"Commander Rhogar!" a lean, gray-furred wolf demi-human called out, striding up the hill with quiet urgency. His armor was dusted from the road, and a long scar traced his jawline beneath alert yellow eyes. "Sir, the last wave of troops just arrived — they've cleared the ridge."
Rhogar didn't turn immediately. His golden mane shifted in the breeze, eyes fixed on the dark valley below. When he finally spoke, his voice rumbled low like distant thunder.
"Ten thousand under one banner." He snorted. "Haven't seen that since the border revolts."
The wolf warrior stopped beside him, scanning the valley as well. His tail flicked once behind his cloak.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Rhogar gave a slight nod.
"Doesn't this feel excessive?" the wolf asked, lowering his voice. "Ten thousand troops — for farmers and laborers?"
Rhogar's gaze didn't waver.
"For humans? Yes, it's overkill." His tone was cold. "But this isn't about numbers. It's about position. Lady Thariel wants to seize the land before the other nobles can sharpen their teeth."
The wolf's ears twitched slightly. "You think they'll contest it?"
"They always contest what they didn't earn," Rhogar growled. "This march is as much for show as it is for conquest."
The wolf nodded, then looked eastward, toward the crest of the hill.
"Supplies just arrived. Food, fresh water, arrows. Final caravan's in."
Rhogar gave a slow nod.
"Then we're ready."
He stepped forward, planting a boot firmly at the edge of the ridge. His voice rose like a battle horn across the hillside.
"Pass the order to every unit: we march at first light. No delays. No restraint. We push through the farmland — tear up their fields, burn their shelters, break their backs. I want this valley flattened by sundown."
The wolf saluted, fist to chest. "Yes, Commander. I'll spread the word."
Rhogar didn't watch him leave. His eyes were still locked on the distant valley — quiet, sleeping, unaware.
"Let's see how long they last before they beg."
Dawn.
A thin line of light crept over the ridge, casting long golden streaks across the dew-covered farmland below. The mist clung to the earth like breath on cold steel, and the chill of morning still clung to every boot, blade, and banner.
Commander Rhogar stood at the front line, armor gleaming faintly in the rising light. He could feel the silence — heavy, expectant — just before the thunder.
Then, his voice boomed across the valley floor.
"Form into shield blocks!"
His command cut through the crisp morning air like a blade.
All at once, movement erupted across the camps.
Officers barked orders. War horns blew short, sharp notes. Demi-human soldiers began converging into square formations — rows upon rows of spears, shields, and armored bodies locking together like stones in a fortress wall.
Each block was tight, disciplined, and forward-facing — two hundred warriors per unit, centered around a lead captain marked by a crimson sash. Their shields locked at the front, spears braced between the gaps. Behind them came rows of heavier infantry, armed with axes and longswords, ready to break whatever lines survived the first impact.
At the front of the leading block stood a broad-shouldered bull demi-human, snarling beneath his iron helmet as he raised his banner high — the emblem of House Thariel fluttering in the morning wind.
Rhogar marched forward, the packed dirt crunching beneath his boots.
"We move on the commander's banner," he called out. "No breaking formation. No mercy. We drive straight through their fields and leave nothing standing."
He turned, his golden mane catching the first rays of sunlight.
"Make your ancestors proud — and your enemies regret ever claiming this land."
The wind howled softly across the valley, brushing the wheat in long ripples — as if the land itself braced for what was coming.
Rhogar raised his arm. His voice dropped into a growl.
"Advance."
The drums began to pound. The ground trembled. And the first of ten thousand marched forward — a tide of steel and flesh, swallowing the dawn.
The march was relentless.
Boots stomped in rhythm over tilled soil and dry grass, spears upright, banners flapping, dust rising in pale clouds behind them. The first stretch of farmland had come into view an hour past dawn — rows of wheatfields with broken fences, empty barns, and scattered tools left abandoned in the dirt.
No guards.
No humans.
No resistance.
Just silence.
Commander Rhogar slowed his pace, eyes narrowing as he scanned the valley ahead. The main column behind him remained in tight shield blocks, hundreds of bodies moving as one massive square. Officers flanked both sides, barking for discipline as soldiers muttered in confusion.
Then came the command:
"Burn it." Rhogar's voice was flat.
Torches were lit. Arrows were loosed. Within moments, the first farmhouse caught, followed by the wheat. Orange tongues of flame licked across dry roofs and spread down the fields in crackling hunger. Smoke curled upward into the blue morning sky.
Rhogar kept walking.
No celebration. No looting. Just fire and ash beneath marching boots.
They crossed the scorched farmland and continued toward the next stretch of fields — another cluster of homes, irrigation ditches, and grain storage up ahead.
Still no resistance.
Then, the gray-furred wolf soldier from the night before jogged up from the rear flank, sweat beading along his brow despite the morning chill.
"Commander Rhogar," he said, voice low but concerned. "Forgive me, but… I thought they'd be swarming this place by now." He glanced behind them, toward the flames. "Fleeing farmers I expected. Maybe some spears. But this?" He gestured toward the quiet valley ahead. "This feels wrong."
Rhogar didn't stop walking, but his brow furrowed. His golden eyes scanned the silent hillsides, the scattered farm structures, the unnatural stillness.
"Something's not right," he muttered, mostly to himself. "I can't put my finger on it… but it's too quiet. Too easy."
The wolf soldier kept pace beside him, ears twitching.
"Maybe they saw us coming and ran," he suggested. "Ten thousand warriors marching in — I'd run too."
Rhogar's jaw tightened.
"Maybe."
He slowed his pace slightly and turned toward a nearby officer.
"Signal the front lines. Be on high alert from here on."
The officer saluted and jogged off down the formation.
Rhogar looked ahead again — the fields stretched far, with shadows pooling beneath lonely windmills and old grain silos.
"Tell the archers to keep eyes on the ridges. And no more burning until I say so. If they want to bait us into fire, I'm not giving them the match."
The wolf soldier gave a quick nod. "Understood."
As the wind shifted, the smell of smoke drifted back toward the column — mixing with the scent of old earth, cold air… and something else Rhogar couldn't name.
He gripped the hilt of his axe.
"They're watching us. I can feel it."
The shield blocks kept moving — heavy, disciplined, unaware of what lay buried beneath the next patch of land.
The march pressed on — formation tight, steps steady, blades gleaming in the morning light.
The farmland ahead looked no different than the last: abandoned wagons, overgrown fences, an eerie stillness hovering like fog. The only sound was the rhythmic thunder of ten thousand boots and the occasional creak of armor.
Commander Rhogar walked near the front, his eyes sharp, hand resting on the pommel of his axe.
Then—
Boom.
A thunderous crack tore through the air like the sky itself had split.
A shockwave slammed into the column — invisible, but so sudden it made men flinch, shields clatter, and birds scatter into the sky.
"What in the—"
FwwWWEEEEEOOOOooo—
A high-pitched whistle followed, shrieking down from above, growing louder by the second.
"LOOK UP!" a soldier screamed, his voice high with panic.
Then came the crash.
KRAKKOOM!!
The cannonball slammed into the center-left block — a single, massive iron sphere traveling faster than any arrow, smashing through bodies like twigs. Blood sprayed into the air like mist as shields shattered and armor plates crumpled inward. The impact tossed men like ragdolls, and when it hit the dirt, it skipped — tumbling and tearing another dozen limbs before it embedded in the ground.
Screams erupted.
BOOM—FWEEEEEEE—CRACK!!
A second cannonball hit a marching column in the rear — this time landing squarely at the feet of a captain. The explosion lifted him off the ground, his legs torn from the knees down. Another soldier nearby took the full brunt to the chest — armor compressed, ribcage shattered, blood erupting like a fountain from his mouth as he was launched backward ten feet.
Limbs flew.
Men cried for mothers and gods.
The once-orderly shield blocks now buckled, blood seeping into the dirt as soldiers tried to regroup, some stumbling over corpses, others missing arms, legs, or faces.
Rhogar's ears rang, but he didn't freeze.
"GET TO COVER! SHIELDS UP! SPREAD OUT!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.
But they were too exposed.
Another whistle screamed from above.
KRAA-KRAA-KRACK-BOOM!!
The third ball tore through a wagon, splintering it into jagged firewood and spraying the surrounding rank with shrapnel. A horse shrieked as its front legs vanished beneath the blast, its body crumpling mid-gallop in a tangle of reins and entrails.
A young lion-scout stood paralyzed — looking down at what was once his commanding officer's headless body.
"Commander Rhogar!" came the wolf soldier's voice again, this time hoarse, frantic. He sprinted to Rhogar's side, panting. "They had artillery—real artillery—where did they even—"
"Shut up and get the left flank moving! Anyone still breathing, get them into the ditches and irrigation lines! We need elevation—NOW!"
The wolf hesitated, eyes wide at the carnage.
"MOVE!"
Another blast rocked the ground, this one just behind them — Rhogar felt the heat kiss the back of his armor as a wall of dirt and blood sprayed up like a geyser.
The wheat fields were burning now — but not by demi-human hands.
They had walked straight into a killing field.
And the humans?
They were nowhere in sight.
The smoke from the cannon fire still hung thick in the air, curling in black columns above the farmland. Craters smoldered where men once stood, their bodies torn apart by shrapnel and fire. Screams of the wounded echoed faintly beneath the ringing in Commander Rhogar's ears. Limbs twitched in the dirt. Blood soaked into the wheat.
But then—
A sound. Not thunder. Not steel. Something… human.
Rhogar's head snapped up.
From the furthest reaches of the field, just beyond the scorched hedgerows and shattered carts, a line began to rise from the wheat. Slowly at first. Men in pieces. Men in rusted chainmail, misfitted breastplates, scavenged helmets, wrapped arms, patched cloaks.
Two thousand.
They emerged like ghosts through the smoke — human infantry, dirty, disheveled, unshaven, but with steel in their hands and fire in their eyes.
And they charged.
"CONTACT!" a demi-human officer screamed, but it was too late.
The humans roared as they rushed, the ground trembling beneath their boots. Some carried spears made from farming tools, others wielded swords still stained with old blood. Many had no shields — only rage and muscle behind them. They didn't march.
They ran.
Straight toward the stunned demi-human ranks.
And they hit like a hammer.
Steel slammed into flesh. Shields buckled. The first line of demi-humans collapsed under the sheer momentum of the human wave, their discipline shattered by panic and disbelief. A lion infantryman raised his glaive to block — only for a bloodied axe to cleave into his neck, nearly severing his head from his shoulders.
A human with no helmet and a dented sword leapt onto a demi-horseman, driving his blade repeatedly into the rider's throat even as blood sprayed across his face. Another grabbed a stunned panther warrior by the jaw and forced a dagger into his eye.
The humans were wild.
They didn't fight like soldiers. They fought like animals backed into a corner. There was no formation — only flanks of fury crashing into the stunned demi-human center.
"Hold your lines!" Rhogar bellowed, spinning his axe into the chest of a charging human. Bone crunched. The man dropped — but more followed.
Another cannon roared in the distance. The battlefield shook.
Rhogar swung wide, cleaving two more down — one screaming as his guts spilled onto the field. A sword bounced off Rhogar's shoulder plate, drawing a growl from the lion as he turned and crushed the attacker's skull with the flat of his axe.
Everywhere he looked — blood, blades, and bodies.
A wolf captain was stabbed through the chest, then dragged down and beaten with rocks. A group of humans encircled a jaguar archer, stabbing and clawing until her cries turned to gurgles.
But slowly—finally—the demi-humans began to respond.
"BACK INTO BLOCKS! FALL BACK INTO SHIELD FORMATION!" officers shouted.
Horns sounded. The soldiers began pulling together — not orderly, but driven by fear and instinct. The rear lines formed wedges, then squared, then braced. Archers scrambled into new ranks. Spearmen jabbed forward. Axes swung to protect the sides.
A human wave crashed against a regrouping shield wall — but this time, they didn't break through.
Rhogar fought at the center, his armor streaked red, his mane soaked with sweat and blood. He cut another man down at the knees, then used his elbow to cave in a nose. He fought like a beast — roaring, relentless, wading through the blood of men half his size.
To the humans, he looked like a god of death.
But still they came.
Still they screamed and swung.
And still they died.
By the time the sun cleared the smoke, only around six hundred humans still stood.
The field was now soaked in gore. Bodies lay twisted and broken — demi-humans and humans alike. The wheat was flattened, the trenches painted red.
And then, finally… a horn blew from the human side.
A long, mournful sound.
Retreat.
The survivors pulled back — not running, but dragging the wounded, limping, bleeding, shoulders heaving. Their eyes locked with those they had just fought, unflinching even as they stepped back into the scorched haze from which they had come.
Rhogar didn't give chase.
He panted, blood dripping from his axe, watching the humans disappear into the smoke — their dead left behind, their message clear.
They were not slaves anymore.
He looked around — bodies twitched on the field. Cries of agony, moaning, dying breaths. His own men leaned against spears, collapsed to their knees, or stared in shock.
He took a deep breath, then raised his arm.
"Regroup into formation," he growled, voice hoarse. "All surviving blocks — back into line."
There was no cheer. No celebration. Only the sound of armor shifting and boots dragging into position.
Smoke still rose from the fields.
The farmland had been taken.
But at what cost?
Rhogar gritted his teeth.
This was no rebellion.
This was a war.
The smoke had begun to settle.
The fields were quiet now — not from peace, but from exhaustion. Broken bodies lay scattered across churned earth. Limbs without owners. Swords still clenched in dead hands. The scent of burnt flesh and blood soaked into the wheat like morning dew.
Commander Rhogar stood at the edge of the wreckage, his boots planted firmly in the red-stained dirt. His armor was dented and wet, his golden mane matted with blood that wasn't his own.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then, without turning, he raised his voice:
"You. Come here."
A young leopard soldier snapped his head up. He looked barely twenty — one eye bruised, a cut trailing across his jaw. He rushed forward, spear in hand.
"Sir?" he said quickly, straightening his posture as best he could despite the tremble in his knees.
Rhogar turned to face him fully.
"Run."
The soldier blinked. "Sir?"
"Run or find a horse. I don't care how. You will deliver a message to Lady Thariel directly. No delays. No detours."
The leopard nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, Commander."
Rhogar's expression darkened as he glanced across the smoldering valley. His voice dropped to a growl.
"Tell her we may need more troops. Tell her we've already lost nearly 1/3 of our force — and we haven't even seen their full strength."
He took a step closer, blood dripping from his axe.
"Tell her this wasn't a rebellion. This wasn't farmers swinging hoes."
He paused, his eyes cold.
"This is war."
The leopard soldier stiffened. "Yes, Commander. I'll deliver the message word for word."
Rhogar looked back at the battlefield once more — the dead demi-humans, the fleeing humans, the unexploded cannonball half-buried in a crater like a warning.
"Tell her I said so."
The young soldier saluted, then turned and sprinted off toward the rear camp, boots thudding against the blood-soaked earth.
Rhogar remained still for a moment, silent.
The valley had devoured 3,000 lives before breakfast.
And it was only the beginning.