Southern Approach – Temporary Forward Camp
The morning haze clung low to the ground, heavy with the smell of burnt moss and old fungal dust. A runner, breathless and mud-caked, finished reading the report aloud inside the tent.
Fornos sat lazily on a crate, arms folded, masked face inscrutable. "It seems like Mark and Roa are doing well," he said casually, voice tinged with amusement as he leaned back, boot tapping against the wooden box.
Park stood near the center of the tent, still as a statue. Only his eyes moved, locked on Fornos.
"Oh, don't wonder," Fornos continued smoothly, waving one hand. "I'm only here because the holding I planned didn't need much work. Turns out it was nothing but mud and empty tunnels."
Park said nothing. Just kept watching.
Fornos chuckled under his breath, the sound muffled slightly by the sleek black mask he always wore. "A boring success, really. I figured I'd stretch my legs a bit."
He rose, dusting off his coat, and stepped outside the tent. The light outside was muted, pale and damp, as he pulled a slender lorgnette from his pocket and clipped it to his eye.
Beyond the slight rise of the camp, a ragged group of bandit-controlled golems moved clumsily into position. Five in total—cobbled together from scavenged armor plates, crude shield rigs, and rusted weapons. Nothing that would trouble Ash Company's heavy units.
"So, these are the chumps we're taking in," Fornos said dryly.
Park's face, normally unreadable, flickered slightly. His brow twitched—not at the enemy, but at Fornos' dismissive tone.
Fornos caught it immediately. "What? The only thing those five golems have is some light armor slapped over rotting joints. Craterhoof's cannons will rip them apart like thin vines."
Park gave a small nod. A grim acknowledgment.
"Alright then," Fornos said, stretching his shoulders with a theatrical air. "Let's begin."
He lifted one hand lazily. The signet ring on his finger pulsed faintly, a shimmering golden hue.
Across the camp, Kindling stirred—a medium-class golem built for heavy lifting, its thick arms plated with dull bronze. It moved forward in a low crouch, scraping a large boulder off the ground like it was nothing more than a pebble.
The bandits hadn't even seen it yet.
Kindling shifted weight, took aim, and hurled the boulder.
It cut through the mist like a meteor. Before the bandit golems could react, the stone smashed into one, shattering its midsection. The golem collapsed instantly, its control relay sputtering in the dirt.
From the bandits' lines, panicked shouting erupted.
"We're under attack!!"
"Shields! Shields, damn it!!"
Wooden planks and scraps of metal were hurriedly thrown up. Shields clattered into place—but it was rushed, sloppy. None of them had the discipline for a real counter-assault.
Back at the tent, Fornos grinned under his mask.
He tilted his head slightly at Park. "Is that why you were giving me the look earlier?"
Park shifted his gaze to the shattered golem, then back to Fornos. His meaning was clear: fragile or not, the enemy still posed risks. No point underestimating the desperate.
Fornos accepted the silent scolding with a shrug. "Fair enough. Guess I owe you a drink once we get back."
He flipped the lorgnette to Park. "Here—your move. Just make sure you leave the golems mostly intact. Logistics will want them for parts."
Turning toward the gathered combatants—a mix of hardened veterans and fresh auxiliaries—Fornos called out, voice sharp: "Move forward when the firing stops. Take the survivors alive. Collars on everyone. Don't waste my time."
A chorus of affirmatives answered him.
Meanwhile, the real beast stirred behind them.
Craterhoof—the company's siege-class golem—whirred to life, hydraulic pistons venting mist into the cold air. Its twin cannon arms shifted into firing position, plates locking into place with heavy clicks.
The ground trembled slightly as the massive golem took its first step forward.
Park adjusted the lorgnette on his eye, scanning the field calmly. He traced the outlines of the enemy formation, noting gaps between their rushed shields, the weakened seams along their side armor, the disorganized handling of the auxiliary lines.
Targets acquired.
Without a word, Park raised his hand in a flat, sharp gesture.
Craterhoof reacted instantly.
The first cannon belched fire—a thunderous roar that shattered the mist. A high-velocity slug tore through the battlefield, punching straight through one of the enemy shields and slamming into a golem's shoulder joint. The enemy unit twisted sideways, collapsing under its own weight.
Screaming followed, muffled by the shriek of metal grinding on stone.
The bandits tried to scatter—but Park's handlers had already predicted their paths.
Another cannon shot fired—this time at the foot of a retreating golem, knocking it off balance and pinning it beneath a mound of shattered earth. The rest faltered, morale breaking.
Park gave another subtle hand signal. Hold fire.
The heavy guns fell silent, thick smoke curling from Craterhoof's barrels.
Now it was the combatants' turn.
They surged forward in tight formations—efficient, professional. Ash Company didn't waste time grandstanding. Two handlers moved ahead with restraint rods and binding collars, while the others fanned out to intercept any runners.
Within minutes, the skirmish ended.
Three bandits lay face down in the mud, pinned beneath golem limbs or stunned by shock batons. The few who still struggled were quickly subdued. Crude golems stood inert, their control cores disabled but otherwise intact—perfect for salvaging.
From the hill, Fornos watched, arms crossed.
"Textbook," he murmured. "Almost boring."
Park returned, the lorgnette hanging from his belt.
He gave a single nod—mission complete.
Fornos tilted his head toward the horizon, where dark clouds gathered like bruises across the sky. "Rain's coming. Let's pack up before this mud pit gets worse."
Park gestured to the handlers, who immediately began tagging and hauling the captured golems for transport.
As they moved, Park glanced once more at the broken enemy line—at the desperation, the weak armor, the way they fought like cornered rats.
He made a mental note.
The predators of Witch's Hollow were starting to get sloppy.
And when predators got sloppy...
It usually meant something bigger was coming.