NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

The sky thrummed with wings and the groan of enchanted wood. A few hours had passed since the war table, and now Fen stood at the open bay of their transport, the wind tugging at his cloak as the assault armada spread out before him.

When they'd first arrived in the Verdant Expanse, the force had been scattered—ships still dockside, crews unloading, formations loose. This was different. Now a thousand of their best fighters filled the main aerial armada, each transport bristling with armed troops packed shoulder-to-shoulder reminiscent of paratroopers in an ancient holos. Behind them, two hundred green reserves followed in smaller, slower vessels, the kind built to drop in after the first wave had cleared a landing zone. On paper, their force and the enemy's were evenly matched in number—until you factored in the strength of the units in the canyon. Fisck's best troops and tech could match it, maybe even surpass it, but Fen had learned long ago never to walk into a fair fight. Especially not if the enemy is expecting you.

If his plan with the Legacy worked, those high-tier suits and walkers wouldn't get the fight they were expecting. If it didn't… then this was going to be brutal. And one-sided.

He let his gaze sweep the armada—a force fit for legend, vast, powerful, and breathtaking. The assault transports flew in perfect formation, each one a masterwork of warcraft and artistry. They were like winged phantoms of the Legacy itself, though smaller and leaner, shaped like old-world Viking warships, sleek and fearsome. Their hulls gleamed like carved obsidian, runes and sigils woven into the wood and pulsing with faint blue light. The prow of each vessel opened into a wide observation bay, where officers stood ready to oversee the drop and call orders as the battlefield unfolded below. Unlike the Legacy, these ships were not bound by engines or turbines—teams of mighty pegasi pulled them through the skies, their silver-threaded wings beating in synchronized power, leaving streaks of light in their wake like falling stars. Each pegasus bore an armed rider as well, warriors slated to break formation and join the aerial forces once the main drop was complete.

Around them, the sky belonged to beasts of war.

Wyvern riders flanked the transports, their scaled mounts rippling with coiled muscle and simmering fury, the occasional flick of their tails leaving arcs of blue flame curling through the air behind them. Each wyvern bore two riders—one gripping the reins, the other manning a mounted repeater crossbow, their eyes scanning the horizon for threats. They flew like predators, darting between the ships with practiced ease, their riders clad in sleek aerial combat armor.

Above them, the great eagles soared. Massive, regal creatures with gilded wings that cut through the air like banners of war, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Their two-man saddles were occupied by marksmen wielding long-barreled arcane muskets, their weapons gleaming with spell-forged precision. The eagles banked and wheeled, their formation weaving like banners through the lines of assault ships, moving like a tide cresting before a storm.

Far below, the distant enemy waited.

Fen took it all in—the rhythm of wings beating like war drums, the glow of runes in the twilight, warriors poised at the rails. To the untrained eye, this was an unstoppable force. To him, it was the knife's edge between glory and disaster.

The plan would turn the enemy's ambush against them, using their own timing as the trigger. If it worked, it would be a maneuver worth telling for years. If it didn't… he pushed the thought aside.

Fen exhaled, gripping the railing as the wind pulled at his cloak. He'd been in fights before—plans that hinged on split-second execution, invisible margins, and just enough luck to keep from collapsing. He didn't like them.

He didn't trust them.

"You're thinking too hard," Desmond's voice cut through the din, dry but edged with understanding.

Fen tore his gaze away from the battlefield in the making and turned to Desmond, who leaned against the railing of the transport, arms crossed, eyes sharp but smiling. It wasn't the cocky grin he usually wore—this one was quieter, sharper, and predatory.

Seraph sat across from them, arms folded, her foot tapping idly against the deck as she studied the growing battlefield below. She rolled a shoulder, exhaling slow, as if shedding the weight pressing in around them. "Remind me again why this works."

Fen didn't hesitate. "Because we need them to believe we're walking straight into the trap."

Seraph's fingers drummed against her crossbow strap, her gaze flicking between the bridge and the scar of the canyon beyond. "And what if the canyon force envelops us faster than we expect? If the charges don't go off, or the Legacy is late… or hit before it can make the run?"

Desmond's grin was faint but deliberate. "Then we make sure they're the ones who pay for closing the gap."

"Great. Not terrifying at all." Seraph's eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no frustration—just the quiet calculation of someone turning the pieces over in her mind, testing for cracks.

Fen exhaled through his nose, arms still resting against the railing as he gazed out at the assault force. He got it—no one liked relying on maybes. Timing, deception, and luck weren't exactly solid ground to stand on, but that was the gamble of war. No plan survives contact with the enemy. The best they could do was make sure that when things went sideways, they'd be the ones on the bounce.

And if they weren't?
Then everyone on their side would be dead, the Legacy gone, and the Division War lost in a single, crushing blow.

What sparked his circuits was that Fisck had stayed behind while sending this armada out. Every fighter here was a hardcore player—no respawns, no second chances. If it all went to sparking scraps, that was it. Fisck had a reputation for leading from the front, but that only seemed to apply when the outcome was already leaning toward victory.

Fen forced the thought aside. He needed his focus on the people here, the ones about to bleed beside him. "I barely know Rena and Davin," he said, eyes flicking toward the ridgeline in the distance, "but they strike me as the kind who'll have our little surprise ready to go—probably tied up with a bow."

Desmond smirked, shaking his head. "Let's just hope we don't have to sign for the delivery."

Seraph sighed, running a hand through her hair before grabbing her crossbow and standing. "I hate trusting my life to a coin flip."

He wasn't surprised she had doubts—only a fool wouldn't—but hearing them from her was rare. After cycles of fighting side by side, maybe they were starting to think too much alike.

Tightening the strap on his gear, he gave her a sidelong glance. "Yeah," he muttered. "That's why we roll the dice instead."

A figure in a blacksmith's apron strode up to them, nodding toward Desmond. "Your armor's ready for fitting, sir."

Desmond stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders before looking to Fen and Seraph with a grin. "You sure I can't persuade you two to try a transmuted exoskeleton rig? Full knight-plate design, custom-fitted, reinforced, and loaded with all the perks of modern warfare. Strong enough to turn a killing blow into a glancing hit, but light enough to move like it's part of you."

Fen shook his head, adjusting the strap of his belt. "That still makes me feel too confined—like a monkey about to be launched into space. I'll take my chances with my reflexes over wearing a walking tank."

Desmond smirked. "Suit yourself… No pun intended."

He turned to Seraph. "And you?"

Seraph ran a hand over her crossbow, checking the mechanism before shaking her head. "Not for me, either. I'll be on my drake most of the fight, and if things go sideways, I need to vanish into the shadows. The spell doesn't work through armor."

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Desmond let out a sigh. "Figures. One of you dodges, the other vanishes. I'll stick to not feeling it if I do get hit." He patted the armor-smith on the shoulder. "Let's get this thing fitted."

Before Fen could respond, a voice rang out over the deck.

"Five minutes to drop! Arm and hold! Arm and hold!"

The air shifted instantly. Movement turned focused. Soldiers adjusted their grips on weapons, checked their gear, and stood a little straighter. Even the most composed among them settled into a quiet readiness, their motions sharper, more deliberate.

Fen could see it—the subtle tension beneath the discipline. It wasn't fear so much as the weight of knowing what came next. Years of sizing up fighters—whether on the field, in the pits, or at the start of a match—had taught him to read the difference. These weren't raw recruits; Fisck required everyone in his forces to have at least some combat training. Even so, training alone couldn't prepare you for surviving a real Division War battle.

Some of them carried that look—the looseness in the shoulders, the balanced stance—that told Fen they'd weathered fights before. Others, though, were all polish: perfect posture, brand-new gear, but just a little too stiff. The kind of stiffness that said they hadn't been tested under the weight of true death, where there's no respawn waiting to catch you if you fall.

Fen flexed his fingers at his side, feeling the familiar pulse of energy through him. They had five minutes. Five minutes before everything was decided.

The fleet sliced through the sky in perfect silence, the steady beat of pegasi wings fading into the backdrop. From his vantage point near the edge of the transport, Fen took it all in—the battlefield sprawled below, a patchwork of terrain waiting for someone to claim it. Wide fields of golden grain rippled in the wind, untouched for now but ready to feed whatever army held them if the games ran long. Here and there, abandoned towns and farmsteads clung to the land like stubborn relics, chimneys still curling lazy trails of smoke where opportunistic forces had set up temporary garrisons.

One such town sat near the bend of a slow, winding river, its position perfect for a supply hub. From up here, it almost looked like something out of old Earth holovids—peaceful, unbothered. But Fen knew better. Beauty like that didn't last in a war zone. Soon, the wheat fields and riverside streets would be just another piece on the board.

A shift in the wind carried something sharper—oil and steel—the scent of war getting ready to speak. The air itself felt taut, stretched thin, as if the sky held its breath. Below, the river cut its dark path, currents coiling like thought beneath the surface. That was the world's brushstroke, reshaping the land over centuries. What they were about to do would leave its own mark too—but in fire, not water.

In the Verdant Expanse, battles like this would eventually reset, fields restored, towns rebuilt. But until the Division Wars ended, every scar they left here would feel as real as the death that came with it.

Fen tightened his grip on the railing, scanning the battlefield with fresh eyes. Soon, this canvas would be altered by their violence. The only question was whose hands would hold the brush when it was done.

Then there was the bridge—looming like a verdict. two hundred feet of ancient stone stretched across the narrowed bend of the river, its twin towers rising nearly forty feet above the waterline. The river below ran low this late in the season, its summer-fed flow already fading as harvest neared, leaving a fifteen-foot drop from the bridge deck to the shallows. Like an old titan's spine, it cut a straight, unyielding line across the land. The river curved, wheat fields swayed, even the streets of the distant town followed the gentle slope of the terrain. Only the bridge defied that softness—rigid, unbending, and built to hold.

It was beautiful in its way. Functional. Magic-carved stones fitted so tightly that even simulated centuries hadn't worn its seams. Towers rose from the water like small fortresses, built to carry more than traffic—they were made to hold the line. A perfect archer's perch. A cavalry's snare. An army's bulwark across the heart of the battlefield.

And it was exactly where his troops would have to go. Under it. Through it. Straight into the gauntlet. The moment they hit the shore, the archers in those towers would cut into Fen's side like a scythe, while narrow lanes funneled them toward waiting pikes. And somewhere in those fields of tall grass and swaying crops, cavalry and infantry would be lying low, ready to hammer the flanks once the charge committed.

A masterful defense—and one they were about to sell their lives trying to break.

And yet, it was a defense built on expectation—on the belief that an army would throw itself straight at the bridge, breaking like a tide against cliffside stone.

Fen let out a slow breath. They'd make it look that way… but it was only part of the truth.

His eyes drifted to the north shore, past the golden fields and the quiet town that had become an unwilling participant in this war. Despite the bridge's fortifications, the land beyond it remained open—rolling farmland that had never been meant for battle. That was the problem.

"This is going to be rough," he murmured, just loud enough for Seraph to hear.

She didn't need to ask what he meant. Her gaze followed his toward the small transport units peeling away from the main armada, banking toward the north end of the bridge. Barely two hundred troops, but each one kitted and drilled to hold ground. They weren't there to win—they were there to lock the gate, to make damn sure the enemy couldn't just spill out the far side of the bridge when the fighting started.

"They won't hold long," Seraph said, tightening the strap on her crossbow. Her eyes moved between the descending transports and the enemy massing at the bridge towers. "If the fight turns, they'll be outnumbered five to one."

"They don't have to hold forever," Fen said. "Just long enough."

Long enough for the real fight to unfold on the southern shore.

The larger transports were already surging ahead, sweeping southward across the river toward the barren flats beyond. That was where Fen meant to hit—and hit hard. The enemy's ambush force sat coiled in the canyon, less than a mile southeast of the bridge, ready to rush in and collapse on any army foolish enough to take the direct route.

Fen's plan was simple on paper: smash into the southern bank with overwhelming force, grind the defenders there into a brutal melee, and make it look like the perfect moment for the canyon force to strike. If the enemy forces took the bait, they'd find themselves walking into something far worse.

The lands to the south of the bridge were a different world. Where the north held the quiet town and tilled fields, the south was ruin and stone—jagged canyons and flood-carved troughs cutting deep scars through the land. Fen's gaze tracked past the shifting shadows of the ravines to the largest of them, a long, dark wound barely visible from this height.

The canyon.

Somewhere inside, hidden by walls of rock and silence, waited the enemy's heavy strike force—four hundred units strong. Mechs disguised as trolls, great war beasts plated in runed armor, siege wagons hitched to iron-clad horses. Enough to crush his forces from the rear and sides and scatter it like dry wheat.

Fen's mind shifted to the other presence in those canyons—his own scouts. He didn't have to see them to know they were there, moving quick and low along the rim, bent under the weight of satchels and coils of wire, ducking from shadow to shadow. Laying the kind of groundwork no one here but him knew about. He trusted them. He had to. If they failed, this battle would be over before it began. But if they succeeded, their work would set the stage for the strike waiting in the belly of the Legacy—already on its way, even now.

Closer to the bridge itself, the defenders were dug in—a total of seven hundred fifty troops split between both banks, most packed tight around the southern bridge towers and a smaller force near the town at the northern end. Pikes jutted from barricades, iron tips flashing in the light. Warhorses shifted in their pickets, handlers moving with efficient calm. This wasn't for show. These were cavalry bred for war, trained to shatter formations and grind men into the dirt.

Fen rolled his shoulders, running through it again in his mind. The enemy thought they had the script—force the invaders to the bridge, bleed them under the towers, then smash them apart with the canyon charge. It was solid. Deadly.

But they'd written the wrong ending—and he was holding the pen now.

His eyes went back to the northern end, where two hundred of his own—along with Seraph—would hold the far bank. Their job wasn't to win the bridge, but to seal it shut, pinning the enemy's northern defenders in place so they couldn't retreat or regroup. On the southern side, Fen's main force would hit hard, slamming into the defenders in a single, overwhelming strike. Together, the two prongs would close like a trap, crushing the bridge defenders between them.

It was a risky chokehold. If the northern line broke, the defenders could slip north and deny the trap. If Fen's push stalled for too long, the canyon force to the southeast would arrive—hammering into his southern flank and rear with trolls, war mechs, and whatever else the enemy had transmuted, while the bridge defenders pressed from the front. That would be game over: crushed between the bridge and the canyon heavies.

That meant the bridge had to fall fast, before the defenders could adjust and before the heavy armor could close in. Fen had an ace for that, a decisive surprise he had been holding for the right moment. When the canyon force finally poured out, his southern troops would pivot and Seraph's line would join them, holding just long enough for the Legacy to get into position and for his real surprise waiting in the canyon to be unleashed.

On the surface, it would look like they were walking blind into the enemy's perfect counterstroke—charging the bridge as though they didn't know what was coming from the southeast. That illusion was part of the plan. Sell the story, draw the heavies out, and let them think the script was theirs… right up until the pages burned.

He traced the railing with one finger, measuring the moment, a cold edge in his smile. That was when the trap would close.

The river glinted far below, the bridge looming ahead like a final judgment. The air tasted of oil and steel. Soldiers shifted their weight, checked straps, and breathed slowly.

Fen's pulse matched the thrum of the action. The pieces were in place. The board was set.

Time to flip the script and let the ink run red.