Chapter 1- Field Evaluation
The mountain wind cut sharp through the trees, threading between the dense pines like whispers of old ghosts. Sunlight broke through the canopy in shifting beams, catching glints of metal and mana, scattering gold across the forest floor.
This wasn't some academy training yard with painted targets and padded walls.
No—this was where the live action took place.
Carved out of wild terrain, jagged ridgelines, and unpredictable weather, it was built not to test soldiers, but to forge killers.
And standing at the edge of that living battlefield, Specialist Zyrex Drayke didn't flinch.
His sword rested in a sheath across his back, the mana-forged hilt glimmering faintly in the dappled light. It looked hungry for battle, like it could taste the tension in the air.
Drayke stood as still as stone, a silhouette against the pine-lined ridge. His shoulders were squared, his spine straight, and his posture so rigid it looked sculpted. His jet-black hair was in a tight military cut—short on top and buzzed at the sides. His face was carved from hard living and discipline: angular jaw, faint stubble, and skin tanned by exposure to the unforgiving wilds.
He wasn't a hulking brute, but every muscle under that combat cloak was lean and sharp, built for speed and precision. No wasted motion. No wasted breath. And his eyes—his pitch-black eyes-held a cold, unreadable stillness. There was nothing soft in them.
They said light magic slowly aged your soul. Looking at Drayke, that didn't feel like a rumor.
He didn't talk much. Didn't need to. His presence said what words never could:
I don't chase victory. I expect it.
Behind him, crouched low against the ridge slope, Specialist Mirelle adjusted the scope on her long-range rifle. Her strawberry-blonde hair was trimmed to jaw length for practicality and tucked beneath the hood of her mana cloak. Her sharp, pale face reflected the cool precision in her eyes—icy blue, scanning the field in measured arcs.
She didn't belong on the front lines. She didn't need to be. With support magic and hawk-eyed aim, Mirelle turned battlefield chaos into clockwork. Slender and whip-fast, she moved with the effortless grace of someone used to precarious heights. Her presence was quiet, but commanding.
When she spoke, the squad listened. When she aimed, people dropped.
A little farther back, Private Haelwyn leaned against a boulder, hammer slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. The weapon was nearly the size of a tree trunk, humming faintly with dormant earth magic. His light brown hair was pulled into a tie at the back, face partially shadowed under his cloak's hood.
His brown eyes moved slowly, as though weighing each passing second. He was a builder—first in mind, then in method. Tattoos of schematics, gears, and arcane blueprints inked across his muscular arms whispered of ideas not yet built and promises not yet fulfilled.
Strong, yes—but grounded, patient. Solid as bedrock.
And standing beside him, nearly a head taller, was Private Baker.
Built like a siege engine, Baker was a wall of dark-skinned muscle wrapped in OCP-pattern gear. His shield—more slab than tactical tool—rested against one arm. Reinforced, enchanted, and thick enough to stop artillery fire, it was both weapon and fortress.
His frizzy black hair sat close to his scalp, sweat-slick from the climb, and his wide eyes were calm. Patient. The kind of man who wouldn't flinch in a storm but became one when the fighting started.
When Baker took the field, the terrain shifted, explosions followed, and enemies didn't get back up.
"Positions. Eyes sharp."
The voice carried over the wind like steel on gravel. Sergeant Solomon stood above them on a ledge, arms crossed, mana cloak catching the breeze. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed by his cap, swept the treeline like a predator.
Olive skin, a neatly trimmed beard, dark curly hair cropped to regulation standards. He wasn't large, but there was precision in every line of his body. No wasted motion. No wasted time.
When Solomon spoke, the squad moved. Not out of fear—but because they knew what followed hesitation in his voice: death.
They stood now at the southern edge of the training grounds, several miles below Fort Xavier. The pines were thicker here, the air denser. Even the birds didn't sing. Silence pressed in from all sides.
First Squad—the highest-performing team the academy had produced in years—was in position, cloaked and ready. This wasn't a drill.
Their first real assignment had finally dropped.
Objective:
Eliminate the goblin encampment in the eastern hills.
But this wasn't just extermination.
Goblins were changing. Smarter. Organized. Setting up ambushes. Building outposts. Enchanting weapons—things goblins didn't do on their own. Something—or—something was coordinating them. First Squad was about to find out who.
The squad overlooked a crude but structured camp from their brush-covered vantage point. Twig-and-hide huts surrounded a fire pit. Goblins patrolled between them with jagged spears, rusted rifles, and—disturbingly—blades that shimmered with enchantment.
Drayke's brows furrowed.
That was a red flag. Goblins didn't enchant anything. Not unless someone taught them how.
There was even a watchtower—stitched together from logs and rope. Primitive. But not chaotic.
"Too clean for animals," Mirelle murmured over comms, her voice low and clipped. "They've been trained."
"Copy," Solomon replied, his tone steady, always steady. "Sentries posted. Camp reinforced. Expect central command. Possibly magical."
He glanced down at them.
"This isn't a smash-and-burn op. It's an evaluation. I want cohesion under pressure. Full spectrum response. I'm watching."
No one responded. They didn't need to.
Drayke simply stepped forward.
Mana shimmered faintly around him—golden light tracing lazy circles down his arms and across his back like a divine aura. His hand hovered over the sword's hilt, already crackling.
"Haelwyn," Solomon said, "prep the ground. Chokepoints only. Baker, secure the east route. Mirelle, eyes on runners. Drayke… start the dance."
A breath passed.
Then the earth shifted.
Haelwyn pressed his palm into the dirt. Cracks webbed outward, subtle and slow—an invisible network of trap triggers, pressure plates, and shifting stone. Earth magic hummed beneath their boots.
Mirelle scaled a rock face, finding elevation and cover in one fluid movement. She adjusted her rifle's scope, already calculating the wind correction.
Baker stepped forward with quiet force, planting his shield and whispering a phrase in spellscript. Glyphs sparked across bark and stone, setting layered defenses.
And Drayke?
Drayke vanished in a blink of golden light.
A heartbeat later, a goblin's head hit the floor—cleanly severed before the body even knew it was dead.
"That's one," Solomon muttered from above, unimpressed but pleased.
In the tower, a goblin turned to scream. It didn't get the chance.
Pfft.
Mirelle's rifle spoke in a hush of wind. The enchanted bullet punched through the goblin's chest, severing its spine. The body collapsed like a ragdoll.
"I've got your back, Drayke," she said into the comms.
Down below, the clearing erupted.
Drayke was a blur—golden light flickering as he moved from tent to tent, blade carving arcs through flesh and steel. Behind him, Haelwyn's traps triggered with mechanical precision. Plates of stone shot upward, slamming goblins into the air—only to collapse inward, crushing them with earthen jaws.
"Path's clear, move!" Haelwyn called, already relocating.
On the eastern flank, Baker stood like a mountain. Arrows pinged harmlessly off his shield. His chant echoed low, and the forest floor responded—vines coiling, runes bursting into flame.
BOOM.
Explosive snares detonated, sending goblins flying in pieces.
From his perch, Solomon observed without flinching. The squad moved like one. No lag, no hesitation.
Then—a shift.
From the largest hut came a deep, pulsing hum. Chanting. Dark magic. Older than goblins.
Solomon's eyes narrowed. "Drayke. We've got a problem."
Already in motion, Drayke turned toward the tent. Mana leaked from the seams like black smoke. His instincts screamed.
"I'm on it," he replied.
"Negative," Solomon snapped. "Do not engage. That's an ord—"
But Drayke had already gone.
The tent wall parted under his sword. Darkness rushed out to meet him.
A massive fist came flying—he caught it on his forearm. Pain shot through his bones, but he stayed standing.
Then it stepped into the light.
A Gate Keeper.
Seven feet of brute muscle, with glowing red eyes and corrupted veins. Goblin kin—but larger, fouler. An experiment in cruelty. Its armor was bone-plated. Its breath stank of decay.
And behind it floated a shaman—hovering, cloaked in stitched flesh, chanting in a language that made the mana in Drayke's blood recoil.
"Target on the shaman?" he barked, dodging another blow.
"Working on it," Mirelle said. "Need three seconds."
"I don't have three," Drayke hissed, ducking low.
The shaman raised its hand—sigils burned violet in the air. A spell gathered.
"Marked," Mirelle whispered.
CRACK.
The shaman's skull split open, its chant dying mid-word.
Drayke didn't hesitate. The Gate Keeper faltered as its power source died. Slower now. Confused.
One clean strike—mana pulsing—Drayke drove his sword through the brute's heart. It collapsed with a crash, shaking the hut's walls.
Baker and Haelwyn entered behind him, trailing smoke and blood.
Baker glanced around. "You two always hog the fun."
Haelwyn squinted at a nearby canvas. "What the hell is this? Goblin art?"
Solomon stepped in, eyes hard. "They were scouts. But a Gate Keeper? That's no coincidence."
Drayke crouched beside the corpse, inspecting inked runes across the monster's body.
"Mysterious runes," he murmured.
Mirelle smirked. "Thinking of getting a tattoo? Phoenix, maybe?"
He sheathed his blade.
"No. Just wondering what it meant."
Drayke wiped the blood from his blade before sheathing it, while Haelwyn began cracking open the remaining crates, searching for supplies, scrolls, anything that might hint at what the goblins were planning. Mirelle tagged the corpses and began harvesting the mana cores, each one glowing faintly with lingering essence. Baker handled the fires, dragging bodies into the pit and burning them with controlled bursts of flame-enhanced magic.
They dismantled the camp methodically. Tents came down. Equipment was stripped. Tracks were covered. By the time the last goblin hut was reduced to ash and smoke, the sun had dipped low behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the blood-stained clearing.
Solomon tightened the straps on a heavy duffel packed with shimmering mana cores, slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced at the squad—dusty, tired, but steady.
"It's time to head back," he said, voice calm but firm. "Good work today, all of you. Keep this up; we'll be heading east sooner than you think."
No cheers. Just nods. That was enough.
They turned north, heading toward the fading silhouette of Fort Xavier against the darkening sky. The wind followed behind them, carrying the scent of ash and pine.
As they walked back, the squad showed their obvious excitement after an easy victory for them.
Baker, ever the showman, shield hoisted dramatically over his shoulder like a war trophy.
"Y'all saw that uppercut, right?" he called, grinning through his bloody knuckles. "Shield came around like—wham!—sent that ugly bastard flyin'. I think I knocked his soul outta orbit."
No one acknowledged him, giving Baker a bitter taste in his mouth.
Haelwyn snorted and shook his head, already pulling a worn notepad from his side pouch.
"Not bad," he muttered, half to himself. "The way the Keeper gained artificial strength... I could reinforce a frame with that rune structure. Maybe build something thicker in the chest... hell, even a smaller core mount…"
Drayke glanced over his shoulder. "Golem plans again?"
Haelwyn didn't look up. "You ever seen a goblin panic against something they can't comprehend? That's what I want—something they run from, not fight."
Baker leaned in. "Let me pilot it."
"Not a mech," Haelwyn replied. "More like a walking wall."
"So... a mech."
"You are the wall," Mirelle deadpanned as she joined them, rifle slung across her back.
"Could've kept one alive," she said quietly. "Extract information. Maybe find out who taught them how to use those enchantments."
There was a pause.
Then Solomon's voice came sharp from behind, clipped and flat. "Torture's not intelligence-gathering. It's desperation."
Mirelle shrugged, but her eyes stayed cold. "Still would've been nice to know where they got the runes. Goblins don't speak our tongue, but magic's a language."
Baker chimed in, shaking his head. "Even if we could question one, what're they gonna do—grunt at us in three flavors of stupid?"
"They don't reason," Haelwyn added. "They mimic. Copy. Whatever they're doing, someone else showed them how."
Then Drayke spoke up without looking at anyone.
"Easier to kill."
Simple. Emotionless. No weight behind it. Just a fact in his mind—same as a storm brings rain and, the sun always rises.
He didn't offer a second thought. No justification.
The others looked at him for a beat too long.
Mirelle shook her head slightly, as if brushing off a chill. "You're a real light mage, huh?"
Drayke lagged behind the group momentarily, cloak fluttering in the breeze.
"Light purges," he said.
It wasn't meant to be cold. It just was.
Then Solomon stepped into the group's center, eyes scanning the treeline to the east. His voice cut through their conversation like a knife.
"Slow it down."
The squad straightened as one, instincts drilled deep.
"This," he continued, gesturing at the battlefield with a sweep of his hand, "was just a taste. A small scout detachment. They weren't defending anything. They were watching."
Mirelle frowned. "Watching what?"
Solomon turned toward the ridge, where the trees thinned and the slope curved downward into a valley they couldn't see.
"The real den's beyond that hill. East. Toward Reno."
Silence settled like a weight.
Haelwyn stood, snapping his notebook shut. "How deep in?"
"Deep enough that command wants it scouted, mapped, and marked for artillery before an official strike."
"And we're the ones scouting it?" Baker asked, sounding almost hopeful.
Solomon gave him a look. "If I wanted you to smash things, I'd send you down first."
Baker shrugged. "You say that like it's not a solid plan."
Drayke's eyes never left the ridge.
He didn't ask what was waiting on the other side.
He didn't need to.
He could feel it.
Something wrong was gathering there.
Something unnatural.
This outpost—burned, broken, and silent—wasn't the threat. It was a ripple on the surface of deeper, darker water.
Drayke stood still as the wind rolled over the hillside, cloak snapping softly behind him. The others talked in front of him—plans, jokes, theories—but his mind was elsewhere. His mana pulsed just beneath his skin, thrumming in soft waves that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up. Every few seconds, it spiked, like static crawling across his flesh.
A warning.
His eyes swept the treeline again, slower this time. The camp was clear. They'd checked every structure. Killed every goblin. Burned the shaman's staff. But still—something itched at the edge of his senses.
That whisper of wrongness.
His body screamed for him to turn back. To comb the dirt, tear open every hut, and drag the earth apart if he had to. Something's missing, it insisted. Something's still here.
But he ruled it out.
Anxiety. Just nerves. First real mission outside Fort Xavier and they'd already faced a rune-covered Gate Keeper and a shaman coordinating goblins like pawns on a board. That would rattle anyone.
He exhaled slowly, grounding the burn of mana curling inside him.
No reason to trust a twitch in his gut. His instincts weren't prophecy. They weren't divine.
And by no means would he expect them to be right.