chapter 4.1

Twilight slowly swallowed The Wall's Central Headquarters, its darkness creeping in like an inevitable tide. The setting sun left only streaks of crimson across the horizon, casting long shadows between the weathered stone buildings and towering walls that had long served as Middle Earth's last stronghold.

As the chilling silence settled over the fortress, a sudden, piercing bell rang from the peak of an old watchtower, its resounding chime shattering the stillness like a blade through flesh.

This was no ordinary signal.

It was a call to war.

Within seconds, every Outcast in the stronghold sprang into action. Those in the middle of eating abandoned their dry bread, while those sharpening weapons immediately seized their swords. Fatigue vanished from their faces, replaced by honed, battle-worn alertness.

From atop The Wall, a watchman bellowed, his voice hoarse but urgent:

"Six mutated Ogres and dozens of mutated Goblins! Less than two hundred meters from the gate!"

Tension gripped the air like an invisible vice.

Alcard, who had been walking through one of the fortress corridors, halted abruptly. Without hesitation, he turned and quickened his pace toward the main courtyard. By the time he arrived, he found Oldman standing outside his cabin, his sharp gaze unwavering despite his frail appearance.

The aged commander raised his hand, his voice carrying the weight of countless battles.

"Form up at the front gate! Open it just enough—don't let them flood in at once! We take them down beneath The Wall!"

The Outcasts nodded immediately, understanding the strategy. By opening the gates just slightly, they could funnel the creatures through in small numbers, splitting them apart and preventing an overwhelming charge. This would allow the Outcasts to control the battlefield, avoiding a fight where they could be surrounded.

However, among them, the newly recruited Outcasts looked pale. Their hands trembled as they gripped their swords, their shoulders stiff as they fought to stand tall—desperately trying to appear ready, despite the fear in their eyes.

Alcard cast them a brief glance—it was expected, he thought.

They had never truly faced a life-or-death battle.

The massive wooden gate, reinforced with iron, groaned as it slowly creaked open, the harsh scraping of metal against stone filling the tense silence.

Beyond the entrance, the dim evening light illuminated hulking figures approaching through the dust-laden air.

Six mutated Ogres, their bloated bodies covered in festering flesh, stomped forward with thunderous steps. Surrounding them, dozens of mutated Goblins skittered wildly, their glowing yellow eyes radiating insatiable hunger.

Like a pack of starving wolves, they rushed toward The Wall, sensing the blood that awaited them.

The Outcasts quickly formed their battle lines.

The veterans stood at the vanguard, weapons drawn, their stances battle-hardened.

The recruits, half a step behind them, clutched their swords hesitantly.

Alcard took his position on the left flank, his red eyes burning with fierce determination.

"Drink your Bloody Potions! Prepare for the clash!"

At his command, every Outcast tore open their vials and swallowed the crimson liquid, their veins pulsing with unnatural energy as their bodies hardened against exhaustion and pain.

The first Ogre stormed through the partially opened gate, and at that moment—the battlefield ignited.

The clash of steel against flesh, the sickening crunch of bones, and the bloodcurdling screams of both monster and man filled the air.

"Aim for their legs and necks! Don't waste strength on other attacks!" shouted an Outcast veteran, directing the recruits who still struggled to adapt.

But mutated Ogres were not simple foes.

Their enormous frames, mutated muscles swollen with unnatural strength, allowed them to swing their massive fists like living warhammers.

One devastating swing sent a young Outcast flying, his body slamming into the ground with a sickening thud.

Meanwhile, the smaller mutated Goblins darted between the Ogres' legs, using their speed to slip past defenses.

Some of them leapt onto the Outcasts, clawing and biting relentlessly.

A piercing scream tore through the battlefield as two recruits collapsed, their bodies shredded by the feral creatures.

Alcard's gaze snapped to the carnage—and in an instant, he moved.

Leaping onto the back of a stumbling Ogre, he drove his sword straight into its spine, twisting the blade deep into the mutated flesh.

A gut-wrenching howl erupted from the monster before it collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust as it crashed to the ground.

"Focus your attacks! Do not break formation!" he barked at the nearby recruits.

His command shifted the tide.

The Outcasts, previously fighting in disarray, began to coordinate their strikes, gradually pushing back the monstrous horde.

From atop The Wall, archers loosed a steady rain of arrows, targeting the Goblins scaling the stone fortifications, preventing them from launching an attack from above.

At the rear, Oldman observed the battlefield, his sharp eyes scanning for weaknesses.

"Archers, shift focus to the left flank! Don't let them collapse our defenses!" he ordered, ensuring coordination remained intact.

The ground trembled beneath each massive step of the remaining Ogres, their roars shaking the air.

Thick green blood pooled over the battlefield, mixing with dust and the sweat of exhausted warriors.

One by one, the Goblins fell, but their numbers remained overwhelming.

In the midst of it all, Alcard caught sight of two fallen recruits lying lifeless nearby.

His grip tightened around his sword, forcing himself to suppress the creeping numbness in his chest.

There was no time for grief. No room for mercy.

This was The Wall.

Those who couldn't survive would die, and those who remained standing had to keep fighting.

With labored breaths and an unyielding resolve, Alcard raised his sword once more.

Under a sky now fully consumed by darkness, amidst blood, dust, and the unrelenting cries of battle, the Outcasts did what they had always done.

They stood as Middle Earth's final shield—against the darkness that forever loomed from the south.