"That's the situation."
That night, in the enormous tent the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers used for meetings, dim firelight flickered as Anno laid a detailed map—marked and scribbled over in red and blue pencil—across the center of the table for everyone to see. "This shows Montport's army's marching route. Judging by the past week's intelligence, their next target is almost certainly right here."
"We can't take them head-on. So my suggestion is: evacuate!"
Across the table, the four male leaders of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers leaned in, brows furrowed, staring at the map in silence.
Ironically, it was Krammer, the hobgoblin warlord, who spoke up first, sounding pretty disgruntled: "We just got here, and now you want us to turn around and leave?"
"Madam Anno, we agreed to join you because your group promised us a warm camp and enough supplies for winter. And now you want to drive us out? That's breaking your word."
His skin was brick-red, his wrinkled face stern, and even indoors he kept his plate armor on. Black dreadlocks framed a face like a grizzled monk-warrior. But for all his stoic looks, the man was clearly angling for extra benefits—he was nowhere near as straightforward or simple as he appeared.
On the other side of the table, Anno kept her patience. Deep down, she'd heard all about that incident with the goblin and the nun, so she wasn't feeling charitable toward the hobgoblin who couldn't even keep his troops in line. "But we can't control the direction of the demon army, and the danger is real. If your group insists on staying and facing the Demon Lord's horde alone, I won't stop you."
The hobgoblin snorted twice and said nothing more.
But he wasn't the only one unhappy. The Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers' senior council all looked pretty grim. This time, it was Danche who finally voiced his concerns: "We all worked so hard to build these houses. If we abandon them now, how are we supposed to survive the winter?"
Torun nodded along. "Seriously. If we leave, where would we even go? There's no way we have time to rebuild before the snows hit. The minute a blizzard rolls through, if we've abandoned our homes, we're all as good as dead!"
He was right. Just a couple of days ago it had snowed—and now, with the melt setting in, it was the coldest time of year—not a season for moving camp at all.
In truth, Torun was a minotaur and could tough out the chill. But it didn't take much snow to freeze many from other tribes to death if they tried to relocate now.
Anno was about to suggest sheltering in the dwarves' mine, but then remembered this crowd had just pissed off the dwarves. That plan was basically dead on arrival, so she swallowed the idea and said nothing.
Unable to come up with any compromise, her voice grew urgent: "But if we stay here and face Montport's army, we're walking straight into a slaughter!"
"Anyone can send out scouts to the mountains two hundred miles west and see for yourselves—check the size of Montport's demon horde! With our current numbers, there's no way we can possibly hold the line!"
She pleaded with them from the heart—maybe it sounded like she was spreading fear, but these were the facts, plain and simple.
Danche frowned; he knew perfectly well how terrifying demons could be. The choice before them—flee or stand and fight—felt like a death sentence either way.
Luger, the werebear, seemed to have picked up on Charles's pragmatism by now. He spoke up: "Let's send some scouts first and scope things out. No need to run just yet. If it turns out the horde's not as bad as we think, we'll stand and fight and show those demons what we're made of!"
"If the numbers are really overwhelming, we can rethink moving then."
Torun nodded eagerly in agreement. Anno turned anxiously to Archdruid Ilarode, hoping the elder might offer some more farsighted counsel.
But Ilarode just sighed. "After everything we've already been through—the disaster and this latest snowfall—our people simply can't endure another migration. If we try it, we'll lose most of our people along the way."
Anno sighed softly; Willo gave a helpless look—this really was the hard reality they faced.
Charles scratched his head, honestly surprised the group was still so tied up with these problems.
"Fighting might be the only hope left," Ilarode suddenly said. "If we defend our homes, we might avoid total annihilation."
"Exactly!" Torun was first to applaud. "Hope and survival—we carve them out with our own hands!"
The other tribal leaders followed suit, pounding the table. "That's right! We, the children of the mountains, won't cower before demons—we'll fight for our homes!"
The atmosphere in the tent flared with hot-blooded excitement while Anno's blood pressure threatened to explode.
Trying to face a demon army led by a Demon Lord head-on was sheer lunacy. Under a Demon Lord's command, the demons wouldn't waste time fighting amongst themselves; they'd unite and focus everything against their foes!
Montport's numbers were insane; even discounting the scattered groups, reports put at least six figures surrounding him right now. Taking them out in a frontal assault? Pure fantasy.
The only way to kill so many demons was always a decapitation strike—going for the commanders, especially the Demon Lord himself.
Take out the leaders and the demonic horde would start in-fighting, cutting their own numbers by over ninety percent. The few little squads that remained would be so scattered a half-decent adventuring party could mop them up.
But digging in here and fighting to the bitter end guaranteed disaster.
Unfortunately, as Anno soon saw, the Mountain Purifier leaders simply couldn't bring themselves to give up their new homes. They were still stubbornly sure of themselves, eager to "test their strength" against the Demon Lord's horde.
All Anno could do was slap the table in frustration—utterly powerless to change their minds.
In the end, the meeting adjourned in utter discord. Afterward, she curled up in Charles's arms, muttering in exasperation: "It's like nobody here can understand plain language. I told them exactly how dangerous this is, and they still insist on staying. They're so ignorant and arrogant, it's unbelievable."
Charles could only sigh.
"There's nothing you can do. You've heard it yourself—the snowfall is too recent and they're convinced moving now will kill more people than facing the demons."
"They're just the kind that won't believe anything until they see it with their own eyes. Until the demons are at the gates, there's no way in hell they'll leave in the dead of winter."
"So, what options do we have to buy time when the demons do arrive—enough for more of the old, the weak, and the children to escape?"
Anno looked bewildered. "But at this point, what army strong enough to hold them off could get here in time?"
"Well, there is one," Charles said. "The dwarves' Griffon Knights."
...
To verify Anno's intelligence, the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers dispatched several waves of scouts in the direction she'd indicated. But after a full day, not a single scouting report came back.
That could only mean one thing: every last patrol had been wiped out so fast, they hadn't even managed a single warning or cry for help before being annihilated.
A cloud of unease settled over the camp. The senior staff rushed to change tactics—halting all new building, redirecting every hand to fortifications, barricades, and siege engines, prepping for a desperate last stand.
As work shifted suddenly, panic spread down through the ranks. Even though the leaders tried to keep the real threat under wraps, everyone in the camp grew jumpy and anxious, gossiping about what horrors might be coming.
Charles took the chance to run a little covert survey, checking on people's real attitudes. If there was truly a massive threat coming, would they be willing to abandon camp and evacuate?
The results nearly drove him to despair—not only did the Mountain People fear the demons, they suffered a near-phobic PTSD of winter snows and absolutely refused to move right after a storm. Nearly everyone was convinced that fighting the demons gave them a sliver of hope, while moving camp now was nothing but certain death.
There was no way Charles would change a mindset forged by generations—the culture and collective memory of entire tribes.
So he made up his mind: when things went south, he'd take Anno, the nuns, and the Blackstaff Tower soldiers and run. Let the rest do as they pleased.
If you want to stand here and fight the demons to the last—well, that's your call. But don't drag us down with you!