"A meal break is permitted for soldiers not currently on battlement duty," Commander Thorne's voice carried across the walls.
"You can recuperate in the barracks until called. Keep your standard armament ready."
But none of the soldiers left.
They stood frozen, eyes locked on the Drake Riders circling in the distance.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just watching.
"Tch." Davrin clicked his tongue and motioned for his officers.
They pounced into action, physically pulling soldiers away from the walls, shoving them toward the stairs.
"Move it! You heard the Commander!"
"But they're still out there—"
"And you'll be useless if you collapse from exhaustion! Now MOVE!"
Arden watched the commotion from his position.
Elara stood beside him, also observing.
"You chose not to act," Davrin said, approaching them.
"What?" Arden turned.
"Yesterday. When those rangers were fleeing. You didn't suggest we send a relief force."
It wasn't an accusation.
Just an observation.
"Even if we'd sent knights, we couldn't have reached them in time," Arden said carefully.
"Are you sure of that?"
"It was clearly bait, sir. Those Drake Riders wanted us to open the gates. To send forces out where they could be surrounded and cut off."
Davrin didn't deny it.
Drake Riders moved as fast as cavalry.
The rangers had slim chance of survival once caught in the open.
But Arden would never know for certain if he'd been right to hold back.
The commander spoke again, interrupting his thoughts.
"We need to discuss defensive positioning for the secondary gates. Meet me in the command center in one hour."
Lieutenant Helena Vex approached, her expression grim.
"Commander, about yesterday's incident—"
"I know," Davrin cut her off.
"The Berserkers are different now. More coordinated. More... intelligent."
She handed him a report.
"Sir, if the gates open even slightly, they'll rush in. If there's any gap in our defenses, they'll exploit it immediately. These aren't mindless monsters anymore."
Her face was set grimly.
"Their goal isn't strategic like ours. They seek total annihilation. Complete destruction of anything living within these walls."
Arden felt a chill run down his spine.
She doesn't know how right she is.
The Flame-Crowned Overlord doesn't want territory or resources.
He wants the fortress destroyed. Everyone dead. As a message.
"Winter has just begun," Helena continued.
"We can't maneuver outside the walls easily. The snow limits our mobility."
"There are good reasons why battles with coordinated monsters are so dangerous," she added.
"Their purpose is different from ours. For them, siege-craft means nothing. They want to break through and consume everything inside."
"Even well-fed, even wounded by fire and blade, they can't ignore the scent of prey."
Helena's voice was steady but grim.
"That's how they see Kar'eth. As meat waiting to be devoured."
"Additionally," Helena's expression became more serious, "the snowfields may seem to offer no cover, but they actually provide advantages. The Berserkers could be massing behind that ridge. They can hide in snowdrifts, flank us through terrain we think is impassable."
Arden knew she was right.
In my novel, that's exactly what happened.
The Overlord used the snow as cover for his main force.
By the time the fortress realized how many there were, it was too late.
"THE DRAKE RIDERS ARE APPROACHING!"
A lookout's shout snapped everyone's attention to the snowfield.
The eight riders from yesterday were returning.
Their eyes firmly set on the fortress.
The same creatures who'd killed the rangers.
They approached the gatehouse at a steady pace.
Then stopped.
Cunningly outside arrow range.
But something was different.
What are they...
Then Arden saw it.
His enhanced vision picking up details others couldn't yet.
The drakes were carrying something in their massive jaws.
Bodies.
Human bodies.
No.
The Drake Riders halted.
The Berserker riders dismounted.
And then—
Chomp. Gnaw. Gnaw.
The drakes began to feed.
Bones crunched audibly even from the walls.
The sound carried across the snowfield in the cold air.
Several soldiers turned away, retching.
After a moment, the Berserkers pulled the drakes back.
The mangled bodies fell to the snow like broken dolls.
"Huh? H-Hey!" a soldier shouted.
"They're alive! Some of them are alive!"
Indeed, a few of the rangers showed signs of life.
Slowly crawling toward the walls.
Using their dead comrades as cover.
The Drake Riders didn't move.
They just watched.
Waiting.
This is deliberate, Arden realized with growing horror.
They're showing us. Letting us see the survivors.
Creating a dilemma.
After several tense minutes, more Drake Riders appeared.
Different ones.
Their mounts also held human bodies clenched in massive jaws.
"Those are our eastern patrol!" a ranger identified them.
"The ones who went out three days ago!"
These rangers were also flung to the ground.
Some breathing.
Some not.
More groups appeared one after another.
Each time, the number of bodies increased.
Arden counted grimly.
Forty-one corpses.
Twenty-eight living rangers.
All arranged deliberately in the snow.
A message.
A challenge.
A trap.
"It's bad," Davrin's voice was heavy.
"We've lost more than anticipated."
Helena's voice was equally grave.
The soldiers nearby were shocked.
Morale was crumbling before Arden's eyes.
The question of whether to rescue them.
Many soldiers feel the urge to save comrades, no matter the odds.
But the collective good has to be considered.
These veterans understand that commanders sometimes make decisions that cost lives for strategic benefit.
But understanding doesn't make it easier.
"This is unusual," Helena said quietly.
"Berserkers don't use hostages. They don't set traps like this. This level of intelligence, this psychological warfare—"
"It's new," Davrin finished.
"Something's changed. Something's directing them."
If you only knew, Arden thought bitterly.
The Flame-Crowned Overlord isn't just intelligent.
He's ancient. Experienced. Strategic.
This is exactly the kind of tactic he'd use.
"GRAAAAAHHHHH!"
A roar unlike anything humanly possible pierced the air.
It came from something utilizing its vocal cords to full capacity.
The sound physically hurt to hear.
A massive shape emerged from behind the Drake Riders.
Ten feet tall.
Iron-gray skin that seemed to drink in light.
Covered in what looked like ritualistic burn scars that glowed faintly orange.
The Flame-Crowned Overlord.
Arden's blood ran cold.
He's here. Personally.
This early. This directly.
In my novel, he stayed hidden until the main assault.
But now he's showing himself. Changing tactics.
The creature sat astride a drake twice the size of the others.
Its eyes—intelligent, calculating, cruel—fixed on the fortress walls.
"Commander, sir! What are your orders?" Officers gathered around Davrin.
Everyone knew the Berserkers were about to execute their prisoners.
"We wait," Davrin said, his jaw clenched.
"Commander, sir! There's no time! We won't be able to save them later!"
A knight gripped his sword, looking ready to vault the wall.
Davrin raised his hand.
All voices ceased.
Then he looked at Arden.
"Valekrest. Assessment."
Arden forced himself to think tactically.
This is a trap. Obviously a trap.
But what kind?
He studied the massive Berserker chieftain.
The creature was... waiting.
Watching the walls.
Like it expected something.
Then the Overlord raised something.
A banner.
Crude but deliberate.
Made from what looked like scorched animal hide.
Marked with symbols that—
Ancient Berserker clan markings.
Battle challenge symbols.
This isn't random violence.
This is formal.
"He wants a duel," Arden said suddenly.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"What?" Davrin's expression was incredulous.
"The chieftain. He's not here to execute prisoners. He's using them as leverage. To force a duel."
"How do you know that?"
"The banner. Those markings are ancient clan symbols. Battle challenge traditions." Arden's mind raced.
"Berserkers used to be more than mindless monsters. Centuries ago, they had honor codes. Duel traditions. This one... he's reverting to ancient practices."
Davrin stared at the distant figure.
"You're saying that thing wants to fight us formally? One on one?"
"Not one on one. Multiple fighters. But yes—formal combat. With rules."
"That's insane."
"That's tactical." Arden's voice was grim.
"If we refuse, he executes the hostages and demoralizes our entire force. If we accept, he isolates our strongest fighters outside the walls where they can be killed."
"Either way, he wins," Helena realized.
The Overlord roared again.
This time, the sound formed something almost like... words?
Deep, guttural, twisted—but structured.
Language.
Ancient Berserker dialect, Arden realized with shock.
He's actually speaking. Not roaring. Speaking.
"Can anyone understand that?" Davrin demanded.
Silence.
No one could.
Except Arden.
He'd written this.
In his novel, the Flame-Crowned Overlord spoke the ancient tongue.
Had studied it during his centuries of imprisonment.
The words weren't perfectly clear, but the meaning was:
"Let us do battle! Send your champions! I offer honorable combat for the lives of your weak!"
Honor. He's invoking ancient honor codes.
Making this official. Witnessed.
So when he wins, it's legitimate. Undeniable.
Arden's mind raced through options.
If we refuse, morale collapses. The rangers die. Everyone sees us as cowards.
If we accept and lose, our strongest fighters die. The fortress loses its best defenders before the main assault.
If we accept and win...
Could we actually win?
He studied the Overlord carefully.
Ten feet tall.
Iron hide.
The faint glow of fire magic underneath.
Ancient intelligence.
In my novel, he was unbeatable at this stage.
The protagonist team was stronger, better equipped, higher level.
And they barely survived.
But...
Arden looked at his own hands.
Shadow Devil Integration.
Combat experience from his novel knowledge.
The training he'd done.
The team he'd built.
Maybe. Just maybe.
If I'm smart. If I'm careful. If I exploit every advantage...
We might survive this.
"Commander," Arden said quietly.
"I think we should accept."
The entire wall seemed to freeze.
"You what?" Davrin's voice was dangerous.
"It's a trap either way. But accepting gives us three advantages." Arden spoke quickly, organizing his thoughts.
"One: We save the rangers. Their intel about enemy numbers could be crucial. Two: We demonstrate strength. Show the enemy we're not afraid. Boost morale. Three: We eliminate that chieftain before the main assault. He's clearly the tactical coordinator. Without him, their attack will be less organized."
"Or we lose our best fighters and demoralize everyone worse," Helena countered.
"Yes. That's the risk."
Davrin studied him.
"You have a plan."
Not a question.
"Yes, sir. But it requires your permission to engage."
"Who would you send?"
"My team. The same group that killed the twenty Berserkers."
Shocked murmurs rippled through the officers.
"You want to send students against that thing?!" one protested.
"That thing is intelligent enough to speak ancient languages and set psychological traps," Arden shot back.
"It won't expect students. It'll underestimate us. That's our advantage."
The Overlord roared again.
Impatient now.
Demanding response.
Some of the captured rangers were trying to crawl closer to the walls.
Others were too injured to move.
The Drake Riders watched.
Waiting for the fortress's answer.
"If I authorize this," Davrin said slowly, "and things go wrong—"
"Then you'll understand exactly what we're facing for the main assault." Arden met his eyes steadily.
"The intelligence gained will be worth the risk."
"You're asking me to gamble with student lives."
"I'm asking you to trust volunteers who know what they're doing."
Silence stretched between them.
Davrin's gaze moved from the distant Overlord to the captured rangers, then back to Arden.
"How many does he want?"
"Five against five, based on the banner markings."
"You're confident in that assessment?"
"It's consistent with ancient clan traditions, sir."
Another tense moment passed.
Finally, Davrin gave a sharp nod.
"Authorized. Select your fighters. But Valekrest—"
"Sir?"
"You return alive. All of you. That's not a request."
"Understood, sir."
As Arden moved toward the stairs, Elara fell into step beside him.
"I'm coming with you."
"I know."
They descended rapidly, taking the steps two at a time.
"This is madness," she said.
"Agreed."
"But we don't have a choice."
"We never did."
They reached the training area where part of the team was drilling.
Rykard, Serra, Brick.
All three looked up as Arden and Elara approached.
"Weapons ready," Arden said without preamble.
"We're going into combat."
"Against what?" Brick asked, excitement already lighting his eyes.
"Against the worst possible opponent," Arden replied.
"The entity orchestrating these attacks. The intelligence behind the coordination."
He met each of their gazes in turn.
"Against the Flame-Crowned Overlord."
The training area went silent.
Then Serra's cold voice cut through:
"When?"
"Immediately."