A hand lunges forward, open-palmed, eager to squash a bug. Skin sloughs in strips, pigment gone sickly, rancid bile dripping from the cracks. The fingers snap shut, a cage closing—

  —lightning bursts between them. White glare burns through daylight, hotter than the sun. Steel cleaves through bone, severing digits, ripping the palm apart. The bug isn’t crushed. It slips free, blade raised, breath ragged.

  “Still crawling. Can’t stop just yet,” I mutter.

  It was me.

  A dozen more irregulars and giants surge toward me, aiming to overrun.

  “Shit.” I weave between attacks.

  The eighteenth line. Half a month of soul-crushing slaughter. The flood never stops trying to end us. Mind and body spent. Bones ache like they’ve been shattered. Breath runs short. Rest, sleep—gold.

  The worst part isn’t the pain. It’s the endlessness. A wave that keeps crashing, eroding us down to dust.

  And still, me and my machine don’t falter. Even exhausted, we hold. If will alone won battles, this would already be over. But will isn’t enough. It just isn’t.

  My body is painted in the blood of the vile and my own. Cuts crisscross me—shallow enough to keep me moving, deep enough to sting with every breath. Muscles grind like rusted gears. Bones ache as if they’ve been hammered to splinters. There’s no reset to sweep the fatigue clean. My mana wavers, clinging to a fragile balance between collapse and barely enough.

  And even if I could leash the exhaustion, it wouldn’t matter. Their numbers drown everything.

  Just like now. A rotted void panther melts into shadow as hair-coils spear down and a giant’s foot hammers toward me. I slip through the chaos; coils whistle past. I snatch one, let it yank me skyward, and bring my blade down across the trampler’s ankle as I fall. Bone cleaves, meat sears—the beast crashes sideways into the colossus, both of them slamming down in a heap.

  I fall with them. The panther erupts from shadow mid-descent, the rotten stench rolling off him, fangs flashing for my throat. I twist; pain licks my back as claws graze shallow. Boots hit dirt. The taste of iron fills my mouth, but I ignore it. Steel flares blue-hot. I launch, swing, and split the rancid cat in half. A dozen more abominations of the same level press in, pushing me back further.

  My fighting style has changed. Mana isn’t wasted on flashy bursts anymore—it’s focused into keeping my weapon sharp and my body moving. Wide sweeps, big drains: pointless. The fodder can be handled by my machine.

  The mundane’s numbers might be staggering, unreasonable even, but that only shortens the time a line can hold. Irregulars are different. They have to be cut down the instant they appear. They’re the priority.

  But the numbers. I slip and weave, swinging between strikes. For every one I fell, two take its place. My throat burns; my muscles scream. I kill, and they still push. I kill, and they don’t stop. I kill, and I’m shoved back, inch by bloody inch toward the line.

  The irregulars and giants break free from the wave, pushing me like a spearhead toward our line. I kill what I can, but it isn’t enough. The last straw is about to snap. Alfrick’s shouts and whistles wail—an emergency retreat. Half the line scrambles to haul supplies; the rest tries to hold the mundane wave from pouring through. They’re too slow. I won’t be able to occupy them long.

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  I fight for every inch. Wounds pile. I take risks. Strategy means almost nothing now. I can’t let them overrun me. They push; I swing and they die; they swing and I ignore it, forcing forward only to be thrown back. ‘I’m too close to the line,’ I think, breath tearing at my throat.

  A giant hound breaks free, bypassing me and forcing my hand. I slip past the head, speed carrying me into its path. It dies easy enough, but the kill cracks something open—another breaks, and another, like shattered glass letting water through no matter how I press. I rush, I kill, and still more spill from the spearhead, flooding toward my men.

  One slips past while I’m held down, barreling toward the line. An irregular fleshling—foam dripping from its jaws, eyes wild. The prize must be appetizing. I break my rule of conservation. A spear of lightning rips through it. The body explodes—smoke and gore—yet another takes its place.

  I ready another strike—too late. A panther’s teeth sink into my side, and a rotten giant boar charges, tusks lowered. My blade takes the panther’s head; I twist, slip, and cleave the boar in half. Smoke curls from the twitching carcasses.

  I whip toward the line, scanning for those that broke through. Five irregulars. Already on top of my men.

  They lunge. One of mine moves first—slipping past. Another irregular snatches for him, grabbing one of my soldiers. Retief.

  “That—” I mutter. Golden light glints in his eyes. He’s moving like someone leagues above his weight. Only slightly above average mana—how the hell is he doing that?

  ‘Focus!’ I snarl at myself. Lightning bursts. I tear free of the spearhead, ground shattering underfoot. Retief weaves between strikes, pulling his soldiers out alive. Another irregular dives—my blade cuts it down.

  I only have a moment to check the damage. Somehow Retief kept them all breathing.

  “Sir!” he shouts, pointing past me.

  “Shit.” Lightning bursts. I tear forward. Another batch is already on the line.

  They lunge for my soldiers as I near. My blade swings—most fall cleaved—but one slips past. A crunch of bone. Rage fills me. A shout tears loose, nothing but noise. Two of my men lie broken beneath the slobbering irregular. Too late.

  It dies as quick as it killed. I pivot back to defense. No time for mourning.

  I drive into the press of bodies, blade swinging, lightning ripping. I kill and kill—but so do they. Ten dead already, and only now is the retreat complete.

  The earth shakes. Two colossi barrel toward the line. Hair coils spear down. One for me, one for my machine. I weave, dodge, no room for error. They have to fall fast.

  I break for the second. Wind screams past, coils snapping after me. Soldiers vanish in the first’s strands. My blade flares a hotter blue. Thunderclap. Blinding light. The colossus topples dead before it can take more.

  I crash into dirt. More coils lash. My legs buckle, a strip of flesh torn away. I grit my teeth. Everything burns—body, mana, thought. I launch again. Blade flares, thunderclap, light, death. Another giant falls. I slam back down, vision swimming, almost gone.

  No rest. Another pair lumbers close. I stagger, force my body forward. But exhaustion tips over. My guard breaks. A giant hand slams shut around me, crushing, squeezing the air from my lungs. Bones creak, ready to snap.

  I push harder than ever, dragging every shred of mana left. Lightning rips out, tearing the hand apart. I fall free, collapsing to the ground. So tired. Blade slips from my grasp as I drop to my knees.

  For a moment, nothing. Then the fog clears. I can’t stop. Not yet. With everything left, I crawl, grab the hilt, haul myself upright by sheer leverage.

  But it’s too late. A giant is already on top of the line—big enough to wipe out a fourth of it in a single swing. And another closes on me. I can’t cover both. One has to die, but that leaves no time for the other.

  My blade slips again—hope slipping with it. Reset. I’ll have to reset. There’s no other way. Even if I kill this one and the giant on the line—after it crushes a fourth—more will come, and I’ll be worse than dead on my feet.

  My soldiers are retreating, yes, but they can’t outrun these things.

  A dry chuckle breaks out of me. “It’s hopeless.” Not happy—just hollow. My chest feels split, heart like broken glass. There isn’t a single thing I can do.

  Seems my shadow was right. That would’ve pissed me off—if I didn’t stand to lose so much.

  Only hope left now is that the reset is generous.

  A giant’s leg tramples down, aiming to flatten me. On the line, a giant fleshling with hair coils draws back, ready to whip through my machine.

  Time freezes. I watch in despair. Failed again. The only thing left to rely on is the mercy of a cursed ability. Pathetic.

  Air whistles. Coils lance down. A massive foot crashes toward me. Every heartbeat drags into eternity.

  I close my eyes. Fate’s cruel.

  Moments pass. I wait for the reset.

  Then—cracks. Two of them. Thunder-snap loud.

  My eyes snap open. Both giants topple, gaping holes blown straight through. And—ice. A pillar of it, bracing the giant fleshling’s corpse before it can crush my men.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “A miracle?” I mutter.

  “No miracle. Just late.” a man replies behind me.

  I whirl—more stumble than turn. Behind me stands Koln.

  “What? You’re back?” The words scrape out of me, my body straining just to stand.

  Koln nods once. Relief floods through me. Too much relief.

  Darkness takes me. I collapse.

  Koln catches me, hefts me up, and slips away.

  Half-conscious, I catch fragments. Shapes in the blur, fighting the horde. One fires a rifle spitting mana-charged rounds. Another wields ice, freezing beasts mid-lunge. A squad of almost-normal soldiers moves between them, ruthless, efficient, cutting through the tide.

  My people live.

  Then the haze wins. I slip under.