanks. We've been holding this position for seven days straight. Supplies are critically low. Morale is even lower."

  He extended a hand. "Any chance you're planning to stick around? We could use fighters with your... skills. Our commander would be delighted to see you."

  “So would we…” Jin clasped the offered hand, feeling calluses and old scars. A soldier's grip.

  "I’m sure the relief is coming," Jorn said, but the words lacked conviction. "Command said—"

  "I wouldn’t pin my hopes on that," Jin cut him off. "The veil's been up for weeks, Lieutenant."

  Jorn studied him for a long moment. His jaw worked as if he were chewing words he didn't want to say but knew he had to. "Men need the hope."

  Jin realized his mistake immediately. He nodded. "Right. Sorry."

  "Sergeant Vans will show you to the fallback position. We can talk terms there." A pause. "But we're watching you. Don't mistake gratitude for trust."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Jin said mildly. He turned to follow, then paused like something had just occurred to him. "Oh, and Lieutenant? We're being watched. East rooftop, approximately one hundred meters out. Two scouts. Probably cultist spotters marking our position for the next wave."

  Jorn's hand went to his sword, head snapping toward the indicated direction. "Where exactly—"

  "Already handled," Reyana's voice emerged from the shadows like a knife sliding from its sheath.

  Two bodies hit the ground three buildings over with meaty thuds, throats opened clean to the spine. She materialized beside Jin out of darkness that hadn't been there a moment before, casually cleaning her blades on a rag.

  "Shall we?"

  The soldiers stared. Jin caught Jorn's expression shifting… respect mixed with healthy fear, calculation mixed with the dawning realization that he'd just invited something very dangerous into his safe house.

  Good. Let them know we're not helpless kids playing soldier. But not so dangerous that they panic and do something stupid.

  "When are we telling them about Dad?" Rudy asked through the link, desperation bleeding through.

  "Soon, Rudy. For now, I need to make sure they are what they seem," Jin replied.

  Rudy nodded reluctantly.

  They moved through the ruined streets. The soldiers moved with confidence despite exhaustion, checking corners, watching rooftops, especially after Jin's warning. Hand signals instead of verbal communication.

  “Professional”, Joe noted with approval. “They've survived this long for a reason.”

  The safe house was a reinforced cellar three blocks west, entrance hidden behind a collapsed storefront that looked thoroughly looted.

  Jin felt the wards hum at the threshold, and he was surprised when he found one of the discreet functions of the wards, thanks to the narrator.

  The ward was analyzing his essence signature before allowing passage.

  Interesting. They've got at least one skilled ward crafter.

  Inside, the space opened into a surprisingly large basement, probably old merchant cellars connected through knocked-out walls. Cots lined the walls, most occupied by wounded fighters in various states of recovery. A makeshift medical station occupied one corner, tended by a middle-aged woman whose hands glowed with faint green essence light as she worked on a soldier's shredded leg.

  "Sergeant Vans," Jorn called out, his command voice cutting through the low murmur of activity. "Get our men settled. Then I want perimeter checks every fifteen minutes. The rotation schedule stays the same… nobody sleeps more than four hours until I say otherwise."

  He turned to Jin, gesturing toward a corner away from the main group. “Now, who are you people?”

  Jin met his gaze without flinching, letting a small, tired smile touch his lips.

  "We're survivors, Lieutenant. Same as you." Jin let a small, tired smile touch his lips. "Got caught in Vienna when the Veil went up. Had two choices—die screaming, or get strong enough that dying became someone else's problem. We chose option two."

  He gestured to Rudy and Reyana flanking him like bodyguards. "We chose option two."

  "Stronger how?" Jorn's eyes narrowed. "You move like you're military trained. The fight with that level of coordination takes months to develop. That equipment isn't civilian gear—I'd bet my pension those weapons are enchanted, at least rare grade. Good enchantments don't grow on trees." He crossed his arms. "So I'll ask again… who are you?"

  Jin raised one hand in a placating gesture, keeping his voice calm and reasonable. "We have combat capabilities you desperately need. You have resources, local knowledge, and safe houses we desperately need. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement that keeps everyone breathing longer."

  He locked eyes with Jorn, letting sincerity bleed through. "Or we can walk right now, and you can go back to losing three fighters per cultist engagement until there's nobody left standing to surrender."

  "Jin..." Rudy's doubtful voice sounded through the link.

  "Trust me, Rudy."

  "Fine," Jorn ground out. "Commander will decide what to do with you." His voice hardened. "But we're watching you. All of you. Any sign you're cultist infiltrators, spies, or just crazy bastards looking to get my people killed, and I'll put a sword through your spine myself. Clear?"

  "Crystal," Jin said mildly. He jerked his chin toward Sergeant Vans, who radiated suspicion like heat from a furnace. "Though maybe tell your sergeant that if he keeps staring like we're about to sprout tentacles, it's going to get awkward."

  Vans didn't even blink. "Just doing my job, kid. Lieutenant says watch you, I watch you. You do anything that puts my people at risk, you'll learn exactly how good I am at my job."

  "Fair enough," Jin acknowledged. "Though we did just cut through hundreds of enemies for you."

  He let the words linger, then found a corner near the back. Slid down with his back against cold stone that smelled like mildew and old blood.

  "So," Rudy muttered under his breath, pitched for Jin's ears only. "That went well, but why aren’t we telling him about Dad? And me?"

  "'Cause I'm not sure who exactly is on our side, Rudy," Jin replied, closing his eyes and cycling essence through his channels. The breathing pattern kicked in, soothing the damage. "I'm not gonna assume the cult hasn't infiltrated this bastion. The question is how deep."

  "Good foresight," Reyana observed. "These people seem solid, though."

  "Hmm," Jin agreed. Exhaustion tugged at his consciousness. "I'll stay on lookout first, then you can rest."

  "You didn't sleep last night, did you?" Reyana shook her head.

  "Had some runes to crack." Jin smiled. "Besides, we wait a couple of hours before they bring us Rudy's dad."

  Rudy and Reyana both nodded. Jin placed his hand on Rudy's shoulder. "Don't worry, bro."

  Jin sighed and leaned back; Joe was out keeping an eye. But the mission went well after all; this wasn't just a rescue operation.

  This was the opening move in a campaign to burn the cult to ash and take back Vienna one blood-soaked street at a time.

  And if Lieutenant Jorn and his forty-three exhausted soldiers wanted to survive what came next, they'd learn to trust the people who just saved their lives.

  Or they'd die suspicious.

  Either way, the game was in motion.

  ~~~

  PS: Psst~ Psst~ Advanced chapters are already up on patreon, you can read upto one month ahead... It would be awesome if you guys, you know...

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