Aester had three days before the undead boars reached the village—at least, that was Mizzles' report. The goblin, it turned out, had been playing the role of makeshift scout thanks to her habit of wandering off.

  The ticking clock didn’t bother Pride.

  “Three days isn’t a lot of time. But it is enough.”

  The chief, after hearing his daughter’s report, had happily given Aester full authority to train the goblins by any means necessary.

  One thing the U.S. Army had drilled into her was how effective stress was as a teacher. Boot camp wasn’t just about muscle—it was about pressure. If you could get used to a drill sergeant screaming in your face, you could get used to bullets passing inches from your skull.

  But that kind of instinct—engraved in muscle memory—took time. And time was a luxury she didn’t have.

  So, she had to adapt.

  War was like dancing. That was something Aester had learned across twelve years in the Middle East.

  The simpler the dance, the simpler the moves.

  The simpler the moves, the simpler the minds were allowed to be to perform them.

  Right now, she didn’t need warriors.

  She needed obedience.

  She needed them to fear her more than the monsters coming to tear them apart.

  ---

  They were lined up now—12 (11 + grinla) goblins in a crooked horizontal line, all staring at her with uncertain eyes.

  Good. She could work with that.

  Her earlier shouting must’ve woken them up; now, she needed to shake them up.

  “Listen up, runts. In three days, every man, woman, and child in this village will be butchered. They’ll be shredded into mulch and fed to the dirt.”

  Her voice was calm, unflinching—not furious or loud, just cold.

  “I’ve been put in charge—by Terra and your chief—to turn your sorry little sacks into something worth fearing. That means I’ll beat you into shape. And if you don’t like it? If you grow the balls to challenge me?”

  She took a single step forward.

  “Then by all means—step up. I’ll kick your sorry ass myself.”

  Not a word. Not a breath.

  “From here on, every sentence from your mouth will start and end with ‘Ma’am.’ And before we even get to training, we’re going to find out what you’re actually good for.”

  Because assigning random weapons to random hands would only lead to random deaths.

  She’d seen that mistake too many times—men thrown into jobs they were never trained for, miscommunication in the middle of chaos. Fog of war killed more than bullets did.

  ---

  She started with the basics: push-ups.

  The goblins hit the ground. It wasn’t about strength—it was about endurance, constitution, discipline.

  Grinla tried to sneak away, assuming her captain’s title exempted her. Aester made it very clear she was wrong.

  One by one, goblins dropped from fatigue. And each time one did, Aester met them with a quiet, merciless insult—cold, calculated, never personal. It wasn’t stress that she wanted to build, It was fear.

  She made sure however that the insults were long enough for them to catch their breath but not long enough go let them rest.

  Most of the goblins did moderately well.

  Except Grinla—who excelled despite her earlier reluctance.

  And one other, a larger goblin whose name she quickly learned: Gobo.

  Gobo had a massive belly and an even bigger heart. A father of two. Loyal. Loving. But he gave up too quickly, too easily.

  She made a note of it.

  When Gobo collapsed from fatigue, Aester let him rest for a minute. But even after the time had passed, he didn’t move. He wasn’t physically weak—he was mentally unmotivated.

  That had to be corrected.

  “Strike him where it shall hurt, for his own safety and survival,” Pride urged.

  Aester didn’t want to hurt him—but she didn’t want his children growing up fatherless either.

  She walked toward him slowly, her cane tapping the grass in rhythm with her limp. Her right leg dragged behind her, a dead weight. The air cooled as she approached.

  “What is your purpose, Gobo? Aren’t you a father?”

  Her voice was quiet—too quiet.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Do you know what a starving boar does to children?”

  Gobo didn’t answer. His eyes locked onto hers.

  “They don’t go for the throat. They start with the legs—soft tissue. They peel the skin off in strips. The child screams. That excites the others.”

  Her words cut deeper than steel. Gobo flinched. Horror swelled in his eyes.

  “Then they dig in. Abdomen first. The belly swells as they gorge. Still screaming. Until the ribs crack. That’s when it goes quiet.”

  The words hung in the air like a hanged man—swinging, silent, final.

  Gobo collapsed to his hands and knees, trembling. Tears welled in his eyes. She hadn’t shouted. She didn’t need to.

  She’d spoken just loud enough for everyone to hear—

  but soft enough that it felt like a whisper meant only for him.

  And it worked.

  He started moving again. Driven not by orders, but by fear.

  Her voice had been as cold and plain as she could make it. Her stare was a perfect mimic of her old drill instructor, McStare—rest in peace.

  "Poor thing. He only wants to protect his family," Love whispered. She didn’t disagree. But she didn’t stop either.

  Gobo would hate her for this. So would his friends.

  But Aester had hated McStare, too. During training, she’d cursed his name daily.

  But later—when the bullets came too fast and the blood came too easy—not a single day passed where she didn’t pray for his soul.

  She didn’t believe in God.

  But for McStare, she made an exception.

  The rest of the goblins got the message. Loud and clear.

  Especially Grinla, who kept doing push-ups for a full minute after Aester told everyone to stop.

  Aester had been taking notes.

  The goblins with the highest endurance were four: Bob, Grom, Grog, and Mool.

  Grinla aswell but she had a fealing Grinla would be more useful somewhere else

  Next came a test of precision. Each goblin was handed a sling and told to hit a single tree. Compared to the push-ups until collapse, this was a blessing.

  Each goblin received twenty stones. Those who hit at least ten out of twenty from a distance of seventy feet would be marked as marksmen.

  One by one, the stones flew. Some struck true—but most hit dirt.

  Every miss was followed by a nervous glance at Aester, who said nothing. She only made mental notes, her face unreadable.

  Their accuracy was poor—even Grinla missed 14 out of 20 shots.

  Only two recruits came close to acceptable: Timber and Polo.

  Still, two wasn’t enough.

  So she reluctantly added Gobo (8 out of 20) and Tog (9 out of 20) to the roster. They’d be her marksmen—for now. Four would have to do.

  The final test was agility and dexterity.

  The goal was simple:

  Sprint 200 feet, jump over some rocks, and swing through a line of trees. Fast.

  One by one, they ran.

  The 200-foot dash was sluggish—but once they hit the obstacle course, everything changed.

  Suddenly, they were flying. Leaping over rocks with ease, weaving through trees like they'd been born in them.

  Even Aester was surprised.

  They all passed—flawlessly.

  So she made a decision.

  Everyone who hadn’t yet earned a role would serve as cavalry.

  Grinla, Terror, and Joba.

  (No horses required.)

  By the end of the evaluation, the goblins were half-dead. A few dared to curse under their breath—only to be silenced by Aester’s stare.

  The sun was setting, casting golden rays across the sky.

  Light speared from the western horizon to the eastern ridge like a holy display.

  Eleven goblins—and one Grinla—collapsed in the grass, drenched in sweat and defeat.

  Aester didn’t waste a word. She raised her cane and waved them off.

  Dismissed.

  She had other matters to attend to.

  Terra was likely waiting.

  ---

  Aester entered the yellow tent.

  Inside, she found Terra sitting with Mizzles, who was curled up beside her older sister. A cup of warm juice—sour, judging by the ingredients—rested in Terra’s hands.

  There were still hints of purple in her skin, but the fatigue seemed to be lifting. She was awake, alert—comfortable talking with her little sister.

  When they saw Aester, both smiled.

  She approached and sat beside Terra, setting her cane aside.

  Her fingers checked Terra’s forehead. Mizzles watched closely, eyes full of curiosity.

  The heat was stable.

  Scurvy didn’t cause fever, but days of isolation and inactivity could.

  “Try walking around once you feel better,” Aester said gently.

  “But if your joints hurt, don’t push yourself.”

  Mizzles had been doing her part well, bringing a variety of fruits and plants packed with Vitamin C. Aester had made a mental note of her resourcefulness.

  Night had fallen outside, and it was Aester's first night in this strange land. She was here to speak with the chief about where to sleep for the night.

  "If you don't mind me asking, where is your father?" Aester asked, checking Terra's other symptoms.

  "He isn't here. He went to visit the neighboring village in search of medicine... like you said, anything sour."

  "Well then, if I'm not mistaken, that means you're in charge?"

  "No. The shaman is."

  The answer didn't sit well with Aester. She understood the village was feudal and lacked cultural development, but separating church from state was essential for maintaining order.

  "If the shaman weren’t here, would you be in charge?"

  Terra giggled softly and nodded.

  "Then tell me—where do I sleep?" Aester asked, her voice casual. "I may not be fond of feather beds, but I also don’t enjoy sleeping under the stars."

  "Why not with me and Mizzles?" Terra offered, a casual smile on her face.

  Aester froze for a moment, caught off guard. Terra likely didn’t understand the implications, but Aester had once loved a woman. She had always viewed men and women equally, and while this was probably nothing to worry about, the proximity made her uneasy. Meanwhile, Terra and Mizzles were blissfully unaware.

  "Uh... thanks," Aester said, searching for a way out. "But don’t you have, like... a third bed?"

  "Nope. Our chief—my dad—took it with him." Terra dropped onto the mattress beside Mizzles, a jar of fireflies glowing faintly beside her. The soft light illuminated her face, innocent and untroubled, casting long shadows on the walls.

  Inside Aester, the voice of Love stirred, warm and eager.

  "Three women sharing a bed doesn’t have to mean anything," Love whispered gently, a soft warmth in her voice. "They’re welcoming you. Accept it."

  Pride's voice was sharp, cutting through the warmth. "We have shame for a reason. Don’t touch them. Not even by accident."

  Aester exhaled slowly, her chest tight. The bed was an innocent offer, but her mind kept drifting to the implications. She had learned the hard way how easy it was to mistake kindness for something more. But this... this was different, wasn’t it? Terra didn’t mean anything by it. They were just offering hospitality, and the last thing Aester needed was to reject it out of some unresolved fear.

  She glanced at the two women, their faces soft in sleep, unaware of the war being waged inside her. Terra, with her trusting smile, and Mizzles, quietly nestled next to her. Neither of them saw the tension in Aester’s face. They didn’t know what it meant for her to share a space, to allow someone else to get too close. Not like that. Not with her past.

  Aester sighed, a sound barely audible, and made her decision.

  I’m not going to bring my past into this, she thought, pushing away the remnants of her old fears. She wouldn’t let fear hold her back, not when she was offered the chance to rest. It wasn’t about them; it was about her needing to heal, to rebuild, piece by piece.

  She carefully eased herself into the bed, settling at the edge, as far from the others as she could manage. Aster tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t a betrayal of her past. But she couldn’t ignore the weight of the quiet in the air, the tension in her muscles. The bed, though simple, felt like an unspoken promise—one she wasn’t sure she was ready to accept. Still, she closed her eyes and let herself rest, even if it meant stepping a little outside of her comfort zone.

  ---

  The morning arrived, cold light seeping through the cracks of the tent. Outside, the birds were like usual loud. Howevet they didn’t whistle; instead, they made a strange noise, like someone snapping their fingers. Aester would have missed it if she hadn’t seen a small pink sparrow-like bird walk into the tent, making that same noise with its beak. It reminded her that she wasn't in her own world anymore.

  Next to her, Terra and Mizzles slept soundly, unaware of the new day rising.

  Aester had always been the type to wake early, long before the rest of her crew, to prepare for the day. She didn’t need much sleep—seven hours was plenty. Any more, and she'd get a painful headache.

  She reached for her cane and pulled on her shirt, covering her medium-sized bra as she stepped out of the tent. The camp was silent. She didn't have a watch, but if she had to guess, it was probably around 3:30 AM. Normally, she would sleep around midnight, working on whatever tasks she could find on her laptop. But she hadn’t brought it with her. So, all the same, she woke early, as always, just as the sun’s first rays would begin to stretch across the sky.

  Aester needed to prepare for the drill. The recruits would dig pitfalls, set traps, and practice mock battles. It was a simple plan.

  The undead boars relied on their tusks and momentum, the same as regular boars. The strategy was clear: dig a deep pit, lure the boars in with cavalry, and have the marksmen fire. Even if their shots weren’t perfect, surely they’d land on a target not able to move within 30 feet.

  Pride seemed pleased with the simplicity of the plan. It was firm, easy to follow. But Aester’s mind drifted. Firm plans fail. She had seen it in battle too many times. Always have a second plan.

  “If they stack on each other to climb out, the shield wall will push them back,” Pride murmured. It was a solid backup plan, but something in Aester gut twisted.

  She wanted in on the action. The thought of standing shoulder to shoulder with the recruits, feeling the thrill of battle, filled her with longing.

  Every U.S marine would have loved to experience something like this, she was sure it would have the same adrenaline like letting a MG rip its ammo belt, without the need to carry it or the MG

  Her spirit remained steadfast, but her body was another matter. The cursed right leg—a constant reminder of the war she couldn’t forget—aching with every thought of battle. And her arms? Not strong enough for the spear, not reliable enough for the shield wall. The weight of it all pressed in on her.

  Shame stabbed her in the heart

  Pride, however, offered a sharp counterpoint. “So what if we can’t hold a spear? Command is just as vital. We are the ones who made this plan. There is no shame in being unable to fight. Only in being able -yet refusing to.”

  Aester closed her eyes. Pride’s right. Her mind knew the truth, but her heart rebelled against it. I should be fighting.

  Her grip tightened on her cane, the voice of Pride echoing in her head, louder than her doubts. You’re not useless. There was no room for shame in leadership. The trap, the strategy, the command—it was all just as necessary as the battle itself.

  Aester looked out at the sunrise, its light beam sharp. Glimmering across fhe sky letteting anyone who looked at it know, that a new day was here