The clash at the barricades turned savage in seconds.

The barbarians fought like rabid beasts, hurling themselves against the wedge with no fear of death. One man’s arm hung useless at his side, bone jutting through the flesh—yet he kept swinging his axe with the other, teeth bared in a spray of blood. Another had half his ribs exposed, shield cracked in two, but he lunged forward anyway, trying to drag a Torvares soldier down with him.

And still they came. Arslan met the madness with his own brand of fury. His sword spun in brutal arcs, severing limbs, breaking spears, shattering shields. He laughed as he fought, blood splattering across his beard, his presence like a storm given flesh. “Come on, bastards! Let’s see who breaks first!”

Selene was at his side, fists wrapped in gauntlets glowing faint with light. She pummeled through men twice her size, each blow breaking bones with wet cracks. A barbarian slammed a mace at her—she caught it in one hand, twisted, and drove her elbow through his jaw until his skull caved. She spat on the corpse and moved on without pause.

Harold waded in like a mountain of iron, his massive axe biting deep. He took a spear to the gut and only grinned wider, snapping the shaft with his free hand before splitting the offender in two from collarbone to navel. “Ha! That tickled!” he bellowed, swinging again.

Aleia danced on the edges, bowstring snapping in sharp rhythm. Each arrow slipped past snarling shields to find a throat, an eye, a lung. She muttered taunts under her breath with every shot, as though mocking the barbarians for dying so slowly.

Cor stood just behind them, expression calm, mana blazing across his arms as he unleashed precise bursts of magic. A flare of fire to scatter a cluster, a wall of force to block a spear volley, a ripple of mana to stagger the shamans lining the walls. His voice was steady, as if he were conducting the chaos like a grim symphony.

The barbarians crashed against them again and again, even with arms hacked off, legs shattered, blood pouring from half a dozen wounds. They howled as they died, eyes burning with something closer to fanaticism than survival.

The wedge pressed harder, but Ludger felt it—this wasn’t going to be clean. The barbarians weren’t breaking, not yet. They were fighting like men who had nothing left but rage.

And if they didn’t fall soon, the wedge would drown in that madness.

Arslan’s sword carved a brutal arc through three men, splitting shield and bone in one stroke. Ludger felt the weight of the movement, the timing of the step, the savage efficiency behind it—

[Basic Swordplay +20 XP]

Selene’s gauntlet crashed through a man’s ribs, then snapped up to intercept a blade meant for her back. Her stance never broke—flowing from attack to defense like water.

[Hard Fists +20 XP]

Cor muttered a chant, magic bursting into a barrier that swallowed a volley of spears before they reached the front line. Ludger felt the formula unravel in his head, the geometry of the shield, the breath pattern, the anchor points.

[Spiritual Core +20 XP]

Through blood and chaos, Ludger’s mind burned with clarity. Each movement, each spell, each rhythm became his. It was as if the battlefield itself was a classroom, every heartbeat another lesson.

He understood then why killing men hadn’t given him experience before. The System didn’t care about corpses—it cared about growth. Watching masters fight for their lives forced his own skills to evolve in real time.

Ludger smirked bitterly, ducking as a spray of fire shot overhead. His fists clenched, faint green light pulsing from his palms as he healed another soldier before the man dropped. And with each moment, Ludger felt himself climbing higher.

The wedge surged, but the shamans didn’t let up. Their chant rose into a deafening chorus, staves hammering against the walls. Then the sky lit crimson.

Fireballs rained down in clusters, each one trailing sparks that hissed as they cut through the air. They slammed into the formation, bursting against shields and earth. The shockwave rattled the wedge. The middle ranks groaned as men were scorched alive, armor glowing hot, the stench of cooked flesh rising with the smoke.

Some shields held, but others cracked. Men screamed as flame crawled across their arms, their backs, their faces. Yet—none of them fell back.

They burned, but still fought. Eyes wild, voices bellowing hoarse, they pushed into the clash as though the fire were nothing. One man’s helmet was fused to his cheek, blood dripping from the seam, yet he kept swinging his spear like a mad bull. Another stumbled forward with both legs aflame, ramming his shield into a barbarian until they both went down in a spray of sparks.

Ludger froze for a heartbeat, watching them. He expected fear, despair, even resignation. Instead, what he saw in their faces wasn’t courage—it was something uglier. Rage. Unrelenting, unnatural rage.

Their eyes weren’t just wild—they were glassy, unfocused. Their veins bulged dark under scorched skin, their movements stiff and jerking, like puppets pulled on strings.

This isn’t normal…

Ludger’s stomach twisted. They’re not just ignoring pain. They’re being pushed through it. Possessed. Drugged. Something.

His [Tactical Insight] worked again, red cracks glowing faintly across the wedge. If this frenzy broke control, the line would snap from the inside just as surely as it would from enemy pressure.

He clenched his fists, mana still throbbing low in his core. His healing burned at his palms, ready to patch wounds again, but his whole body shook. Every spell was dragging him closer to collapse. Sweat streaked down his face, his legs heavy as lead.

If I keep pushing like this, I’ll hit the ground before I can do a damn thing. But if I slow down too much, the wedge breaks, and everyone dies.

Fireballs screamed overhead again, bursting in violent sprays across the press of men. The wedge shuddered but pushed forward, carried by momentum, madness, and Ludger’s dwindling strength. He looked at his father’s back again—Arslan still swinging, still laughing, his aura towering—and made his choice.

The wedge was a storm of bodies and steel. Ludger kept weaving through it, patching wounds where he could, but every spell pulled heavier from his core. His head buzzed, his vision blurring at the edges.

Then he saw it.

A barbarian lunged through the press, jagged spear glinting. Arslan turned just in time to hack the man’s torso apart—but not before the spearhead raked across his side. Blood sprayed, dark and hot against the air.

Arslan grunted, teeth bared, and swung his sword one-handed to finish the enemy, splitting skull and spine in a single brutal blow. But Ludger saw it—the way his father’s arm twitched, the way his stance staggered. For an instant, the unshakable wall faltered.

Ludger shoved past a stumbling soldier, dropped to his knees beside him, and slammed both hands over the wound. Mana burned through his veins as he forced [Healing Touch] to its limit. His palms glowed bright, brighter than before, threads of green stitching flesh, halting blood. He clenched his teeth, controlling every shred of mana as precisely as possible.

The wound was sealed enough to hold. Arslan inhaled sharply, the pain easing, his balance returning. He looked down at Ludger, surprise flashing in his eyes before it softened.

Ludger’s voice was tight, trembling with exhaustion. “I’m almost out. I can’t… I can’t keep patching everyone. I don’t have the mana left to focus on all of them.”

Arslan grinned despite the blood on his beard, his eyes sharp and wild. He clapped his son’s shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “It’s enough. More than enough. Usually by now, we’d be breaking, forced to pull back. But we’re still standing—because of you.”

He lifted his axe again, spinning it in his grip with savage confidence. “From here, we don’t need you to carry everyone. Just keep me and my friends moving. Patch us, and we’ll carve the path. The real push starts now—we take the walls.”

His words cut through the roar of battle like iron.

Ludger, still on his knees, swallowed hard and nodded. “Fine. I’ll make sure none of you fall.”

“Good boy.” Arslan’s grin widened, dangerous and full of fire. “Then watch closely, Ludger. This is where the real fight begins.”

The wedge surged again, Arslan’s party at the tip, Ludger just behind—his fading mana now reserved for the blades that would cut their way to the shamans.

The wedge howled as it pressed forward, blood-slick ground churning beneath their boots. At the very tip, Arslan led the charge, his aura blazing, sword spinning in wide arcs that tore through shields and bone like rotten wood. Every swing sent bodies flying, every roar carried the momentum of ten men.

Beside him, Selene slammed into the enemy like a warhammer given flesh. Her gauntlets shattered weapons, broke jaws, pulped ribs. She moved with terrifying rhythm—jab, elbow, knee, strike—each blow flowing into the next until barbarians dropped in piles at her feet.

Harold was a beast, his axe rising and falling in great sweeps, carving through men like wheat. A blade sank into his shoulder, and he laughed, headbutting the enemy before splitting him in half. His blood mingled with theirs, and still he didn’t slow.

Aleia wove behind them, her bow never ceasing. Every arrow struck true despite the press of bodies and the chaos of screams—eyes, throats, gaps in armor. “Down,” she barked once, and Arslan ducked just in time for an arrow to take a barbarian’s skull clean off.

Cor’s voice cut through the clash, calm and steady. His hands traced spells midair, bursts of mana sparking like thunder. Shields of force shimmered for seconds, just long enough to block incoming fireballs. Blades of light snapped out, severing spears before they pierced the wedge. He fought not with power, but with precision—like a surgeon cutting apart chaos.

Through it all, Ludger darted like a shadow among them. His mana was thin, his breath ragged, but his hands glowed with careful, exact bursts. When Selene’s knuckles split open from pounding steel, Ludger closed the wound in seconds. When Harold’s leg faltered from blood loss, Ludger sealed the artery and shoved him forward. When Arslan staggered from another shallow cut, Ludger was there, knitting it before it could drag him down.

Every second he kept them standing, the wedge pushed deeper.

The barbarians roared in fury, blood pouring from wounds that should have killed them, eyes glassy, movements twitching with unnatural rage. They slammed against Arslan’s party again and again, only to be broken and cast aside.

And still, above it all, the shamans on the wall chanted louder, their staves glowing as another storm gathered in the sky. Arslan grinned through blood and fire, his teeth flashing. “Walls are close, Luds! Keep your eyes sharp—once we crack them, the whole damned town is ours!”

Ludger clenched his fists, forcing mana into his core, ready to spend every last drop to keep his father and his allies upright. If they fall here, the wedge dies. If they live, the walls fall.

And so he pressed forward, side by side with the deadliest blades in the Torvares army, into the teeth of hell itself. The push grew bloodier with every step. Ludger’s vision blurred from smoke and strain, but the System pulsed again and again, notifications flashing like sparks in the back of his skull.

[Druid Class reached Level 13.] (+3 INT, +3 WIS)

[Swordsman Class reached Level 23.] (+2 STR, +2 DEX)

[Pugilist Class reached Level 28.] (+2 STR, +2 VIT)

[Sage Class reached Level 17.] (+2 INT, +4 WIS)

You leveled up. You received ten free points.

It hit like a wave—mana rushing back, his senses sharpening. Ludger staggered, blinking as strength flooded him, but the front line was still screaming, still burning, still bleeding. His father and masters pressed against enemies who refused to die, shamans gathering power above them.

There was no time to plan, no time to calculate the “best” long-term growth. He shoved the points into wisdom, one after the other, the System chiming with each confirmation.

Ludger sucked in a sharp breath as fresh mana surged into his core, burning like fire in his veins. It wasn’t the most efficient choice—he knew that. He should have balanced dexterity, intelligence. But right now?

Right now, his father’s side was bleeding. Selene’s fists were cracking bone at the cost of her own. Harold’s laugh was getting ragged. If I stop, they die. And if they die, the wedge dies.

Ludger raised his hands again, green light flaring brighter than before. He threw it into Arslan’s wounds, into Selene’s torn knuckles, into Harold’s gashed thigh. Each spell carved into his core, but the new mana pool held, stretching just enough to keep him moving.

Arslan glanced back once, catching the glow, and grinned even wider. “Good! That’s it, Luds! Don’t stop now—we’ll crush them together!”

Ludger grit his teeth, sweat dripping into his eyes, sleeves clinging to his arms with blood and ash. Fine. I’ll keep going. Even if I burn this core dry, I’ll keep you all alive. The walls loomed closer. The shamans’ chant grew louder. And Ludger’s System thrummed like a war drum, urging him higher with every heartbeat.

The chant from the walls reached a hideous crescendo, dozens of voices fusing into one monstrous roar. Then came the fire.

Waves of crimson flame poured down from the sky, not in measured volleys but in sweeping curtains that engulfed the battlefield. The shamans didn’t care who burned—friend or foe. Barbarians screamed alongside Torvares soldiers as the firestorm devoured both armies. Flesh blistered, shields warped, and the air itself howled with heat.

Ludger raised his arms, bracing behind his red-silver guards. The enchanted metal flared, deflecting some of the flames, but the heat bit through anyway, licking at his face and chest. His lungs stung with every breath. Damn it—I can’t hold this!

Before the fire swallowed him whole, shadows loomed.

Arslan planted himself in front of his son, sword raised, body broad enough to take the brunt. Selene slid in at his flank, her gauntlets glowing red as she absorbed and redirected the inferno. Harold dropped beside them, teeth clenched, his massive frame shielding what he could. Aleia pushed in too, forming a half-circle wall around Ludger, Cor raising shimmering magic that crackled and shattered under the pressure of the flames.

The fire crashed into them.

Heat slammed through armor, burning through cloth, eating into flesh. Steam hissed from their bodies, the smell of scorched skin thick in the air. Even they, the strongest blades of Torvares, staggered under the weight of it.

“Ghh… damn it!” Harold roared, half his beard singed away. Selene’s lips bled where she bit down to keep from screaming. Arslan gritted his teeth, his shoulders trembling as fire licked across his arms.

Ludger’s heart hammered. He shoved his hands forward, green light bursting between his palms. One after another, he pushed [Healing Touch] into their bodies, sealing blisters, cooling burning flesh, stopping their strength from breaking entirely. His core screamed, mana draining fast, but he refused to let them fall.

No. Not them. Not here.

Even as he patched their wounds, Ludger could feel it—they were near their limits. Their muscles twitched, their breath came ragged, their stances heavy. They were walls of iron, yes, but even iron melted under enough fire.

And the shamans weren’t finished. Their voices kept climbing, the next wave of flames already building. Ludger’s palms shook as he poured what mana he had left into his father’s party. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. If I can’t keep them standing, everything ends here. The wedge shuddered, the battlefield burned, and the boy in the center held them together by sheer will.

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