Second Life as a Soldier

Morning fog clung to the fort like a wet blanket. The sun was up, but the sky still looked half-asleep, smothered in a pale gray haze. The stone courtyard outside the barracks felt colder than usual.

I joined the line forming near the battlements, trying not to look annoyed. I was finally back as a full-time member of Sergeant Fenward’s squad, which meant an entire day of listening to him bark at new recruits and conscripts, treat them like errand boys, and dump half his responsibilities on Colin, Jack, or Owen. His attitude wasn’t the problem. I had gotten used to his behavior months ago.

The problem started the moment I advanced to Tier 2.

Now every conversation turned into a sales pitch for his house. Apparently, being the youngest person he knew to reach Tier 2 made me qualified to become his future servant who just happened to wear a nicer uniform.

The irony?

Lieutenant Fenward, who actually treated people with dignity, had never hinted at recruiting me. Both men were related, cousins, supposedly, but it was still hard to believe. One acted like an officer. The other acted like he’d stumbled into rank by tripping over the chain of command.

Recruits trickled out of the barracks and onto the courtyard stones. Twenty privates in total. I fell in with Colin, Jack, and Owen as they tightened their gear and adjusted straps.

Sergeant Fenward stomped up to the fort’s position marker and raised his voice.

“Listen up. Today we patrol beyond the outer trench line. The first trench begins four hundred meters from the wall. The kill zone extends to one thousand meters. Trees are cleared in this zone. No high cover, no ambush points. Our job is not chasing beasts. If they move away, we leave them. If they approach the trenches, we kill them.”

He paced slowly, boots scraping stone, then pointed toward the front.

“Garran, Varric, Barry, and Kael will take forward position. Walter holds the right flank, Colin the left. They protect the column from side hits if a herd tries to spill through. Recruits march in a tight double column. Stay close, stay in reach of the flank guards.”

He tapped a thumb against his chest.

“Rear guard with me: Michael, Edward, Jack, and Owen. We catch trailing threats, block rear flanking, and cover retreat if the formation breaks. If we face a threat, formation changes on my command. You hold position until you hear it.”

His final shout cracked through the cold air.

“Move out. Formation from the moment we step outside the fort.”

As I moved from the front toward my spot in the formation, Varric shoulder-checked me just enough to make me stumble a step.

Varric said “Welcome back to squad 35-2.”

He muttered it with a grin, and Barry slipped past on the other side, patting my shoulder once, like he was congratulating a loser returning to the sport.

I didn’t raise my guard or feel threatened. This was them being “friendly.” Still… 35-2 stung.

During moat work, we kept a running tally of our digging competitions, which somehow turned into all of them versus me, hence the nickname. It went from 31–0 to 32–0, and when I finally won one, they treated 32–1 like something impossible had happened. After almost forty days, I had only won two.

I tried complaining that it wasn’t fair to combine all their wins against me, but honestly? Even individually, I’d still be at the bottom. At least this way I could pretend I lost to a whole squad instead of one guy.

I smirked back at them.

“Just wait. When my class reaches Tier 2, not a single one of you is winning again.”

Kael, in his usual monotone, replied, “Tier 2 or not, you’re still 35–2.”

His deadpan jab faded with the chuckles. I shook my head and tightened my grip on my spear as we shifted into position.

The main gates creaked open. A cold morning wind spilled through, carrying the faint smell of damp soil and old blood. We marched out in a tight double column. The conscripts at the front spread into a blunt spearhead, four wide, with Walter shadowing their right and Colin mirroring on the left. The rest of us followed in ordered pairs, boots tapping stone until the path turned to packed earth.

The world beyond the wall opened wide. The kill zone stretched out in front of us, flat and scraped bare, a field of churned soil that ran unbroken for hundreds of meters. Ruts from supply wagons cut across the ground in long scars. Old fire pits, collapsed stake beds, and half-buried fragments of broken shields dotted the earth like forgotten bones. Our boots sank slightly with each step, the ground too soft from recent digging and too stained to ever look clean.

Far ahead, the mid-line trenches rose out of the land, uneven where crews had worked through rain and frozen nights. Platforms stood over them like tall wooden ribs, lashed together with rope that snapped in the wind. Ladders leaned against their sides, and piles of cut timber waited along the embankments, the wood still bright where axes had struck only days ago. Large enough for a hundred men to stand and fight, yet empty now, they felt like abandoned grandstands before a bloody spectacle.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it’s taken without the author’s consent. Report it.

We crossed a narrow bridge spanning the trench. It was one of dozens running its length, wide enough for two men at a time. The boards bowed with every step, groaning under the weight of all the boots that had marched across them during construction.

Beyond it, the outer trench cut across the horizon like a second wall of earth. Wider and steeper than the rest, its slopes were raw and sharp, the soil piled high along its rim in jagged ridges. Hundreds of stakes stood along those edges, iron-capped and braced with fresh timber, the wood still pale from the axe. Frost clung to them like dull glass.

For the first hour, nothing moved but the wind. The open kill zone stretched endlessly in front of us. We paced along the five-hundred-meter sector assigned to our squad, slow, steady laps beside the trench line. Every thirty steps, one of the new recruits would glance toward the forest, as if expecting something to leap out of the tree line. Nothing ever did.

After roughly two hours, the Sergeant raised his hand. Break rotation. We stepped back from the trench lip and formed a loose half-circle behind him. One by one, we pulled out dried rations, jerky strips and hard oat biscuits wrapped in cloth and tucked into our bags. Just enough to keep us going, eaten standing, shields still in hand.

The next hours followed the same rhythm. Walk, scan, cross back along our trench sector. A few bites of jerky near the fourth hour. A mouthful of water. The sky brightened, then dulled under drifting clouds. Wind picked up, carrying the dry smell of cut earth and something faintly metallic.

The area stayed quiet and empty, but it felt like everything was ready to break loose at any moment.

On the sixth hour, Colin suddenly stopped mid-step. At first, we thought he was adjusting his footing. Then we heard it too.

A scraping noise. Left side. From the forest.

Low, irregular, like something dragging across packed soil.

Walter’s spear snapped up in one sharp motion. Barry and Kael shifted half a step apart, tightening the forward line. Every recruit behind them lifted shields without a word.

The dragging sound became a rumble. Dirt trembled under our boots, faint at first, then building into a rolling vibration that crawled up the legs. Colin whispered a single word under his breath:

“Stampede of Hagremor.”

Sergeant Fenward shouted.

“Large herd! They’ll break the trenches! Large-herd formation!”

His voice cracked across the field like a whip.

Our line shifted instantly. Shields tightened, spears angled, steps widened.

“Tier 2 in front! Recruits behind!”

“Walter, left flank! I’ll take right! Michael and Ben, hold rear and block strays!”

“Move! We meet them at least a hundred fifty meters before the trenches!”

We moved at a jog, spreading into the formation we had drilled countless times. Against a large herd, stopping the first impact was the most important part. Once that happened, the rest of the herd usually fell into chaos, making them easy to finish. Even if a few beasts in the back slipped through, the left and right flanks could push them back, and the two at the rear could handle any strays.

Our front widened to eight: Colin, Jack, Owen, me, Garran, Varrick, Barry, and Kael. All Tier 2.

Behind us, one tight row of Tier 1 recruits snapped into place, spears braced over our shoulders or angled between our legs.

They finished what we brought down.

Walter took the far left, shield low, spear held like a butcher’s hook. Sergeant Fenward mirrored him on the right, heavier shield braced to redirect anything that tried to break wide. If something slipped past the flanks, Michael and Ben would stop it before it reached the trench.

The rumble became thunder.

Dust lifted across the horizon.

The cloud thickened until shapes broke through the brown haze. At first they looked like lopsided shadows. Then the details sharpened. Thick front shoulders. Long jaws. Forward-curving tusks scraping the ground as they ran.

Heavy-bodied beasts that used their front halves like a swinging hammer. Strong enough to crush trenches by falling into them and thrashing until the walls collapsed.

“Hold the line!” Fenward shouted. “Steady!”

The herd kept their momentum. At thirty meters I felt the vibration climbing into my shield arm. The Tier 1s behind us tightened up, so close I could feel the backs of their spears brushing my armor.

The Hagremor hit us like a wall.

The front rank absorbed the crash. My shield jerked inward, my right arm taking the full shudder. Pain climbed from wrist to shoulder, but the formation held. Garran and Varrick took the center, where the impact was worst. I shifted half a step to bleed the force sideways. A few Hagremor lost their footing, slamming against each other.

“Spears forward!” Colin barked.

I pushed mine through the gap between our shields and drove the point into the closest beast’s neck. The hide was thick, but not enough to stop a Mana reinforced thrust. The beast staggered, throat spraying dark blood.

Behind us, the Tier 1s surged, stabbing into anything that fell or slowed. The first thirty seconds were just noise, shield rims scraping, bodies grunting, Hagremor bellowing as they slipped and crashed into each other.

A cluster of six broke wide near the back of the herd, uncertain, turning sideways instead of charging straight. I stepped out half a pace, spear low.

“Left drift!” I shouted.

Walter pivoted instantly, catching their movement. He angled his shield outward, shoving the beasts inward, forcing them back toward the wall of shields instead of letting them scatter wide. The flank tightened and slammed forward as one. Three went down immediately, legs swept or tripped, and the Tier 1s finished them before they could thrash.

Our wall advanced again. One step. Two. Controlling distance.

The Hagremor had no discipline. They shoved, slipped, climbed over each other. Every time one crashed into a shield, a second collided into its rear. That chaos made them dangerous, but also easy to redirect.

We repeated the motion:

shield meets impact → spear dips and thrusts → Tier 1s kill whatever collapses.

The line kept moving forward until the herd lost cohesion. When the last Hagremor fell, the ground finally stopped shaking.

All around, beasts lay piled, broken necks, stabbed lungs, crushed skulls. I rolled my shoulder, testing stiffness. Sore, but nothing serious. My first time fighting a large herd where I didn’t feel completely drained afterward. Maybe being Walter’s punching bag during training was actually paying off.

During the clash, I had used [Flowing Spear Style (UC)], [Perceptive Instinct (UC)], and [Mana Reinforcement (UC)], but the experience was different. Before, I needed to focus, and consciously trigger each one. This time my body reacted on its own, skills firing instinctively with every strike and movement. Because of that, I had barely spent any mana.

MP: 1087/1397

After checking my mana, I turned to call out toward the rear, but the sight made me pause.

The second line, our Tier 1 recruits, were on the ground. Some on their knees, others flat on their backs. Shields dropped. A couple clutched elbows or ribs. One looked pale enough that I wasn’t sure he was breathing properly.

I stepped toward them, already reaching for my field kit.

“Edward!”

Michael’s voice came sharp from behind.

I turned.

He was waving both arms, moving fast.

“Ben is injured!”