Chapter 54: The Temporary Battlefield Commander

The warriors took up their ranged weapons; everyone was pouring all their strength into preventing the enemy from closing in. This was a heartening change. Each person gave their utmost, buying us precious time in this siege defense.

But to speak frankly, though our Voidwalker volunteers were individually far mightier than the enemy, on this battlefield they behaved more like a rabble of brawlers fighting on their own than a trained army. These fellows chose their targets without any plan. Whenever an enemy was brought down, seven or eight offensive spells, arrows, or musket shots would follow, all missing their mark. Quite a few people had yet to hit a single foe since the battle began—every target was snatched away before they could act. This inefficient, overlapping attack not only wasted ammunition and magical power, but also squandered our precious defense time.

The situation was much the same among the healers. Whether it was the devout priests employing the holy light, druids skilled in natural restoration, or shamans harnessing soul magic to foster life, they lacked any selectivity in their healing. One person would receive multiple spells for a mere scratch—so much vitality that it seemed they might burst—while a grievously wounded comrade nearby was left to struggle on with potions, unaided.

In short, our combat was chaotic, coordination was lacking, losses were high, and gains insufficient. Fortunately, the well-trained city guards formed the majority. If the defense of the city had rested solely on us, the army of the Apocalypse Empire would have breached our walls long ago.

Perhaps the cause lay in the habits formed during their usual adventures, always fighting in small groups of three or five. Faced with a vast battlefield of tens of thousands, these Voidwalkers seemed lost, overwhelmed by the blood and carnage. It was a spectacle too grand, a slaughter so mutual and vast, that the sense of victory or defeat became elusive.

Yet in every group, there are always one or two whose rational minds awaken first amidst the chaos, who can find the right solutions:

"Don't shoot the archers—attack the siege engines first! Everyone, focus your fire on the engine closest to the wall!" A deep voice rang out from behind, cutting through the din of battle and bringing my fevered mind to a halt. I turned to see a human swordsman, a scarred face, sword and saber at his waist, the name "Buddha's Smile" displayed above his head. He stood with arms folded, calmly shouting his instructions to all.

Like the shadow thieves, swordsmen are combat classes evolved from roguish origins. Strictly speaking, the swordsman is a reverse variant of the rogue: renouncing the rogue’s philosophy of striking from the shadows, they instead seek to unleash their power in open, honorable combat.

Their class skills limit their choice of weapons to one-handed blades—sabers, swords, or daggers. Swordsmen are often proud, extreme in temperament, and bloodthirsty. They pursue explosive damage, lightning speed, and a fluid, dazzling mastery of combat technique. Rather than physical training, they devote themselves to studying weapon behavior, developing skills that push their weapons’ power to the limit.

Any one-handed blade in their grasp delivers at least twenty percent more damage than usual, and their chance of a critical strike is doubled. More amazingly, even a plain dagger in their hands can be made to slash, pierce, or smash as the situation demands, allowing them to adapt their tactics to an opponent’s defenses. Against lightly armored, frail spellcasters, the bleeding effect of a slash is deadly; against chain-mail-clad warriors, a piercing attack undermines their vaunted protection.

The price for their sword mastery is the loss of certain rogue skills—most notably, they cannot hide or move unseen. And they retain many rogue vulnerabilities: they can only wear leather armor, a severe drawback for a melee fighter, and their constitution is unimpressive, their vitality limited.

Should you face a swordsman in battle, you needn’t think about seizing the initiative—it’s impossible. They are always faster than you can imagine. Your only concern is surviving the first ten seconds; once engaged, their relentless assault swallows you whole, their blades like vampiric fangs draining you dry in moments.

But if your life force is tougher than they expect and you weather that initial onslaught, the tables turn: their feeble defenses make any counterattack a mortal threat.

Because of his class restrictions, "Buddha's Smile" had no means of ranged attack and could not yet join the fray, relegated for now to the role of spectator. Perhaps it was this very distance that allowed him to observe the situation calmly and perceive our shortcomings.

"Take down the siege engines directly!" Buddha's Smile shouted, hoping the others would heed him. "Ignore the archers on the engines for now!"

Only a handful listened; most continued as before, targeting the Imperial marksmen atop the siege engines and reveling in the kill, never considering whether Buddha's Smile’s suggestion would benefit the battle. Some even rolled their eyes or muttered derisively, expressing their displeasure with this self-appointed commander.

I suspect the main reason is their unwillingness to take orders from an equal, a stranger. To obey Buddha’s Smile would be a blow to their pride. Many people in this world are like that: they never consider whether what is said is right, only who is saying it. They’ll obey their elders or those of higher status, even if it means doing something foolish; but when a peer or junior offers good advice, they ignore it, no matter how reasonable.

Still, even with only a few concentrating their attacks, the siege engine’s damage increased visibly. Their durability was so high that every hit, no matter how many struck at once, counted toward their eventual destruction; not a single arrow or spell was wasted. This greatly improved our efficiency. Soon, the lead siege engine crashed down with a muffled boom.

As long as the engines remained, the archers atop could be replaced endlessly, a never-ending tide. But once an engine was destroyed, the enemy lost their advantageous position and had to retreat, delaying their advance and easing our defensive burden—a double victory.

What’s more, most of the engines that made it close had already been battered by catapult stones and the city guard’s efforts, so those approaching the walls were already half-ruined, some with less than a quarter of their durability left. It took only a little effort to finish them off and reap rich experience. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

As more and more siege engines fell, more people changed their targets, joining in their destruction. Even some who had scorned Buddha’s Smile began, when no one was looking, to direct their attacks at the engines. As our numbers grew, the engines fell even faster.

In this short time, we achieved far greater results than expected—six siege engines reduced to splinters before they reached the walls. But this still wasn’t enough to halt the Apocalypse Empire’s assault. Soon, three engines advanced together toward the city. For the defenders, these monsters were too sturdy. Though nearly everyone aimed at the central engine, it was clear from their speed that we wouldn’t destroy them before they reached us.

"Stop attacking the engines! Mages, conserve your mana. Archers, target the archers on top!" Buddha’s Smile saw this as well, shouting again to change our tactics. "All shadow thieves, set traps on the walls! Healers, get ready for melee!"

This time, no one hesitated. The recent success had given Buddha’s Smile considerable authority; almost everyone who heard him followed his instructions. The healers restored their comrades’ health in preparation for the coming assault. The city guard was too numerous to heal individually, but we had enough shamans to raise totems, their effects spanning a wide area. Soon, a row of ancient-looking totem poles stood along the wall, their healing blue glow covering nearly the entire parapet.

Meanwhile, the shadow thieves busied themselves, setting a variety of cunning traps—some would freeze the trigger in solid ice, others spewed flames to engulf whole sections in fire, and some were simply fragile bottles whose poisons would rapidly spread and torment any caught within. Never before had I seen so many types of traps set so densely. For a moment, it seemed less a battlefield and more a grand exposition of ingenious devices.

The orc, Long Triangle, now a shadow thief, was among those setting traps. He was carefully laying a circular steel clamp bristling with sharp teeth at the wall’s edge—a powerful single-target trap. Once triggered, its jaws would snap shut on the victim’s calf, causing severe injury and crippling their movement.

I must admit, such vicious devices suited the orc shadow thieves’ treacherous nature perfectly. Long Triangle was clever in choosing the spot—directly in the path of an oncoming siege engine, a step from the wall’s edge. The orcs’ sense for terrain and distance was uncanny. I could almost picture it: when the engine bridged the gap and the first soldier charged across onto the wall, his foot would land squarely in this deadly snare.

Having set his trap, Long Triangle wickedly smeared the teeth with a purple-green "Exhaustion Draught"—poison, too, was a shadow thief’s specialty. Anyone afflicted would see their attack and defense drop to sixty percent, and their maximum health reduced by twenty. The ingredients for such a potent toxin cost at least fifteen silver coins a dose—a lavish expense for mere enemy grunts.

"Careful, don’t step here! Or suffer the consequences!" He placed a warning sign by the trap, standing back, immensely pleased with his sinister handiwork, puffing out his belly and glancing around for admiration.

At that moment, an arrow from outside the wall flew in—a slow, crooked shot that struck Long Triangle squarely on the backside. It didn’t seem aimed so much as haphazard, perhaps a wild miss.

"Ouch!" Caught off guard, Long Triangle howled in pain, clutching his rear and hopping forward two steps.

Click—snap! The crisp sound of metal came from the ground. His face froze, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes moist with tears.

After a moment, he lowered his head and, through gritted teeth and a voice thick with tears, forced out, "Oh, damn that hurts…"

His voice was like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on.

As we saw, the steel trap had clamped tight on his calf, the fangs biting deep into the flesh. Above his head floated a string of crimson letters, as if mocking him with a banner of blood.

Just then, the siege engine reached the wall. With a crash, the drawbridge fell, landing right in front of Long Triangle.

A troll warrior, axe in hand, stormed out, swinging at the orc thief. Long Triangle tried to dodge, but wounded and slow, he took the axe to his forehead, his health bar flashing crimson. The fifteen-silver poison proved its worth—now poisoned, Long Triangle’s strength failed, his health plummeting by three hundred points, his situation dire.

Another axe blow struck his shoulder, and the troll kicked his body off the wall—thus, Long Triangle became the first Voidwalker defender to die in this battle.

I must again praise his skill in setting traps: the placement, the trap’s effect, the poison—all perfectly coordinated, sure to doom any unlucky enough to trigger it.

Except, of course, for the small miscalculation regarding who would set it off. In every other respect, the trap was flawless.

Though I felt genuine grief for his death, I must confess my heart could not muster any great anger or sense of shared struggle. On the contrary, Long Triangle’s demise actually alleviated much of my anxiety in the face of the enemy. I was able to throw myself into this fight with a lighter heart, and I suspect I was not alone—many who witnessed his end must have felt the same.

Perhaps this was the only true value Long Triangle’s death brought us.

As the enemy soldiers surged onto the wall, a brutal hand-to-hand battle, inevitable and inescapable, thus began.