Second Life as a Soldier

Cliffline Raptors.

Flightless birds with long legs and narrow necks, their beaks smaller than a Steelbeak’s but just as sharp, shaped like oversized nails hardened into points. They moved differently from the boars, lighter, faster, and far more deliberate.

As the initial pack hit the front line, it became clear almost immediately where the problem was.

The flanks.

The raptors didn’t strike with brute force. They probed, darted, kicked, and withdrew, hitting wherever the line flexed. With the flanks manned by Tier Ones, the struggle was obvious, shields turning a fraction too slow, spears missing by inches.

“Richard, Owen, reinforce left and right flank,” Sergeant Fenward ordered.

He was a second too late.

The weakness had already been noticed.

The pack leader broke from the group and sprinted straight for the right flank. It moved with terrifying speed, its long legs eating the distance in a heartbeat. Sean, the new recruit holding that position, barely had time to raise his shield.

The raptor kicked.

The impact struck Sean square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward. He hit the ground hard and didn’t get up.

“Varric!” Sergeant Fenward shouted as the pack leader aimed straight for the rear. “Handle the leader. Do not let it reach the rear line.”

Then, without pause, “Michael, Alan, get him out. Now.”

I was already moving.

“Edward,” Fenward said sharply, eyes never leaving the fight ahead. “Prepare to treat him. Don’t waste herbs or your mana. If he can fight, he fights. Your combat capability takes priority.”

Michael and Alan dragged Sean back to me, armor scraping against stone as they laid him down. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes were unfocused.

I knelt and placed a hand against his chest, letting mana flow gently into his body to assess the damage.

“Ed… Edward,” Sean whispered, forcing the words out. “I don’t think it’s that serious.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

I could feel it clearly now. Deep muscle bruising along his right arm. A sprained wrist. His shoulder had dislocated on impact but had partially settled back into place. Several bruised ribs, painful but not cracked. There was also a mild disturbance around his head, enough to make me cautious.

A concussion was possible.

I leaned closer.

“Sean,” I said calmly, keeping my voice steady. “Look at me. What’s your name?”

“Sean,” he answered without hesitation.

“Where are we?”

“The… north front. Outside wall,” he said, blinking.

“Good,” I said. “How many fingers?”

I held up two.

“Two,” he replied after a brief pause.

That pause told me enough.

Minor concussion. Not severe, but it meant no sudden movements.

I took the less potent healing paste already laid out beside me and spread it carefully over the worst of the muscle bruising along his arm. I let [Vital Restoration] flow through the paste, strengthening its effect without draining too much mana. For the smaller injuries, the wrist and ribs, I relied on [Vital Restoration] alone, keeping the flow controlled and shallow.

Sean exhaled slowly as the pain began to dull.

“You’ll be in fighting condition in thirty to forty-five minutes,” I said, finishing the treatment. “Do not move until then. Rest your head. If you feel dizzy or sick, tell me immediately.”

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I gave his shoulder a firm pat.

He nodded, already looking more focused than before.

By the time I finished treating Sean, the raptors had been dealt with. The front line—Colin, Jack, Garren, and Kael—was finally replaced by Walter, Varric, Barry, and Sergeant Fenward. I was sure they welcomed the rest after more than an hour of fighting at the front of the formation.

Colin, Jack, Garren, and Kael made their way to me for a primary check and to recharge their mana. All four were Tier Two, and aside from a few minor bruises on their hands, none of them needed healing. I didn’t even use [Vital Restoration] on them. With the amount of mana already in their bodies, the bruises would heal on their own within fifteen minutes.

With that done, I focused my attention back on the platform, because it was the first time I had ever seen the sergeant take a position on the front line.

I assumed he was holding that position because I had been tied up with healing duties. With me occupied, the number of Tier Two fighters in the squad had been reduced from ten to nine. During drills or patrols, the sergeant usually positioned himself at the rear or along the flank, not because he wanted to avoid fighting, but because from there he could see the entire squad at once. It gave him control and allowed him to make decisions without losing awareness.

That was why it drew my attention.

What drew it even more was his weapon.

He wasn’t using his usual spear.

In its place was a long steel sword, freshly forged, its edge clean and its surface marked with visible runes even from where I stood. It was the first time I had ever seen someone in the line use a sword instead of a spear. For a moment, I wondered if the shorter reach would affect the formation, especially when everyone else relied on long shafts to keep beasts at distance.

But the thought passed quickly.

The sword’s reach was still more than enough, and we were trained to handle range variation. When someone like seven-foot-tall Garren fought beside someone like me, barely five foot nine, spacing and timing mattered far more than weapon length. We’d drilled for that kind of imbalance countless times.

By the time the rotation was finished, a new pack was already upon them.

Rhinos.

This one was mixed, three Tier Twos and the rest Tier Ones. Identifying them was easy. The Tier Two beasts had horns made of stone, rough and uneven, and they looked like lesser kin to the metal-horned rhino the Vanguard had engaged earlier.

As I was on healing duty, I wasn’t using most of my skills yet in an effort to conserve mana. I was able to do that because I was positioned at one of the safest points on the battlefield. But without my [Perceptive Instinct (UC)] skill, I could only judge a beast’s tier if it had obvious physical markers or if I had faced it before. That was how I knew the rhinos’ tier, they had visible elemental signs on them, whereas I hadn’t been able to judge the raptor leader’s tier earlier.

The front line of the formation moved first, intercepting the outer edge of the pack and shaving off its momentum. The Tier Two beasts were the first to engage with the front line of the formation.

That alone was unusual.

Normally, Tier Ones charged first while Tier Twos guided from behind. This time, the Tier Two pushed straight into the front.

The rear line tightened. Shields lifted. Another fight was expected.

What happened instead surprised everyone.

The Tier Two leading rhino slammed into Sergeant Fenward’s shield.

He stopped it with one hand.

The impact was violent enough to send a sharp crack through the stone beneath his boots, spiderwebbing across the ground where he stood. Dust kicked up around his feet, and for a brief instant I thought even he might be driven back.

He wasn’t.

Sergeant Fenward absorbed the force through his stance, twisting his body just enough to bleed off the momentum. In the same motion, he shifted his weight forward, rotating his shoulders and hips together in a smooth, practiced turn. Sunlight caught the edge of his sword as he raised it, the runes along the blade flashing once as if answering his movement.

Then he brought it down.

The strike was clean. Precise. The sword traced a perfect arc through the air, and there was no wasted motion in it. The rhino’s head came away as if it had never been attached at all.

The body collapsed forward, and Fenward stepped aside with a graceful shove of his shield, pushing the dead weight out of the formation as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

For half a heartbeat, the rest of the pack froze.

That was all the opening they needed.

“Hold the line!” Fenward shouted, his voice sharp and steady. “Forward!”

Walter and Varric moved at once, almost as if the sergeant’s strike had given them permission.

Walter drove his spear down from above, using the full weight of his body. The tip punched through a rhino’s skull with a dull, final sound, and he ripped the weapon free before the beast even finished falling.

Varric came in from the opposite side, low and fast, thrusting upward beneath another rhino’s jaw. The spearhead burst through the top of its head, and the body collapsed backward in a heap.

The remaining two Tier Two beasts were dead within seconds.

The effect on the squad was immediate.

A surge of confidence rippled through the line. Shields locked tighter. Feet advanced half a step in unison.

The remaining Tier One rhinos hesitated.

“Advance!” Fenward called.

Shields pressed forward, forcing the beasts into narrow lanes, while spears stabbed in controlled rhythm. There was no scrambling, no breaking of ranks. Each kill created space for the next step forward. A spear struck, withdrew, and another followed. When a beast fell, it was shoved aside without pause, the line flowing around the body as if it had rehearsed the movement a hundred times before.

The rhinos tried to push back, but the pressure never let up. Every step they took forward was answered by two steps from the formation. Panic spread through the pack, turning their hesitation into disorder.

And disorder was death.

In less than five minute, the pack was gone.

Bodies lay scattered in front of the line, steam rising from torn flesh as the formation came to a controlled halt, shields still raised, spears steady.

It was the easiest fight I had witnessed so far.