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

A notification pulsed in Fen's HUD, appearing as the last echoing screams of the damned faded into the ether. The rift still loomed like an open wound across the battlefield, its edges seething with flickering green mist.

[The rift has been fed. The damned have returned to the abyss, with 590 new souls in tow. Once summoned, they will not answer again for an age—bound by covenant, sealed for a thousand years. Until that span has passed, no mortal hand may call them back.]

Fen stared at the words. Power like this—legions rising from the abyss, hundreds swallowed in seconds—wasn't just effective, it was unbalanced, downright unfair. No wonder the system had locked it to once in a thousand years.

He rolled his shoulder, sheathing his sword. "Sparking hell… who writes this stuff?"

His HUD flickered as the comm channel opened. "Seraph, Desmond, you reading me?"

"Loud and clear," Seraph replied, her voice tight with whatever she'd just witnessed from the skies.

Fen exhaled. "HUD says that little spell wiped out nearly six hundred combatants. There are maybe sixty left on the field. Can you move two hundred of ours for cleanup? And while you're at it, how bad are our losses?"

Desmond's voice came back steady, though slower than usual. "We've lost just under three-hundred. Another fifty wounded bad enough they'll need to be pulled back. We still have the 200 support in reserves. Could've been worse, Fen. Would've been worse—if not for whatever abyssal nightmare you just unleashed."

A pause. Then, with a grim chuckle: "Still… remind me never to end up across the battlefield from you and that book."

"Yeah, Fen," Seraph chimed in, the usual edge of humor tempered with caution. "I know I told you to lean into the evil warlock vibe, but maybe… tone it down a bit?"

Fen rubbed a hand down his face. "It worked, didn't it? Hold on—I'm patching in Davin."

The channel clicked, faint breathing and the rustle of leaves filtering through.

"Davin here," came the whisper. "Update—they've moved up their timeline. The enemy camp's in chaos, scrambling into columns and pushing out full speed. Looks like word spread that the bridge has been taken, and they're rushing to hit you before you regroup."

Fen's grip tightened on the tome at his hip. "Copy. Desmond, turn the line and brace. With luck, we'll be set before they crash into us."

"I'm issuing orders now," Desmond replied, clipped and steady.

Fen switched back. "Davin, just like we talked about—set the charges off as their column clears the canyon mouth."

"Understood," came the hushed reply. "I'll wait for the center to stretch thin, then bring the whole thing down."

A taut silence stretched over the comms until Seraph finally spoke, her voice dry but edged with nerves. "So this is the big master plan? Get the heavies charging, drop a canyon on their heads, and pray it all looks like you meant it that way?"

Fen let out a short laugh, more breath than humor, and rolled his shoulders. "That's the gist."

"Fantastic," she muttered. "Really inspires confidence, boss."

"Relax," Fen said, eyes narrowing toward the rising plume of dust in the distance. "This is exactly where we want them."

And with that, his thoughts pulled back—unbidden—to th that morning as they threw together a plan that could wiped out a substantial part of two armies. When the map still lay unmarked, when the voices around the table were steady, and all of this had been nothing more than theory and anticipation.

The war table flickered to life in his mind—oil, parchment, and ghost-light projections casting blue across a dim chamber.

"They'll expect us to take the bridge," Fen said, arms crossed as tiny markers clustered on the south side of the span. "So we make it look like a mistake. Drop light, keep the ranged and heavies at the back. Let them think we bungled it."

"That leaves the front exposed," one of the generals warned.

Fen shook his head. "Not exposed—bait. Their heavy armor's staged in that canyon to the southeast. When they charge our rear, the rear becomes the front. All we have to do is pivot when they arrive. Our heavies are already in reserve, which means the line flips instantly—no messy repositioning."

The table went quiet as the shift settled in.

"It isn't about holding ground," Fen continued. "It's about letting the battle unfold on our terms. We won't have our heavies in the first push across the bridge—but when their armor hits, we'll meet steel with steel. Heavy to heavy."

One of the generals shifted uneasily, arms crossed. "That's a risky plan. If everything goes right, fine. But if something unexpected turns the field against us…"

Fen cut in, voice steady. "Which brings me to one more thing. Before we move further—I want to be sure the Crystal won't interfere while we're assaulting. If it does, this all goes to sparks and circuits."

Desmond shook his head, calm but firm. "Not this early. The Crystal isn't an Overseer—it doesn't single anyone out. When it acts, it acts across the board, and usually later in the week. Right now, it's just background. If we win tonight, though…" His mouth thinned. "Then yes, expect it to work overtime trying to even the scales."

Fisck's smile sharpened, hungry. "Good. If we can crush two armies on Day Two, the Crystal will have no choice but to throw storms at us just to slow us down. That's not misfortune—that's proof we're ahead."

He leaned in, eyes narrowing. "That still leaves the bridge force to deal with before the reinforcements arrive behind us. How do you plan to break them fast enough to make the turn?"

Fen's smirk tugged wider. "Oh, I've got a plan for that."

Seraph groaned. "Sparks, here we go again."

A pause.

Fisck's eyes narrowed. "Can you tell us this plan?"

"Well…" Fen rubbed the back of his neck. "I have the beginnings of a plan."

Seraph dragged a hand down her face. "Oh no."

Desmond arched a brow. "What?"

"he means," Seraph muttered, still staring at the war table, "he's about to pull a Fen."

Fisck glanced between them, confused. "Pull a… what?"

Fen lifted his hands in mock offense. "Hey, come on. Give me some credit—I do have a plan."

Seraph shot him a flat, exhausted look.

"Well… an outline," Fen admitted, dragging the words like he knew exactly why Seraph was exasperated. His smirk didn't fade. "I have an outline of a plan, okay?"

That earned him a round of skeptical stares, half the table turning to Seraph like she was the only sane one left.

"So we shouldn't proceed?" Fisck pressed.

Seraph sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No, we should. It'll work."

"But?" Fisck said, leaning forward.

"Just—" she let her hand fall, resigned "—be ready to keep it fluid."

One of the generals cleared his throat, arms crossed, voice dry with doubt. "Let's say this all works…"

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Fen didn't need to hear the rest. The unspoken which is doubtful hung heavy in the air.

The same general continued to press, voice low. "The heavy armor is still going to be a major problem, even if we take the bridge. We don't have enough of our own heavies to counter a force that size."

Fen's grin sharpened. "The heavies in that canyon? That part I do have a solid plan for. And we're going to make them pay for hiding there."

A ripple of raised brows moved around the table. Desmond smirked, shaking his head as Fen leaned closer.

"This is where the real magic of the plan comes in."

The map projection shifted under his hand. "We send the scouts back ahead of the main force. Quiet, fast, through the ridges. They'll reach the canyon mouth before we commit. Their job's simple: set charges where the rock's weakest, wait until half the heavies are out and have cleared the mouth of the canyon, then—boom." Tiny markers blinked across the display, flaring like detonations.

One of the generals frowned. "Half the force? Why only half? And why wait at all? If we know they're inside, why not collapse the canyon right away and bury the lot of them?"

"A few reasons," Fen said, letting the silence stretch before he continued. "First, I want them convinced they can win—I want them overconfident and reckless. If we spring the trap too early, they'll hole up in the canyon and refuse to move. That wouldn't be the worst outcome, but it forces us into a drawn-out fight on their terms. And after the bridge assault, we won't have the reserves to grind them down like that."

A few officers exchanged slow, thoughtful nods.

"Second," Fen continued, tapping the canyon mouth, "their heavy armor's too well-equipped. If we collapse it the moment they start moving, they'll just dig themselves out fast. But if we split them—half inside the canyon, half out—then they're stuck with two bad choices." He slid his fingers apart across the map, illustrating the divide. "Either they pause to help dig out the ones trapped, buying us precious time… or they press forward into us at half strength."

Silence held the table for a beat before Desmond gave a low whistle. "…That's nasty."

Fen smirked. "I try." His gaze slid to Fisck. "Now tell me—do you have something that can neutralize heavy armor? Magic, tech, I don't care what."

Fisck exhaled through his nose, calculating. "You're talking anti-magic bombs. Etheric resonance. Costly, time-intensive. We've got plenty of conventional ordnance already staged — more than enough to bring the canyon down. Why burn coin on tricks we don't need?"

Fen spread his hands, leaning across the table. "Because standard explosives don't solve the problem. Their armor's shielded. Drop half a mountain on them and they'll dig out. Strip the magic, crack the wards—then it's just metal and gears waiting to die."

Fisck's brow furrowed, unimpressed. "Even if I agreed, we've got barely four hours before the march. You think I can spin gold out of straw in that time?"

Desmond's voice cut in, smooth and level. "Think about what comes after. Blow them up with regular charges, and their heavy suits are rubble. Worthless. But with anti-magic bombs…" He let the thought hang, then tapped the map with deliberate weight. "You drop the shields, kill the pilots, and the armor's intact. Salvageable. That's a fortune in war machines waiting to be claimed."

Fisck's eyes narrowed, his scowl sharpening into hunger. He sat back, fingers drumming on the table. "Reclaimed heavies."

Fen could almost see the ledger balancing in Fisck's mind. His grin was quick and sly. "All upside. You seal the canyon, gut your enemies, and line your coffers."

Silence stretched before Fisck finally gave a short, sharp laugh. "Fine. I'll put the mages to work and divert the resources. I don't know how many they can turn out in four hours, but they'll be building bombs until the moment we drop them. But if this gamble costs me more than it earns…" His smile turned knife-thin. "Your head is the first mark on the ledger, Fen."

Fen inclined his head, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "Then let's make sure it pays." His voice was smooth, sharp, almost cruel in its confidence. "And Fisck—get ready to add a few new toys to your collection."

That same grin returned now, sharp and knowing, as his focus snapped back to the battlefield. The war table and quiet strategy dissolved into the present—the scent of burning wood and churned earth thick in the air.

His fingers tightened around the comm.

"Davin," he said, voice cutting through the static.

A pause. Then the scout's voice, low, urgent.

"Yeah, Fen?"

"The charges are set?"

"Set and waiting. The first couple hundred are already breaking into a full charge and are clear of the canyon."

Fen exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. Far in the distance, he could just make out the shifting shapes beginning to spill from the canyon mouth—tiny silhouettes against the horizon, too far to read but close enough to know the moment was here. In his mind, he filled in the rest: the canyon behind them still choked with heavy armor, the first wave already breaking free and rushing forward, unaware of what waited beneath their boots.

The trap was set.

His lips curled, "Execute the plan. Blow the charges."

The horizon flared. He couldn't see the canyon itself, only the sudden bloom of light as the explosions tore skyward, pillars of fire and dust stabbing up until they smeared against the clouds. The thunder reached him a beat later, rolling across the plain like an earthquake in the sky. Then the shockwave—raw force that hammered his chest and rattled the stone under his boots even from three-quarters of a mile away.

He couldn't see it from here, but he knew what the blast would do. Heavy armor—golems of dark enchanted steel and ogres clad in rune-etched plate—were caught in the blast. Those clustered at the rear, lifted clean off their feet, hurled like toys, their massive suits crumpling into twisted wreckage before they even hit the ground.

The ones at the front turned too late. They could only hear the screams behind them—the gut-wrenching sound of wards shattering, steel shearing, and men crushed inside their own machines as the canyon walls came down.

From Fen's comms, Desmond's voice cut through the chaos.
"Turn and brace, men! Before they get their legs under them. Do not charge. The Legacy is almost here. Any of our transmuted suits caught in what comes next will be scrap."

The battlefield shifted. Their smaller force of friendly heavies—barely a hundred and fifty, clad in burnished plating and reinforced and transmuted magitech—turned as one, bracing into a defensive wall. Normally they would've been outnumbered three or four to one. But the canyon trap had worked. Nearly half of the enemy heavies—two hundred suits—were now cut off by fire and rubble. The survivors in front of them were only half-strength, stunned, and scattered. For the first time, Fen's troops stood on even ground.

Fen's lips curled. The timing had been better than he dared hope. The bridge was theirs. The canyon was sealed. And the enemy commander now had a choice: dig out his trapped heavies and risk losing momentum, or throw the survivors outside the canyon into one final desperate melee.

Fen's gaze stayed locked on the shifting enemy ranks. His breath caught as the answer became clear. The column on their side of the debris regrouped, shields and weapons lowering, then began a fresh charge.

A melee it is, Fen thought grimly. Good. Our odds are better than theirs. It's only a matter of time.

The enemy heavies slammed forward, reinforced magitech grinding and hissing, the ground shuddering as the two forces collided. Metal on metal. Sparks cascading like molten rain.

Firebolts lanced down from the rear lines as the foot soldiers and mages from what was once the front at the battle for the bridge were now in the rear ready to support. Chain lightning ripped across the clash, the air searing with the stink of ozone. Explosive-tipped arrows rained in from their archers, striking at weak points in the enemy's armor and detonating on impact.

One enemy golem staggered back, its dark plating scorched and cracking, just before an arcane lance from a mage speared through its chest. The blast tore it apart from the inside, the rune-light in its core guttering out as it collapsed.

And still they came. Survivors regrouped, shields locked, trying to rally under the storm of spells and arrows.

A shadow loomed across the battlefield.

The Legacy.

It surged out of the horizon haze like a descending storm, cutting straight from the docking bay where it had been rearmed. Its gunwells glowed with heavy arcane charges, the underbelly bristling with rows of ordnance shimmering with runic power.

And it wasn't alone.

Its escort had come too: wyvern riders and eagle knights, the same fast fliers they had seen escorting the ship on the first day. They had done their duty shepherding the Legacy here, but now they too could join the fight.

The massive warship dipped lower, setting its course straight for the canyon and the trapped two hundred heavies still trying to dig out.

The gust of wings and a rush of displaced air announced Seraph before Fen even turned. Petrie landed hard, talons gouging dirt, the drake folding his wings as Seraph swung down in the saddle.

For a moment, neither spoke. Both just… watched. Days of planning, risk, and blood had brought them here.

Seraph broke the silence first, her eyes bright, relief cutting through her usual smirk. "Well," she said, "you didn't Fen it up too badly."

Fen barked a laugh, rolling his shoulder as he stepped to her side.

"Almost perfect," she admitted, nudging Petrie's reins. "But tell me—did you actually know that spell would work at the bridge?"

Fen snorted. "Not a clue."

Her brows shot up. "You're kidding."

He grinned, dust and sweat streaking his forehead. "Sounded cool in the description, so I figured I'd try it."

She stared at him, then burst out laughing.

Fen grinned wider, exhaustion creeping at the edges. For the first time in hours, the tension broke.

Behind them, the Legacy's bombing run began. Enormous blue explosions bloomed inside the canyon, towering arcs of fire and arcane energy blasting skyward. The ground shook with each detonation, the canyon becoming a graveyard of steel and shattered rock. Two hundred suits of enemy armor—obliterated before they could even join the fight.

Fen glanced back at Seraph, his grin weary but satisfied. "See? I told you I had a plan."

She shook her head, still grinning. "Sure, yes, it worked. But you have to admit—it was a very Fen plan."

The moment almost felt calm. Almost.

Then the comms crackled. "They're attacking the base," came a static-choked voice, urgent. "Repeat, the sky fortress is under attack—"

The line went dead.

Fen's heart sank, the fleeting taste of victory gone in an instant. His head snapped toward Desmond, who stood a short distance away—close enough to see, too far to hear. Their eyes met, but only the comm carried his voice, taut and commanding.

"Repeat that. What is happening?"

"They're attacking the base." The signal was heavy with static, but the urgency in the voice was unmistakable. "I repeat, the sky fortress is under attack—"