Ren dragged himself upright, every breath a dagger in his ribs. If this was a test, then the Mandate was a sadistic bastard.
The battlefield was collapsing. Every strategy he tried fell apart the moment the abyssals moved. Their speed, their precision—they weren’t just strong, they were efficient.
And efficiency meant they wasted nothing.
The battalion was already down to a fraction of its numbers, scattered, demoralized, and dying. Ren knew that if he hesitated any longer, he was next.
Think, Ren. Think.
What do you do when you can’t win?
You cheat.
He sucked in a breath and scanned the battlefield. There had to be something, anything, he could use.
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The terrain. The formations. The enemy movements. It wasn’t about fighting harder—it was about fighting smarter.
Then he saw it.
A natural bottleneck—a ridge of jagged rock where the land sloped inward, forcing movement into a narrow path.
A choke point.
If he could funnel the abyssals into that passage…
He didn’t hesitate.
"Fall back! To the ridge! Now!"
Some of the surviving soldiers turned to him in shock—retreat meant death, they thought. But then they saw what he saw.
And they ran.
The abyssals pursued, relentless. But now they weren’t attacking all at once. They had to squeeze through the gap, slowing their advance.
"Hold the line!" Ren shouted, stepping to the front.
This time, they didn’t break.
A soldier beside him screamed and lunged. Ren followed—ducking under a blade, twisting, and driving his sword into the abyssal’s exposed throat.
It collapsed. A kill. A real, genuine kill.
The others saw it too.
And for the first time since the battle began—they fought back.
They weren’t faster. They weren’t stronger. But now, they had control.
And control meant survival.
But Ren wasn’t stupid.
This wasn’t a victory. It was only borrowed time.
Because the abyssals were learning.
And when they adapted… there would be no second chance.
