The emergency bell echoed across the village, yet it woke no one from their sleep.

After all, no one could wake twice when they had spent the night sleepless. Fear of another attack by the gnolls had kept everyone wide-eyed until dawn.

And as the bell tolled, the horde returned.

But this time, it was different.

The wilderness swarmed with gnolls and beasts, and amidst the chaos, something new stood out—long objects carried by pairs or trios of creatures. These tools, crude and riddled with holes, gave a dreadful impression of purpose.

The disarray of the previous assault had transformed into a semblance of order. Groups clustered with frightening cohesion, and there were dozens of such units.

Deutsch Pullman, recalling the lessons from a military-trained mercenary in his early days, began estimating their numbers. Using his fingers to create a circle, he counted the gnolls within it and then gauged how many such circles could fill the expanse before him.

“Twenty.”

Roughly twenty gnolls per circle, and at least fifty circles—likely more.

The sight of ghouls slithering among the gnolls and hyena-like beasts made the scene even grimmer.

The numbers were terrifying—worse than the day before, which had already been a waking nightmare.

But the most unsettling part was the gnolls' tools: long, perforated ladders.

“Ladders?” Deutsch muttered, his stomach sinking.

Panic gripped him. The gnolls had brought ladders.

Gnolls were known to wield weapons, but creating tools? These crude, hastily assembled ladders betrayed the influence of something cunning—a guiding hand.

“A cultist.”

The thought made him dizzy. It explained everything—the gnolls’ newfound coordination, their tools, and their numbers.

And those ladders… hastily crafted or not, once they reached the walls, their quality would matter little.

“Boiling oil!” Deutsch barked instinctively.

“Do you think we have any?” came the village elder’s retort.

There were still stones left to hurl, but not enough. Arrows were in decent supply, yet nowhere near sufficient to repel what looked like a thousand-strong horde.

Even with archers firing into the massed horde below, the village had only twenty archers. Against such numbers? Impossible.

What could they do? Gather waste and pour it down the walls? Foul smells wouldn’t stop gnolls or beasts.

Support was at least a week away. Could they last that long?

“If only we had more stones…”

Perhaps if every villager fought—but sending untrained civilians into melee against gnolls would be like throwing raw meat to a starving pack of wolves.

Even the quarry wouldn’t yield enough stones in time. They simply lacked the manpower.

“It’s hopeless.”

Once those ladders reached the walls, it was over. The sheer number of enemies made arrows and stones futile. And if the cultist cast a curse, what then?

Most of the villagers would likely collapse before the fight even began.

This wasn’t a battle a former mercenary-turned-village leader could win.

Frankly, Deutsch wanted to flee. Yesterday’s victory already felt distant.

The master stonemason had jokingly called the fortifications the "Mad Enkrid Wall," but Deutsch doubted they’d even see the foundation stone laid.

At this rate, the settlement would fall, becoming a nest for gnolls—a nightmare scenario. Eventually, a large hunting party would burn it to the ground, but what of the lives and homes lost in the meantime?

Deutsch had poured everything into this settlement. Losing it would mean starting over as a penniless mercenary.

But where would he even go if he ran? Crossing the border without preparation was suicide.

“Damn it all.”

The curse slipped out unbidden.

Then came a voice.

“What’s his name again?”

“Deutsch.”

It was the voice of the village’s savior—the black-haired, blue-eyed madman who had single-handedly slain the gnoll leader yesterday.

Enkrid.

“Deutsch, open the gate.”

The command was simple, yet it made Deutsch’s face contort. Kraiss, standing nearby, spoke in his usual polished tone, but with unmistakable authority.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you? Command authority rests with my squad leader. Follow orders, Head of Security.”

It wasn’t arrogance. It was fact.

And it was effective. Kraiss had timed his words perfectly, leaving Deutsch no room to argue.

There was no point in resisting. The ladders alone made it clear that today would be even worse than yesterday. The cultist’s involvement only sealed the grim reality.

It wasn’t submission—it was a lifeline.

From Kraiss’s perspective, Deutsch Pullman was a decent, albeit stubborn, man.

“He should’ve given up sooner.”

What good was the title of village guard captain when the odds were so stacked against them? Kraiss, if he’d been in Deutsch’s shoes, would’ve looted the village and run with his mercenaries long ago.

But Kraiss couldn’t do that. Not with Enkrid leading. The squad leader’s unwavering dedication to saving lives made such betrayal unthinkable.

And now, Enkrid was doing something incomprehensible again.

“It’s just me, Lua Gharne, and Esther going out,” Enkrid had said earlier.

“Outside the walls?” Kraiss had asked, incredulous.

“Yep.”

“You nearly died yesterday.”

Enkrid had nodded. “It was close.”

Did this man value his life at all?

“Keep your eyes straight,” Enkrid had added sharply, cutting off Kraiss’s thoughts.

“What if today goes worse?”

“Lua Gharne is with me.”

Lua Gharne was formidable, but she wasn’t a knight. Wasn’t this reckless?

“Find something useful to do,” Enkrid had concluded, ending the conversation.

“Then, as acting commander, I say open the gate,” Kraiss declared now, his tone carrying newfound authority.

Enkrid was already at the gate with Lua Gharne and Esther by his side. The trio waited patiently as the wooden doors groaned open.

Behind them, Kraiss muttered a silent plea.

“Don’t die.”

If Enkrid fell, survival for the rest of them would be unlikely.

Beyond the gates, a vast horde awaited. Gnolls, beasts, ghouls, and somewhere among them, the hidden cultist.

Three figures stood against the swarm—two humans and a leopard.

Kraiss swallowed hard, his throat dry at the sight.

Whatever they planned to do, the rest of the village could only hope to support them.

“Bring every skilled archer,” Kraiss ordered.

Villagers began gathering stones and positioning themselves to defend the walls, bracing for the battle to come.

The makeshift wooden barricade would serve as their last defense against the overwhelming tide of monsters.

***

Enkrid appreciated Kraiss for taking initiative, which allowed him to focus solely on the battle ahead.

“If not for the treasure, I wouldn’t have bothered dragging him along.”

He glanced briefly at Kraiss. If this were a typical operation, Kraiss wouldn’t even be here—no maps to study, no strategic puzzles to solve. And if Kraiss hadn’t come along, Enkrid would’ve had to handle all the trivial logistics and minor commands himself.

As for Deutsch Pullman—the one-eyed or maybe one-balled ex-mercenary? He looked utterly defeated.

“That face… the perfect look for someone destined to die after barely holding out.”

It was a face Enkrid had seen countless times before—a broken spirit, the hallmark of defeat.

Satisfied with his quick assessment, Enkrid turned his attention inward. There was no need to dwell on others’ despair. His focus shifted to his sword, his skills, and the lessons etched into him from yesterday.

Standing before the wooden gate, his thoughts drifted to the vivid dream he’d had the night before.

A conversation with the Ferryman, clear as a brand burned into his mind. The Ferryman's expressionless reactions, his cryptic warnings, and what followed.

“You used a loophole.”

The Ferryman’s voice carried no malice, but the statement felt like an indictment.

“It happened that way,” Enkrid thought in response.

Somehow, the Ferryman understood without words. The small boat swayed gently as though moved by an unseen tide—a reflection, perhaps, of the Ferryman's mood.

“How dare you? Using tricks? Such insolence.”

Even so, Enkrid felt at peace.

“Bound by laws, you will wander in regret. This is far from over.”

The Ferryman’s warning came like a verse of poetry. Enkrid simply accepted it. What use was there in pondering cryptic phrases he couldn’t decipher? Whether in reality or dreams, his focus remained fixed on surviving tomorrow.

The Ferryman vanished, and the nightmare began.

Trapped in a well, Enkrid could see the moon shining above him, but no matter how hard he clawed, he couldn’t climb out. Over and over, his nails cracked, peeled, and bled as he tried to ascend the walls, but the effort was always in vain.

He awoke thrashing, his limbs still feeling the phantom struggle of the dream.

“What kind of dream was that?” Lua Gharne asked as the heavy wooden gate creaked open.

“A dream of beautiful moonlight,” Enkrid replied.

He wasn’t lying. The moonlight streaming into the well had been intoxicatingly beautiful, even in the nightmare—a light so pure, it needed no wine to bring intoxication.

“Doesn’t sound much like a nightmare.”

“Does it not?”

Their exchange was brief and casual.

“Kyar.”

Esther growled softly as the gate opened. Enkrid glanced down, feeling her gaze fixed on him.

“I’ll need your help again today.”

Esther wasn’t an ordinary leopard. That much was already clear. And as for himself?

“Hahh.”

He exhaled deeply, grounding himself. He recalled everything he had learned—no, mastered—yesterday.

But first, there was something else to check. A thought that had nearly slipped his mind.

“Lua Gharne.”

“Speak.”

“Show me your skills.”

Provoked Frokk—how well could she truly fight? The question stirred anew, igniting curiosity.

“Grrr...”

Lua Gharne’s cheeks puffed out, her eyes glinting with determination.

“Fine. I’ll show you.”

Without another word, Frokk shot forward, slamming the ground with enough force to send dirt flying like a fountain. Her charge was relentless, a sight so formidable it was almost reassuring.

Enkrid watched, fascinated.

Provoked Frokk—just how well could she fight? He was eager to see the answer.