chapter 4.2

Dusk had fully vanished, leaving behind a sky draped in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering torchlight and the faint glow of the moon above The Wall. Yet, the battle was far from over. Beneath the dim light, the battlefield remained filled with feral roars and the relentless clash of steel against flesh and bone.

The remaining six mutated Ogres continued their rampage, their thick-scaled, grotesquely swollen muscles swinging massive arms with unrestrained fury. The Outcasts, though drained and battered, stood their ground, resisting the monstrous onslaught with every ounce of strength left in their bodies.

Heavy, earth-shaking footsteps rumbled across the blood-soaked ground, accompanied by the unrelenting screeches of mutated Goblins, their ferocity growing wilder as their numbers dwindled. From atop The Wall, archers rained arrows down in a near-unbroken stream, while the frontline warriors fought tooth and nail, hacking, stabbing, and striking down any creature in their path.

Amidst the chaos, Alcard moved swiftly, weaving between the fallen corpses and the carnage unfolding before him. With a single, precise slash, he severed the tendons of an advancing Ogre, its towering form staggering forward with a thunderous roar.

Before the beast could rise again, a long spear, hurled by an Outcast veteran, pierced its chest, sinking deep into its mutated flesh. The Ogre writhed violently, but within moments, it crashed onto the ground in a lifeless heap, sending tremors through the battlefield.

"Focus on one target! Don't get reckless!" Alcard's voice rang out amidst the chaos, issuing sharp orders to the rookies who still struggled to adapt to such overwhelming foes.

Nearby, two Ogres launched a synchronized assault. A battle-hardened Outcast, shield raised, stepped forward to absorb the blow of a giant wooden club, its force powerful enough to crack his defenses. The impact sent him staggering back, but before the Ogre could press its advantage, a volley of arrows struck true, piercing deep into its eyes.

The monstrous creature howled in agony, stumbling blindly before collapsing under its own weight.

Yet, the remaining Ogres only grew more violent. One of them, having lost its weapon in the fray, snatched a massive chunk of wood from its shattered club and, with terrifying strength, hurled it toward the archers stationed above.

"Incoming!" someone shouted, but it was too late.

The makeshift projectile struck an Outcast archer, sending him hurtling over the edge of The Wall. His body crashed into the stone below, the sickening sound of breaking bones silencing the gasps of those around him.

Alcard seized the brief opening. As the Ogre that had just thrown the wooden slab turned its attention back to the fight, he sprinted forward and leaped.

With a single, calculated strike, his blade cleaved through the side of its thick, mutated neck, severing muscle and arteries in a fountain of dark blood.

The Ogre gurgled, its massive hands clawing at its gaping wound, before toppling forward, its final breaths lost in the blood-soaked battlefield.

Meanwhile, the remaining mutated Goblins, seeing their larger kin fall, began to execute a desperate ambush from behind. Using the corpses of both allies and enemies as cover, they crept low to the ground, ready to pounce the moment an Outcast let their guard down.

But the archers remaining on The Wall spotted the movement.

"Focus fire on the rear!" bellowed Thornek, the veteran marksman.

Without hesitation, the archers redirected their aim, sending a fresh wave of arrows plunging into the ambushing Goblins.

Some creatures dodged and scurried away, but most collapsed in shrieks of agony, their small bodies riddled with lethal projectiles.

The Outcasts at the rear saw their chance—without hesitation, they thrust their spears and blades downward, ensuring not a single Goblin would rise again.

At this point, the last of the Ogres began to falter.

Their hulking bodies were riddled with wounds, blood oozing from deep gashes. Their once-powerful movements grew sluggish, allowing the Outcasts to encircle them with renewed coordination.

A well-executed assault from multiple angles left each remaining Ogre overwhelmed, unable to withstand the relentless strikes of the warriors who had learned to fight as one.

The final Ogre let out a strangled growl before its head was nearly severed by a simultaneous strike from two Outcast veterans, its massive body collapsing into the blood-drenched dirt.

The few remaining Goblins, now leaderless and terrified, let out panicked screeches before turning tail and fleeing into the dark wilderness beyond the gate.

And then—silence.

The battlefield before The Wall had transformed into a mass grave.

The mutated corpses of Ogres and Goblins littered the ground, intertwined with the bodies of fallen Outcasts. The scent of iron-rich blood and burning flesh mingled in the frigid air, as some of the creatures had been ignited by oil traps during the battle.

The remaining Outcasts stood, some hunched over, breathing heavily, their armor soaked in sweat and gore.

Some rushed to tend to the wounded, while others began the grim task of confirming the dead.

Standing amidst the carnage, Alcard surveyed the field, his gaze settling on the two young recruits who had perished early in the fight.

His fist clenched, a sense of frustration gnawing at him.

From the rear, Oldman strode forward, his voice booming with authority.

"Move the wounded to the barracks! Stop their bleeding now!"

Despite his commanding tone, a faint sorrow laced his words.

Several Outcasts gathered the fallen Goblin bodies into piles, preparing to burn them before their scent drew more monsters.

Meanwhile, Oldman studied the slightly damaged gate, his expression grave.

"Reinforce the gate before night falls completely," he ordered. "We don't know what might come next."

Alcard stepped beside him, his sword still dripping with darkened blood.

"Oldman," he said firmly, "The mutated creatures are getting bolder."

Oldman nodded, his expression reflecting deep concern.

"Yes… Thankfully, their mutations haven't reached their final stages yet." His gaze darkened. "If they had, we wouldn't have survived this encounter so easily."

Alcard's red eyes narrowed.

"How do you expect the recruits to survive if this continues?" he questioned. "They're barely strong enough for standard monsters, let alone mutations."

Oldman took a long, slow breath, turning his gaze to the towering stone barrier behind them.

"They were never chosen to survive, Alcard," he said bluntly.

"If they die, it means they were never strong enough."

A tense silence settled between them.

They both knew—this was only the beginning of something far worse.

The monsters of the south were evolving, growing stronger, smarter, and more relentless.

If this pattern continued, The Wall would need more than just blood and grit to endure.

Above them, the sky deepened into a suffocating black, as if bearing silent witness to a war that had never truly ended.