As dawn arrived, the assembled might of Litwick finally reached its destination.
The landscape before them opened up into a valley, revealing the goblin warcamp sprawled across the rocky terrain. From their vantage point at the edge of the ridge, Rowan could see the crudely built fortifications—sharpened stakes, haphazard barricades, and clusters of tents billowing in the early morning wind.
Goblins milled about the camp, their shrill voices carrying on the breeze. The faint smell of smoke, unwashed bodies, and rotting food lingering in the air.
Their camp stretched across the valley, sprawling and chaotic. Ramshackle tents were packed tightly together, and even this early it was filled with movement. Goblins and hobgoblins alike walked between the tents, chattering in that guttural tongue of theirs.
At its center, a towering structure made of scavenged wood and bones loomed above the rest—the Warchief’s tent. Farther off, near the fringes of the camp, the earth had been disturbed, forming pits that looked like training grounds or holding pens.
This is it. No turning back now.
Rowan took a moment to steady himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath. There was still a lingering tension in his muscles, one that wouldn’t leave no matter how centered he was. It was excitement, anxiety, anticipation and so much more all wrapped up into a single emotion.
Determination.
The group crouched low behind the rise, observing the camp in tense silence. The Silver-ranks had formed up in disciplined lines, while the Iron-ranks—the Grove at the front—waited just behind, ready to move at Quinea’s signal.
“Impressive,” Laith muttered, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the camp.
The sheer size of the goblin army was staggering. Hundreds of goblins were already here, and Rowan found himself glad they hadn’t waited any longer before setting out. If this was their forward force, the full tribe would be overwhelming.
“Impressive, but sloppy,” Quinea replied in a low voice. Her sharp eyes swept across the camp, taking in every detail. “They’ve got numbers, but they aren’t prepared for an attack.”
“Now you’ve jinxed us,” Laith smiled, his axe gripped firmly in his calloused hands, his posture calm but focused.
“We stick to the plan,” Quinea said, turning to look at them. “Tremil, you bait out the Warlock. Try to get him as far away as you can. I don’t want errant spells taking anyone out.”
Tremil nodded, his eyes already focused on the valley below. His fingers twitched, as if getting ready to cast. “I’ll handle him,” he said firmly.
Rowan glanced at the mage advisor, noting the calm precision in his words. There was no doubt, no hesitance. Just a surety that the task he’d been handed would be accomplished.
Quinea’s gaze shifted to Rowan. “Once Tremil draws out the Warlock, I’m going for the Warchief,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You’re with me until we reach him. Don’t worry about keeping the goblins off my back. Once I engage, find the apprentice and take him out.”
Rowan nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. “Got it.”
“Laith, you follow behind. Take the Silver-ranks and keep them focused on the hobgoblins. Remember, all you have to do is stay alive long enough for us to deal with the big threats, then we can mop up together.”
Finally, her eyes moved to Velora.
“I know,” she spoke before Quinea could. “I shall take our casters and follow behind mage Tremil,” her eyes grew sharp. “Not a single spell shall reach our men while we hold the line.”
Glancing back, he caught Huon and Tion kneeling next to the other mages, their eyes closed in meditation.
Let’s hope that’s true, Rowan couldn’t help but think.
Keeping the shamans occupied was going to be a challenge. If even a single one managed to reach the Iron-ranks, it would be a slaughter. Unlike the Silver-rank teams, they had no Aura to protect themselves against their spells.
Suddenly, a guttural shout rang out from the camp below. Rowan tensed as a lone goblin scout screeched from the ramparts, raising a crooked sword into the air, pointing directly at them.
“They’ve seen us,” Laith growled.
Quinea didn’t hesitate. She raised her spear high, signaling the attack.
“Tremil, now,” she ordered calmly.
The old mage didn’t need to be told twice. He stood up to his full height, his robe billowing as he muttered a Hymn. Ice-cold air swirled around him as a massive amount of mana erupted into the sky.
Snow fell.
Within moments, a howling blizzard materialized, descending onto the goblin camp like an unstoppable force of nature. Snow and ice raged through the valley, rushing towards their walls.
Rowan found himself watching the spell in awe, his eyes wide in appreciation.
As the blizzard reached the camp, ripping through the crudely erected walls and freezing the goblins that stood atop them, another presence made itself known.
A booming voice echoed across the battlefield, speaking in a deep, guttural rasp. Dust began to rise from the ground, swirling and twisting as it collided with the snowstorm. It clung to the air, forming a barrier of dirt and stone that shielded the goblin forces from Tremil’s icy onslaught.
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Rowan’s gaze locked onto the figure at the far side of the camp, standing atop the large central tent.
The Warlock.
Clad in rough robes, with dust and earth swirling around him, he raised his arms, pushing back against Tremil’s [Blizzard].
“NOW!” Quinea shouted, and every adventurer answered her call.
Knowing he had to be quick—in more ways than one—Rowan cast [Tailwind]. Mana rushed from his Core, wrapping around him as the spell manifested.
Suddenly, they were moving, running down the slope as fast as their legs could carry them. Quinea stood at the front, moving like a goddess of war, her golden Aura engulfing her body.
Tremil and the mages veered off to the side, moving away and taking the two storms with them, leaving an exposed goblin camp in their wake.
Shouts filled the air as the Iron and Silver-ranks moved behind them—a wave that promised blood and toil.
Rowan found himself following after Quinea, barely keeping up even with the boost [Tailwind] gave him. His heart beat like a wardrum, hands pumping furiously at his sides.
Everything was happening so quickly that he didn’t have time to hesitate, he didn’t have time to feel his nervousness rising. All he felt was the soft dirt compacting beneath his feet with each furious step.
Before he knew it, they reached the ruined walls.
Quinea moved like a blur, her spear flashing as she cut through the goblins standing in their path. They fell in droves. Each one that got close having its life ended with ruthless precision.
Rowan followed, weaving through the destruction she left in her wake, barely managing to hold himself back from casting. His task wasn’t to deal with the normal goblins, and for the fight ahead, he would need every drop of mana available to him.
The first wave of adventurers wasn’t far behind, reaching the camp as a force of hobgoblins rushed to meet them. He could see the Crimson Grove cutting through the lesser goblins with ease, their new gear already showing its worth. Turning them from a capable team into a deadly force.
Nemir, wielding his greatsword, carved through a goblin that jumped in his path, the enchanted blade crackling as it released a small burst of lightning. Silvia’s arrows flew through the air, each one glowing with a faint light, striking with deadly accuracy. Omi stood off to the side, striking from stealth and dealing lingering wounds to anything in front of him.
He couldn’t see Annie, but Rowan didn’t have time to look for her. He had his task, and they had theirs. The best way to help them was by getting it done.
The last thing he saw before they left them behind was the collective Auras of the assembled Silver-ranks spring to life, illuminating the battlefield in a fierce glow.
Rowan’s attention snapped forward as they reached the center of the camp. The massive tent looming in front of them. Yet it wasn’t the tent that caught his eye, but who stood in front of it.
The Warchief was a towering figure, taller than even the hobgoblins that stood around him. His skin was a mottled green, and he was clad in thick armor made from what Rowan assumed were the bones of his enemies. In his hand, he held a warhammer that would tower over Rowan, its iron head darkened by blood.
Level: 42
Body: Gold III [42 Levels]
Core: N/A
There was a feeling of savagery that exuded from the monster, and it had nothing to do with its Gold-ranked Aura of Strength.
Next to him were four hobgoblins, each one staring at them with murder in their eyes.
Level: 24
Body: Silver III [24 Levels]
Core: N/A
Level: 30
Body: Silver V [30 Levels]
Core: N/A
Level: 27
Body: Silver IV [27 Levels]
Core: N/A
Level: 27
Body: Silver IV [27 Levels]
Core: N/A
Quinea wasted no time. With a [War Cry], she charged the Warchief and his entourage, her glowing spear decapitating a stunned hobgoblin before the rest could react.
An enraged growl erupted from deep within the Warchief’s throat, and he moved quicker than Rowan’s eyes could follow.
But thankfully, Quinea had no such problems.
She dodged back, deflecting the descending hammer with a swipe of her spear. The force of the impact sent shockwaves through the air, cracking the ground beneath their feet.
The two combatants locked eyes, sizing each other up.
“Go,” Quinea said as she casually sliced the hand off another hobgoblin. “Find the apprentice.”
Rowan did as he was told, sending a quick [Firebolt] at one of the hobgoblins as he went. It didn’t kill the monster, but by dodging out of the way it opened itself up to a strike from Quinea, leaving only one guard left.
He pushed the thoughts of her battle to the back of his mind. The Warchief was a rank higher than her, but Rowan was sure it wouldn’t have an easy time with the Guildmistress of Litwick.
In a way, she reminded him of the people he grew up around—the Mythril and Ebony-ranked adventurers his family employed. There was an air about her. In the way she moved, in the way she carried herself.
She’ll be fine, he told himself. Focus on yourself.
His eyes scanned the battlefield, knowing his opponent had to be somewhere close by. The Warlock wouldn’t have left the Warchief without a caster by his side.
Thankfully, he didn’t need to wait long before the apprentice showed himself.
A spike of Dust shot out from a nearby tent, heading straight for Quinea. Rowan didn’t even have time to call out before she swiped it out of the air with the hilt of her spear, not even sparing it a glance.
Rowan felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through him, his eyes narrowing.
This was it. His duel had finally come.
[Tailwind] was still active, and Rowan ran towards the tent as fast as he could, pushing every point of Dexterity he had to its limit.
As he closed the distance, he finally saw his adversary.
The goblin was smaller than the Warchief by half, an ugly brand marking its already scarred face. Its skin was a dark, almost burnt brown with eyes that gleamed with malicious intent.
The apprentice wore a tattered robe, and in its hand it held a staff made of twisted black wood, etched with enchantments.
It didn’t take long for the apprentice to notice him, its beady eyes narrowing in what might have been surprise. There was a flash of recognition, but Rowan didn’t give it any time to react.
A [Fireball] formed in his hand, the magic circuit feeling more familiar than ever.
Rowan didn’t stop, he didn’t hesitate. He knew this would be a fight of speed and precision, and he couldn’t afford to let the apprentice gain the upper hand.
Especially considering it had a tier-two affinity.
Rowan imbued his Intent, pushing away the fact he was fighting a Yellow-Core caster.
[Iron Will] empowered it even further, letting him pack more mana into the spell that he had any right to. His opponent seemed to notice the change, and as Rowan finally released the [Fireball], the apprentice slammed his staff into the ground, a dome of earth and rock erupting from the ground to cover him.
This would be a test of everything he’d learned in the last few months. It would push him to the limit more than his duel against Killian had, more than his fight against the Wyrmlings. But Rowan was ready, and he had no plans on letting his opponent leave this clearing alive.
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