Lola held her breath as the report reached her ears, the words hanging heavy in the charged air. Katherine was reassigned by Charlie. Her gaze flicked toward her liege, fleeting, but she didn’t protest. Katherine wasn’t disobedient; she was simply Katherine, unyielding, instinctive. Reining her in would’ve been a mistake, not a strategy.

  Resolute, Lola gave a slight nod and reached toward her plans, the system parchment humming faintly under her fingers. With a swift incantation, the ink shimmered and vanished, erasing the section that included both supply routes and the influx of eager recruits for the Left Sock Division.

  “It didn’t occur to me,” Mila breathed, wonder threading through his voice. “Twir was right. They’re immortal. Used the right way… the devastation won’t just be strategic, it’ll be devastating.”

  Lola checked the plan.

  Overall Command Structure:

  Supreme Commander: Princess Charlie. Provides strategic oversight, key buffs ([Princess’ Grace]), powerful magical intervention (unknown ice magic), and moral leadership. Needs protection but will probably enter combat where needed.

  Tactical Field Commander: Imperial Doan-Commander Mila. Responsible for the overall disposition of forces, troop movements, and maintaining discipline, particularly among the Imperial soldiers. Commands from the central command tower overlooking the main wall and river.

  Player Liason & Logistics: Me, Lola (Steward). Operates from the command post alongside Mila, managing player assignments via this system ([Charlie’s Doan]), relaying intel, coordinating supplies, and handling bureaucratic issues (Note: potential conflict point with the Attaché)

  Guard Command: High Warden Alma. Responsible for the direct protection of Charlie and the defense of the inner fort/command post as a last resort.

  ”What we need to change in the zones?” she asked Mila with a heavy sigh. This was potentially where they are going to lose. She changed the interface roles and updated tactics.

  Defensive Zones & Assignments:

  Zone 1: The Main Wall (Facing the Plains - Primary Assault)

  Objective: Hold against the Black Tusk’s frontal assault, endure aerial harassment, counter enemy casters.

  Command: Mila directly oversees this sector, delegating sections to Imperial officers and integrating player leaders.

  Backbone forces: Majority of Imperial Doan soldiers. Disciplined shield walls on the battlements, archer companies in towers.

  Players: Player warriors/tanks reinforce shield walls. Ranged DPS supplement archers.

  Healer Contingent: Led by Fty. Player healers positioned behind the lines, providing focused healing to the main wall defenders. Fty coordinates their efforts and mana conservation.

  TechiLlama: Assigned command of a critical central section of the wall, leveraging his tanking skills and disciplined approach. (Note: Do not let him set additional thirty rules) Coordinates player shield walls.

  Luminaria: Leads a contingent of player mages from a fortified tower position, focusing on counter-magic against [Blight Mages] and delivering devastating lightning AOE against massed infantry.

  Tramar: Assigned to another mage squad, focusing pure fire DPS, cover fire for anti-air.

  NightSwallow: Tasked with coordinating player [Rogues] for scouting enemy movements from the wall and potentially counter-sniping key enemy units, providing early warnings about [Nightwing] infiltrators.

  Tactics update: Maintain shield wall integrity. Focus ranged fire on siege towers, then enemy casters (especially [Corpsebinders]). Use magic AOE to break up dense formations. Endure aerial bombardment and prioritize [Shriekers] to maintain coordination. Prepare for breaches and internal defense.

  Zone 2: The River Flank (Critical Weak Point)

  Objective: Prevent the elite flanking force ([Revenant Knights], [Doom Riders], [Blight Mages]) from crossing the river ford and breaching the formation from the side. This is the most vulnerable point.

  Command: Lisa (The Rebel Fire). Her powerful fire magic is ideal for area denial at the crossing and effective against undead.

  Frozna update: Positioned on the tower overlooking the narrowest point. (Note: do not allow her to tame more animals) Her ranged DPS and beast companions are vital for harassing crossing units, disrupting [Blight Mage] casting, and potentially targeting [Revenant Knight] leaders. The beast can engage enemies who reach the bank.

  Scamantha update: Utilizes her resourcefulness. (Note: Do not buy her “op” potions) Set traps along the riverbank, identify optimal ambush points, or use consumables/gadgets (Note: do not grant additional funds) to disrupt the crossing. Her less direct combat role makes her suited for this flanking defense where terrain and tricks might matter more.

  Dedicated Player Mages & Ranged DPS: Focus intense fire on the ford itself, creating a kill zone. Water & Ice magic to slow crossing.

  Player Melee/Tanks: Positioned to engage any units that make it across the ford and reach the other side.

  Tactics update: Heavy area denial at the ford using magic (Lisa’s fire walls, ice & water spells). Focused ranged fire on [Revenant Knights] first, then [Blight Mages] providing cover. Use traps and terrain if possible (Scamantha contigent). Be prepared for a desperate melee if the enemy reaches the wall. This sector requires constant vigilance and reinforcement if pressured.

  Zone 3: Air Defense & Internal Security

  Objective: Mitigate damage and disruption from [Sky Reavers] and [Shriekers]. Detect and eliminate [Nightwing infiltrators] attempting assassination or sabotage behind the walls.

  Command update: NightSwallow for internal threats, coordinated by Mila’s officers on the wall.

  Forces: Imperial Archer Companies, Player Ranged Units (focusing fire upwards), Frozna’s beast (river side), Tramar’s Mages (using targeted or AOE spells against flyers). Dedicated Player Rogues (led by NightSwallow) patrol inside the fort, especially near command centers and logistics hubs.

  Tactics update: Prioritize [Shriekers] to prevent defender disruption. Utilize volley fire against [Sky Reavers]. Maintain vigilance against stealth units; quick response teams needed for internal threats.

  Zone 4: The “Left Sock Division” (Stupid Suicide Charge)

  Objective: Charge out when commanded. (Note: Only when commanded.) (Note2: Yes, not before) (Note3: For the last time, you charge when we give order.) (Note4: Charge when needed.) Disrupt the enemy formation, target siege weapons or casters, cause maximum chaos, and buy time. High attrition expected.

  Command: Gatei. (Note: Yes, command.) (Note2: His role is less command, more “point me at the demons and watch the fireworks.”)

  Spearhead/Command update: Katherine (Juggernaut). Her immense melee damage and aggressive style are perfect for leading the charge and breaking enemy lines.

  Volunteers: Player berserkers, warriors, damage-focused classes willing to die. (Note: No, we will not reward bashing to a wall.) (Note2: There is no glory in falling of the wall.) (Note3: Do not drink poison.) (Note4: Don’t provoke mages to fire at you.)

  Volunteers update: Player berserkers, warriors, damage-focused classes trade their lives for glory and disruption. Likely chaotic but potentially impactful.

  Tactics: Hit fast, hit hard. (Note: I will not put hard into quotation marks!) Target identified weaknesses if possible (siege towers, caster groups). Inflict as much damage and disorder before being overwhelmed. (Note2: No, friendly fire doesn’t count) Their success is measured in disruption, not survival. (Note3: Yes, jumping on enemy “sword” counts.) (Note4: Fuzuki, if you survive, I will kill you after the battle.)

  Contingency:

  Breach on Main Wall: Fall back to secondary defensive lines. Utilize chokepoints. Alma’s guard becomes critical.

  River Flank Overrun: This is the worst-case scenario. Forces here must delay as long as possible. Mila may need to pull reserves from the main wall, weakening the front. Charlie’s intervention essential here.

  Queen Irwen: If Irwen directly enters, only Charlie (potentially with Gatei, if he feels like it) has any hope of stalling her.

  Lola finally slammed the last batch of assignments into place with a precise flick of her fingers, teeth gritted so tightly it was a miracle the air itself didn’t crack. The last of the revised plans settled like a puzzle board snapping together. Satisfying, sure, but not without cost.

  The guilds had held formation better than expected. Minor grumbling here and there, the usual backroom posturing, claims over resource nodes, passive-aggressive debates over deployment zones, and the eternal war of “minimal contribution for maximum gain.” But all manageable. Political, not personal.

  But Left Sock Division?

  A disaster.

  On paper, it was the smallest strike force. In reality, it had ten times the complaints volume of any other. Lola had done her utmost. She’d cross-checked combat logs, shuffled rosters, enforced cooldown rotations. She tried, really tried, to keep her tone polite when people sent in requests like: “Please let me join the sock of legend,” or “I was born to be a left sock. Let me fulfill my destiny.”, or “I like right socks, can Tramar hit me with a fireball and end my suffering in left socks?”

  Still, the jokes were getting under her skin, no matter how composed she remained. That serene exterior? Paper-thin. Inside, she was one cracked scroll away from sending someone into logistics exile.

  This wasn’t just another raid. This wasn’t cleanup. This was her test.

  A battle not only of armies, but of infrastructure. Discipline. Her name would either be buried in footnotes… or inked into imperial memory.

  She read that in Rimelion, the title Queen-maker wasn’t ceremonial. It was a weight, and she felt it now, heavy against her shoulders. Her face began to flush, and she quickly lifted the nearest system parchment like a shield. Not that anyone would notice, but she couldn’t risk it.

  Especially not with that memory lurking. Charlie. At Rime-Con. Lola practically hissed under her breath and forced the image away with the violence of someone slamming a door on an intrusive daydream. No. No. Bad thoughts. Not now. Later. Never.

  To distract herself, she jotted yet another side-note to Fuzuki. The rogue had been oddly… flirtatious. Through the system. Through documentation. Her cheeks betrayed her again. She shut her eyes, counted to three, and visualized filing cabinets.

  Order.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Then: “Scout reports movement in Zone Two!” one of the assistants called out, their voice a little too enthusiastic. Lola’s spine stiffened. She was a planner, a strategist, a master of structure and delegation.

  But she was not a general. “Mila?” she said, already turning.

  The man didn’t look up from the map, already moving parts. “On it.”

  Efficient. Professional. Sharp as a dagger forged in bureaucracy. A joy to work with, really. Lola allowed herself a soft smile, until her gaze drifted toward the other side of the command post.

  Charlie was hunched in a chair, half-buried behind a fake wall of scrolls, clearly pretending to be busy while sneaking snacks and dodging responsibility. Their eyes met.

  Charlie froze mid-bite.

  Lola narrowed hers.

  The scroll snapped back into position, and a muffled cough of guilt followed. She sighed and muttered to herself, No. Bad thoughts. Go away. That’s why I’m a Queen-maker, not a Queen.

  “That’s my cue, isn’t it?” Charlie asked the entire war room, flashing a grin that somehow managed to be both charming and deeply unhelpful. “Time to finally put that ring you gave me to use.”

  She smiled at Lola. Light, easy, like it was just another day.

  It wasn’t.

  Lola felt the heat rise to her face before she could stop it. Again. She ducked her head behind the nearest map-scroll, as if it held the power to disguise betrayal written across her skin. She doesn’t mean it like Fuzuki, she reminded herself, stabbing the message into the interface with more force than necessary. She’s just being… Charlie.

  The words didn’t comfort her. Not really.

  What stung most was that the thought made her sad.

  Before she could unpack the why, Charlie moved. One blink and she was already dashing toward the nearest open window. Not even a hesitation. Just wind, cloak, and the fading echo of a laugh. Lola gasped and lunged forward, joined by Alma, the motion in sync without coordination, both of them reaching the window ledge at the same time.

  But instead of a body in freefall, they saw her.

  Charlie stood effortlessly atop an elegant ice staircase spiraling upward, each step shimmering with crystalline defiance. She locked eyes with them from halfway up, her expression unreadable. Determined. Focused. Something else beneath it, something Lola felt more than saw.

  Alma stiffened beside her, torn. Her fingers twitched toward her sword. “You shouldn’t go,” Lola whispered, knowing the answer.

  Alma shook her head. “No. I mean yes. My orders are clear. I am to defend her… but only when the wall falls. I’m the last line.”

  Lola nodded once, though her chest ached with something tight. And then she ran. She didn’t think, just moved, skirt flailing, boots pounding against stone. Down the command tower’s spiral stairs, out across the inner wall, and then up again, ascending the battlements two steps at a time. She pushed through the final iron door and emerged into open air, breathless just in time to see Charlie.

  Perched atop the tower now, framed against the pale sky. The wind tugged at her cloak, tousled her already wild hair, and made the hem whip like a battle flag. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other curled tightly around the enchanted ring and below her, the fortress bristled with weapons, players, hope, and dread.

  She looked like a queen of chaos and impossible plans. “United army!” Charlie shouted, her magically amplified voice cutting through the wind like a thrown dagger wrapped in glitter. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Why is that princess yelling from the roof again?’”

  Some nervous chuckles echoed from the ramparts. The tension cracked, just a little.

  “Simple answer,” she continued, turning slowly in place so her voice reached every corner of the fort. “Because I’m the one who signed the paperwork. And also because if I don’t talk now, someone else will, and let’s be real, you don’t want a motivational speech from Gatei.”

  A groan of agreement rippled from the Left Sock Division.

  She raised her hand. “Today, we fight demons. Not because it’s heroic. Not because it’s glorious. But because if we don’t, they will turn this land into a crater with a body count. And I don’t know about you, but I really like our walls the way they are. Unscorched. Uncollapsed. Very stone-forward.”

  Laughter this time. Genuine.

  Her tone dropped, just a notch. “This is not a game for them. The enemy doesn’t respawn. They don’t panic. They don’t stop. So we hold. We fight smarter, not harder. We stick to the plan. And for the love of every god and subroutine watching, when someone yells duck, you duck!”

  A cheer went up from the players. Even a few of the more serious NPC commanders cracked grins.

  Charlie pressed on. “I won’t promise you no losses. I won’t pretend this is easy. But I can promise you one thing, if we fight together, if we hold this line, then we’ll prove that this alliance isn’t just banners and treaties. It’s real.”

  She drew herself up. “So whether you’re sword or spell, soldier or sock—” Someone in the Left Sock Division whooped. “—You are not alone. I am with you. Every step, every scream, every damn cooldown.”

  She paused, let the wind whip past. And then, quieter, “Let’s make sure the world remembers who we are.” Then she raised her fist and shouted the words that would be burned into the war logs forever. Lola already did that. “East Klippe, hold the damn line!”

  The fortress exploded with cheers, weapons raised high, players pounding the walls, NPCs slamming fists to chests. For just a moment, every difference between them blurred, race, faction, real or coded, human or character.

  —

  Dmitry’s Vainqueurs Imbattables…

  The signal was clear. His orders were simpler still. The defenders wouldn’t know what hit them. It took Dmitry ten minutes to reach the ridge above the river. The water stretched before him like a dare.

  Broad, slow-moving, deceptively shallow.

  Not roaring rapids. Not treacherous currents. That would’ve been too dramatic. Too honest.

  No, the river offered resistance the way Lisa did—subtle, insistent, and ultimately meaningless. A delay, not a denial. A speed bump pretending to be a wall.

  The demon commanders proposed a crossing at the low ford upstream. Dmitry smirked. Predictable. That kind of thinking was why most companies collapsed before their fifth fiscal cycle. Exactly what the defenders expected. Exactly what they were already preparing for.

  So, naturally, he did the opposite.

  “Build me a bridge,” he ordered.

  They balked at first, until his adjutant produced a scroll of temporary terraformation, snagged from a dead mage’s library. A brittle thing, dusty with disuse. Useless to most. Perfect for him.

  The river was half a mile wide here.

  He didn’t care.

  The spell wouldn’t last more than an hour.

  He didn’t care.

  By the time the enemy realized what was happening, his vanguard would already be hammering at their flank. By the time they blinked, it would be over.

  He swept a hand forward. The second wave moved instantly, splitting into two jagged arrowheads. One veered left, racing upstream to the ford with noise and fire, an obvious, clumsy feint led by disposable demons. The other, his true force, pressed close to the waterline under cover of low fog and conjured silence.

  As the fodder reached the ford, they also moved in. At his signal, the Vainqueurs surged.

  One by one, his casters unfurled scrolls and slammed them into the mud. Arcane sigils flashed as slabs of earth rose from the riverbed, locking together with brutal elegance. The bridge didn’t grow. It manifested, rising not from nature, but from intention.

  Dmitry’s intention.

  And it was wide. Wide enough for cavalry. Wide enough for war.

  Soon, it was too late.

  The bridge met the opposite bank with a heavy, final slam of stone, locking into place like the last tooth in a devouring jaw.

  Spells and arrows burst from the lone tower across the river—predictable, almost pitiful resistance. A token garrison. Window dressing for the illusion of control. The kind of empty gesture weak leaders like Charlie tolerated. Just enough to make her feel clever.

  Dmitry laughed. A short sound. No mirth, just scorn.

  He’d carve that mistake open.

  The tower might’ve raised the alarm, but it didn’t matter. The bridge was built. His forces were already crossing.

  And then, like a curse pulled from the dirt itself, the wolves rose. Wolves. Coated in muck and thorns. Crawling from under roots, from cracks between stones, from the very bones of the land. They didn’t arrive.

  They emerged.

  [Hellhounds] thundered across the bridge in answer, dozens at first, then hundreds. Their claws gouged the conjured stone with every pounding stride. The air trembled with their momentum. Jaws unhinged too far, too wrong. Green fire burned in their sockets, sickly and furious.

  They didn’t bark.They didn’t howl. They just ran. Dmitry’s pulse echoed the rhythm of their charge. Precision. Power. Beautiful.

  Then came the reply.

  About thirty [Mud Wolves] surged up the slope like the land had decided to answer back. Broad-shouldered and low-slung, they wore the battlefield itself as armor, caked, cracked mud over stone-thick hides. Their golden eyes burned with calm hatred.

  No hesitation. They charged. The impact hit like thunder. Hellhounds slammed into them in a frenzy of teeth and fury. Fire met stone. Speed crashed into mass. Dmitry’s eyes narrowed as the first demon hounds faltered, thrown back by sheer, unyielding resistance.

  Interesting.

  Claws scraped uselessly against a hardened mud-plate. Jaws snapped, but couldn’t pierce. One Mud Wolf was flipped, another crushed, but they didn’t break. They bit back. One seized a hellhound by the throat and rolled, dragging it screaming into the river below in a tangle of teeth and filth.

  The bridge became a kill zone.

  Too narrow for full formations. Too short to retreat. Bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder, howling and raking and biting, turning the structure from a tactic into a bottleneck.

  For someone else, this would be a setback. But Dmitry’s eyes glinted as he observed the chaos, calculating, rearranging the battlefield in real time.

  The bridge didn’t need to hold forever.

  Just long enough.

  Then the birds came. Shrieking, circling, diving, an aerial swarm of clawed pests. But one broke formation.

  Larger. Faster. Sharper. It came for him.

  The largest falcon cut through the sky like a thrown blade, wings tucked for speed, eyes glowing with cold precision. Its plumage shimmered with frost-rimed feathers, talons trailing a mist that turned the air brittle. Her most powerful summon. Sent not to disrupt, not to harass, To kill.

  Of course, the enemy, Frozna, by the intel, aimed for the head, the only piece on the board that mattered.

  Dmitry jerked his skeletal reins, but the undead mount was too slow. The falcon was already on him. “Annoying!” he hissed, panic sharpening into fury. A flash of claws; too close. His fingers curled into a sigil, teeth clenched. He spoke the incantation through gritted teeth, no time for flourish. The magic hit like a cannon blast.

  Flames exploded from his palm in a concentrated arc, pure, unforgiving heat that scorched the very air. The falcon shrieked, its wings igniting mid-dive, momentum hurling it sideways in a spiral of smoke and cinders.

  But not before it struck.

  Talons raked across his shoulder, tearing through cloth and charring skin, the frost biting even as fire consumed it. Dmitry recoiled, nearly toppled from his saddle, one hand still burning, the other clutched to his seared flesh.

  A warning. A challenge. He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek and smeared it down the side of his mount’s skull like war paint. “Frozna,” he muttered, voice low and trembling with wrath. “You’ll pay for that little stunt.”

  Then, louder, lashing the reins: “[Sky Reavers]—rip them out of the sky!” Demon commanders didn’t give him much of command over them, but for these pests it was enough. “Push through! Kill. Then ask them to surrender!”

  The Vainqueurs roared in response. In the distance, a flash of movement, riders on the far hill scrambling to reposition. Too late.

  Lisa would rally, of course. She had the spirit. The kind that confused stubbornness for strength. He welcomed it. The harder she pushed back, the more thoroughly he could break her. Strategically.

  His voice, cold as the water flooding his boots, rang out above the charge. “No prisoners until the line breaks. Let them see the cost of loyalty.”

  The falcon hit the river like a meteor, trailing embers and ash. Its charred wings twitched once, then stilled. On the bank, just beside the tower, a scream tore through the din. Dmitry’s gaze snapped to the source. And there she was. Frozna.

  Kneeling in the mud, surrounded by the fading glow of support spells, her hands outstretched toward the smoking ruin in the water. The shriek had betrayed her position. Her weakness. Her grief.

  He almost sighed. Again, compassion is their downfall.

  And this time, he didn’t rush the casting. He lifted his hand, channeling the spell properly. Hero spell, already upgrade to 7-legendary, fire-based, a rare luxury in his arsenal. The surrounding air rippled with heat, the sigils forming with ruthless elegance, each glowing rune a nail in her coffin.

  “Burn with purpose,” he whispered. The spell snapped through the air like divine judgment.

  Frozna barely had time to register the attack. Her shield flared, too slow. Too soft. It shattered on impact. The blast struck her chest dead-on, engulfing her in a spiral of flame that bloomed like a crimson flower against the stone.

  She hit the ground, hard.

  Still breathing, but stunned. Face pale with shock as her summoned beasts fell around her, dropping like puppets with cut strings.

  Dmitry didn’t watch her suffer. He already had the next spell ready. A second firebolt cracked through the haze, precise and final.

  At that moment, half the remaining beasts collapsed mid-flight or mid-snarl. A chain reaction of death. The battlefield cracked open like glass underfoot.

  “Advance,” he growled. The Vainqueurs surged, filling the breach.

  [Doom Riders] galloped across the now-cleared bank, their bone-plated steeds trailing smoke and bloodlust. Behind them came five [Ruin Warlocks], their hands already crackling with conjuration sigils, dark robes whipping in the wind.

  The tower stood no chance.

  The warlocks raised their staffs in unison. Storms of razor-sharp bone erupted from the ground, screaming through the air like a thousand serrated blades. The tower’s outer wall crumbled under the barrage, support beams splintering as stone and mortar were chewed away by the bone cyclone.

  Within moments, the structure buckled. Collapsed. Reduced to debris and choking dust. Dmitry stood tall in his saddle, firelight reflecting in his eyes. He didn’t cheer. He didn’t gloat.

  Victory was expected.

  He simply raised his hand, and pointed forward. “To the heart of their line,” he said.