The fires still burned on the horizon. Black pillars of smoke twisted against the pale afternoon sky, marking the place where Thorne and his raiding party had crippled the Skarnlings' supply camp.
Ashthorn Keep stood battered but breathing. Barely.
The men who returned from the raid were met not with cheers, but with silence. There was no strength left for celebration. Only the quiet sound of wounded soldiers being lifted , the scrape of broken weapons dropped to the courtyard stones, the soft crackle of flames from within the ruined walls.
Thorne stood at the battlements, gauntleted hands gripping the frost-bitten stone, watching the smoke. His breath hung in the air, slow and steady.
[System Notification]
Tactician's Pulse: [Passive Ability]
Enemy troop formations disrupted. Predictive calculations adjusting.
Estimated Enemy Response: Immediate counterassault within 4 hours.
Four hours. That's all the raid had bought them.
Osric came up behind him, face pale and drawn, his voice barely more than gravel.
"The men know, don't they?" he said. "That the raid wasn't a victory. Just a provocation."
Thorne's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away from the horizon.
"They'll come hard. They've lost too much to wait now. Starving dogs don't retreat."
Osric frowned, but he knew better than to ask. If Thorne had a plan, it would bleed the enemy before it bled them.
A Dead Man's Game....
The war room was no longer a war room.the great table where strategies were once drawn now held only a single map — torn, bloodstained, and worn thin from too many hands.
Thorne studied the map, brow furrowed. "Ashthorn isn't the only stronghold," he said. "There are five more in this region. They're far... but they're here."
Osric nodded. "Yes, sir, but the Skarnling have over ten thousand fighters. They've split under different warlords, each attacking a separate stronghold. None of them can send us aid."
Thorne glanced up sharply. "Last night, we counted no more than twelve hundred outside our walls."
"That's because Ashthorn is smaller than the other strongholds in the region," Osric explained. "Only one warlord was sent to deal with us."
Thorne's voice was low, thoughtful. "Then if we defeat him… we can stop their advance?"
He fell silent for a moment, staring at the map. Nine thousand across the region, he thought. That's what the system told me. Maybe we do have a chance...
Another sergeant stepped forward, voice rough but steady. "My lord, we only have 200 people left in the keep. And of those, just 120 are able to fight
Osric nodded, his tone grim but hopeful. "Yes, my lord. If we defeat that warlord, we might have a chance. The rest of their forces are occupied elsewhere. Taking him out could shift the balance—at least for a while."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "But... that's near to impossible."
Thorne , one gauntleted finger circling a patch of the lower bailey on the map of keep.
"The outer defenses are lost," he said, voice flat. "And we will let them believe the inner walls are next."
The few officers left — Osric, two grizzled sergeants, and a lad barely old enough to shave — stared at him like they'd misheard.
"We let them in?" one of the sergeants hissed. "We've spent weeks holding the line, and now we open the gates?"
Thorne didn't blink.
"We won't hold the line. The line is already broken. The only thing left is time — and the Skarnlings don't have enough of it. But they don't know that yet."
Osric leaned over the map, frowning as the pieces began to fall into place.
"You mean to herd them. Lure them into the bailey and lock them in."
Thorne nodded once.
"We'll give them what they want. Keep can gather 1000 of them. The illusion of victory. They'll come flooding through the gap like crows on a corpse."
He drew an X over the bailey's center courtyard.
"And once they're all inside… we burn it."
Silence hung in the room. The plan was madness. It was suicide. It was the only way.
[System Notification]
Oath Aura: [Active]
Morale stabilization effect applied. Fear threshold reduced by 30%.
The weight of the room shifted — the air thickened, but hearts steadied. His class aura wrapped around the battered men like a cold iron chain. Even fear, under Thorne's command, knew its place.
"Prep the oil," Thorne said. "Reroute every last barrel from the gatehouses. If it doesn't burn, we don't need it."
Osric raised an eyebrow, then added with grim humor:
"Never thought I'd see the day when the keep's own walls would be more dangerous than the enemy."
Thorne's mouth twitched.
"Walls don't win wars. Men do."
The morning air was sharp and dry, still tasting of ash and blood. The sun had only begun to climb, pale and unforgiving, casting long shadows across the battered stones of Ashthorn Keep.
Thorne stood on the ramparts, staring down at the wide, gaping wound that was the outer gate. The once-proud doors hung splintered and broken, nothing left but blackened iron hinges. Beyond the walls, the Skarnlings waited like a pack of wolves too cautious to strike the wounded stag.
"Too quiet," Osric muttered, stepping up beside him, the cold breeze tugging at his dented pauldrons.
Thorne's gaze didn't waver.
"They're watching. Testing the wind for weakness."
Osric's gloved hand rested on the parapet stone, fingers tightening. "And when they decide the air's clear?"
Thorne's lips curved into something colder than a smile.
"Then we'll bury them in it."
The garrison was moving like ghosts below, their faces pale but their hands steady. The false retreat was already underway — the outer defenses stripped, the wounded and dead left where they'd fallen, the once-defiant banners pulled down. To the Skarnlings, it would look like the final unraveling of human resolve.
Because at the end of the day, Skarnlings are just dumb beasts in humanoid skin. They know how to fight, sure—but they don't know how to think.
But behind the battered walls, the trap was being woven.
[Tactician's Pulse: Active]
Enemy Behavior: Probing. Calculated Aggression Detected.
Recommended Action: Simulate Crumbling Morale. Establish Overconfidence Trigger.
"Every barrel?" Thorne asked, his voice slicing through the quiet like a drawn blade.
Osric nodded, his voice low. "Stacked and sealed. Ropes rigged. Powder charges under the courtyard stones. Once they fill the kill zone, we light the sky."
Thorne's eyes flicked to the distant line of Skarnlings gathering just out of bowshot, restless like jackals denied a carcass.
"They'll be drawn in like cattle," he said flatly. "Their war drums will sound the moment they believe the keep is empty."
Osric looked toward the broken gate. "And when the warlord rides in with them?"
Thorne's gauntlet flexed.
"We'll let the stones do the talking."
The morning hours stretched thin as the trap wound tighter. The soldiers were silent, their movements automatic, hardened by exhaustion but tempered by Thorne's iron presence.
He moved among them like a shadow, offering no rousing speeches — only glances, quiet nods, and the steadiness of a man who did not fear death, only defeat.
[Oath Aura: Active]
Allied Morale Stabilized.
Fear Suppression: +20%.
Leadership Influence: Engraved.
As the sun climbed higher, the enemy's patience began to crack. Thorne could see the Skarnling scouts creeping closer, edging toward the gate like vultures testing for signs of life.
"They'll charge by noon," Osric said quietly, tightening the buckles on his gauntlet.
Thorne turned his head, catching the shift in the enemy lines, the restless twitch of overconfidence building.
"Noon is when they die."
[System Notification]
Battle Scenario: "The Dead Man's Game" Prepared.
Objective: Enemy Elimination via Environmental Manipulation.
The sun climbed. The keep stood silent, battered but unbroken.
And in the cold heart of the fortress, Thorne waited for the Skarnlings to take the bait
The afternoon sun glared like a blade, washing the broken stones in gold and blood. From the inner walls of Ashthorn Keep, Thorne stood unmoving, his eyes locked on the creeping tide of Skarnlings assembling beyond the ruins of the outer gate.
They had taken the bait.
A black sea of bone-masked raiders surged through the shattered ward, armed with rusted cleavers, iron axes, and scavenged shields. Their war cries cracked the air, animal and cruel, as they poured into the lower bailey in waves.
1,200 Skarnlings.
Barely 120 defenders left.
The odds had been worse before. But never this direct.
"Positions!" Thorne barked into the speaking horn.
From the shadowed towers, his men were hidden — behind false debris, under collapsed beams, in trenches dug beneath the flagstones. Crossbows were loaded, fuses primed, oil barrels stacked and waiting like sleeping giants.
Osric's voice crackled back over the line.
"Trigger squads ready. Final kill zone filling now."
Thorne's gauntlet closed around the brass signal flare, knuckles tight. His Tactician's Pulse thrummed like a second heartbeat.
[Tactician's Pulse: Active]
Enemy Density: Critical Mass Achieved.
Formation: Overcrowded, morale high, defense thin.
Suggested Action: Execute Ambush Protocol — "Dead Man's Gambit."
The Skarnlings pushed deeper into the lower bailey, cheering as they found only abandoned barricades, broken weapons, and empty walls. They thought the humans had run.
Their mistake.
From the tallest ruined tower, Thorne raised the flare skyward.
A single snap.
The world erupted in a symphony of carnage.
Hidden oil trenches ignited, spewing forth rivers of molten flame that seared through flesh and bone. The air filled with the sickening scent of burning flesh as the liquid fire raced across the stones, consuming everything in its path. Flames roared through the narrow kill lanes, engulfing the tightly packed enemy ranks. Crossbow volleys shredded the front lines, turning flesh into pulp and bone into splinters. The surviving Skarnlings turned, eyes wide with horror, trying to retreat—only to be met with collapsing barricades and rockslides that crushed them under tons of stone.
The ground convulsed as buried powder kegs, hidden beneath false stones, detonated with a deafening roar. Half the courtyard vanished in a blinding flash of light and shrapnel, Skarnlings flung into the sky like broken dolls. Limbs, weapons, and bone-masks rained down onto the fire-blackened stones, splattering gore across the survivors. The impact of falling bodies pulverized those below, turning them into bloody pulp.
The surviving Skarnlings panicked, shoving each other toward the gate, but it was already blocked by the same rubble they'd ignored in their relentless assault. Their screams of terror echoed through the courtyard as they realized their fate. Some tried to climb over the wreckage, only to be impaled on jagged shards of stone and metal. Others were trampled underfoot by their own comrades, their bones snapping like twigs.
Ashthorn had closed its jaws, sealing their doom.
Osric's voice crackled again, barely audible over the cacophony of death. "Half their force is gone. The rest are boxed."
Thorne's face remained unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
"Open the teeth. Let the wolves hunt."
The final phase began.
Hidden doors in the inner walls slammed open, and squads of Ashthorn's last 80 infantry surged out — iron-disciplined, their blades gleaming despite days without sleep. They fell on the scattered Skarnlings like sharks on a blood trail, cutting them down while the enemy was still choking on fire and fear.
They moved with a savage efficiency, striking down the Skarnlings with brutal precision. Swords cleaved through flesh, axes shattered bone, and spears impaled those who tried to flee. Blood flowed like rivers, pooling in the courtyard as the Skarnlings fell one by one.
The air was thick with the stench of blood and the cries of the dying. The defenders showed no mercy, their faces twisted into masks of rage and triumph. They hacked and slashed, their weapons glistening with gore, until the last of the Skarnlings lay lifeless on the ground.
As the smoke began to thin, Thorne walked the rampart slowly, boots crunching over spent crossbow bolts and shards of bone-masks scattered like dead leaves.
Osric met him near the scorched gate, panting, his blade slick with black Skarnling blood.
"We broke them," he gasped. "Drove 'em into the grave."
Thorne's cold gaze swept over the sea of charred corpses.
"Not all," he murmured. "The warlord didn't march with them."
He turned toward the horizon, where the Skarnling war drums had fallen silent — but the real shadow had yet to move.
[System Notification]
Enemy Casualties: ~800 confirmed dead.
Defenders Remaining: 93 men standing.
Battle Status: Skarnling ranks shattered, but the warlord's elite still unaccounted.
And the sun still hadn't set.