The clash came like a tidal wave.
Leo's first strike dropped a goblin instantly—clean, fast, effortless. The creature's crude weapon hadn't even been raised before the spear punched through its chest.
He pivoted, swept low, and caught a kobold at the knees, finishing it with a downward stab.
Another lunged at him, but he was already moving—his body flowing on instinct from weeks of drilled forms. He didn't need to see the paths. Not yet.
Around him, his section held.
Screams rang out, both monstrous and human, but not from his side. The teams nearest to him, surprisingly, held their lines well enough. The enemies were weak. Undisciplined. Their attacks, wild and easy to read. Spear, blade, and burst of qi tore through them in rhythmic violence.
Leo struck. Breathed. Reset.
Again. And again.
He found the rhythm.
Elsewhere, at the center—
Mira didn't move much.
She waited.
The first goblin that got close didn't even make it into her reach. Her foot shot out, snapping its shin. Before it could scream, her fist caved in its chest.
Her movements were pure economy. Minimal. Clean.
She ducked a spear, caught the shaft mid-air, yanked the kobold off-balance, and twisted the thing's neck in one brutal motion. Two more came, and she stepped through both with a flurry of blows that cracked bone and sprayed blood.
She didn't even breathe hard.
But her eyes kept scanning the mist.
Waiting for the real fight.
On the left—
Aric stood near the edge of the bridge, water snaking up his arms in silver ribbons.
Each gesture sent a jet slicing through clusters of goblins, driving them off the edge or freezing them mid-charge.
He was precise, efficient—but never still. He redirected water from fallen foes, drawing more from ambient condensation, keeping his resources flowing even as the enemy surged.
But even he glanced toward Leo occasionally.
Watching.
Measuring.
Back on the right—
Leo didn't know how long they'd been fighting.
Minutes? Hours?
It blurred together now.
His arms were heavy. His breath, shallow. Blood soaked the front of his tunic—not his, not yet—but the smell clung to his nose, metallic and sour.
He impaled a goblin without grace. Shoved it off the spear.
Another kobold came—bigger than the rest. Smarter. It feinted high, slashed low. Leo deflected it, barely, the spear rattling in his hands.
Still no need for paths.
He could feel them, the flickers—waiting. But he was saving that. Holding back.
The next two enemies rushed in tandem, and for the first time, his response came half a second late. His thrust went wide. One blade grazed his arm, drawing blood.
Leo hissed, stepped back, and killed both with a hard sweep of the shaft.
He reset. Staggered. Breathed.
He wasn't thinking clearly anymore.
His world narrowed to motion and blood. The noise was deafening—metal on stone, screams, the pounding of feet.
The exhaustion seeped into his bones, into his mind. He wasn't just tired. He was fraying.
How long has it been? Hours?
The kobolds were bigger now.
The goblins wore scavenged armor.
And they were no longer charging blindly. They were coordinating—pushing toward weak spots in the formation, retreating when pressed.
Leo's muscles screamed with every movement. His wrists ached. His lungs burned.
Still no sign of the end.
He looked up.
The battle slowed.
Not ended—slowed.
He closed his eyes. His hands trembled around the spear.
The tide of kobolds and goblins ebbed like a receding wave, dragging their dead with them, leaving the bridge soaked in blood and slick with shattered weapons. No horns sounded. No orders given. Just silence.
Leo stumbled back two steps, planting the butt of his spear into the stone to keep from collapsing. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Sweat clung to him like oil. His arms throbbed, his legs shook, and every inch of him screamed for rest.
He looked up and let out a long, uneven exhale.
Finally. A break.
Mira lowered her fists slightly at the center. Aric let the ribbons of water slither away, dissipating into mist. Across the bridge, the remaining defenders took tentative steps, hands still clenched, eyes still wild.
Then Leo looked around.
Really looked.
The bodies weren't just monsters.
He saw a curved blade lying beside a still arm—one he recognized. A girl from the trio of swordswomen they'd spoken to earlier. Her face was pale, slack, turned toward the sky, her neck opened in a jagged arc.
A few feet away, a boy Leo vaguely remembered laughing during the planning phase lay crumpled, his chest caved in, eyes wide and unseeing.
Further down the line—more.
Human.
Dead.
He hadn't noticed. He'd been too deep in the fight, too buried in the flow of strike and parry, push and pull. But now that the noise had faded, the silence was filled with them. Corpses. Dozens.
Some still clutched weapons.
Some hadn't even had time to draw them.
Leo's stomach twisted. His relief vanished.
He turned and scanned again—Eli.
He found him sitting with his back against the side wall, bloodied but breathing. One arm wrapped tightly around a wound on his side. He gave Leo a weak thumbs-up.
Alive.
For now.
Leo turned back toward the bridge's center, where Mira was scanning the mist, her expression grim but composed.
He wanted to speak. To say something. Anything.
But the words didn't come.
So he stood there, surrounded by bodies—some he knew, most he didn't—and let the stillness press into him.
This wasn't victory.
This was survival.
And it wasn't over yet.