Sir Garric didn't let the moment pass. The slight smile that had cracked his worn face disappeared into a severe, businesslike expression—the kind of look that had once brought entire ranks to heel.
He turned on his heel and roared, his voice echoing around the dusty village like distant thunder.
"OI! Get on your feet, lazy goats! Grab what remains of your hides and move your bloodied legs. We have timber to cut, and the Lord has provided us with axes to do it! "
The little camp let out a cacophony of grumbles and exhausted curses. Six damaged soldiers, each with new scratches or stiff bandages from the previous massacre, began to shuffle up from where they had been crouched, nursing old wounds.
Garric slapped Gilbert's back with such force that he nearly lost his breath.
"Well, what are you waiting for, young Lord?" Need me to start singing you a marchin' tune, or are you going to get that axe and use your slender arms? "
Gilbert let out a surprised laugh, half nervous and half happy for the release of tension.
"Yes, Sir Garric. "Right behind you."
Garric's piercing gaze went down to the two children who remained awkwardly at Gilbert's side.
"You two, Johnny and Eva, was it? "
Eva emitted a small whimper, half-hiding behind Johnny again. Johnny stood straight, hands bawled, attempting to appear twice his true stature.
Garric only shook his head, amusement flashing quickly through his deep-set eyes.
"Don't worry there is job available for you."
His voice was low, forceful, but strangely comforting.
"Go knock on some of the farmers' doors. Borrow a shovel, or two or three. If they complain, tell 'em it's Sir Garric's word. "We'll need to dig shallow trenches or pits to slow anything that comes running."
Johnny's eyes lighted instantly. "Yes, Sir! "
Eva gave a small nod, clutching her doll to her chest as if it were a shield of pride.
Gilbert paused for a moment, watching them scatter: battered warriors pulling on worn leathers and retrieving axes from where he'd left them stacked in a splintered crate, and two young children darting out between crooked houses on their little mission. The heat continued to shine cruelly overhead, leaving sweat salty in his eyes, while the ground beneath his boots was fractured and unforgiving. But, for the first time since arriving in this remote area, he did not feel completely alone.
The ragged line of trees that marked the limit of Ashwood's small property looked more like a straggling belt of old oaks and dry, gnarled pines, their canopies thin from years of harsh sun and hungry axes.
However, it was all they had.
Sir Garric stood with his boots wide and scarred fists on his hips, inspecting the shattered ranks of his six militiamen. Their mail shirts hung loosely from unused frames. Bandages poked out from under the sleeves. But each now wielded an axe, either freshly drawn from Gilbert's system-gifted stock or an antique heritage sword fetched from a forgotten front. He took in a slow, steady breath and strengthened his hold on his axe.
"Alright, you sorry lot," Garric exclaimed. His harsh voice echoed around the bright clearing. "There are no fancy wedge formations here." Spread along the trunks. Swing as if your life depends on it—because they very well do."
Axes bit into the ash wood's bark. The harsh split of wood and the moan of aged trunks rang through the scorching afternoon. Chips flew. Even the trees appeared hesitant to give way, as if they, too, were part of Ashwood's tenacious will to hold on a bit longer.
Gilbert was clumsy with the axe at first. His palms burnt almost instantly, and the strange weight jerked at his shoulders. His swings were shallow, bouncing off with a painful jolt that caused him to grit his teeth. Garric, of course, noticed the old man's gruff laugh, which echoed across the clearing.
"You're swinging like a debutante dancing with a parasol, Lord Reinhardt!" "He roared. "Loosen your elbows—there! Let the axe do half the work, otherwise it will snap your delicate spine."
Gilbert flushed hot beneath the praise-turned-scold, shifted his position, and tried again. This time, the blade went deeper. The bark broke, and sap poured. Small victories.
Meanwhile, a tiny ruckus near the treeline caught his attention. Eva and Johnny came into view; their faces flushed with passion and triumph. They dragged three battered shovels, two so rusted that the heads were a brown smear, and the third nearly handleless.
"Look! " Johnny said, grinning from ear to ear despite the sweat running down his temples. "Three! And only had to lie to one grumpy geezer about Sir Garric paying double if he didn't lend them.
"You might want to sort that later."
Eva didn't say anything, simply smiled sheepishly, cradling her doll to her bosom with one hand and clutching her shovel like a royal scepter.
Garric stomped over, his massive boots spewing pale dust. He let out a bark of laughter, startling a crow on a neighboring limb.
"Good work, you ratling. Alright, new orders. Roran, you are here with the Me and Lord Reinhardt, digging the initial trench lines. If we can dig a shallow trench around these palisades, it will halt any charge. "I'll help run the line."
The two guys muttered as their grasp on their axes tightened. Garric turned and slammed a big fist against Gilbert's shoulder, rattling him.
"Are you ready to trade your axe for a shovel, boy?" "Gilbert gave a weak laugh. "I… suppose I don't have much choice."
So, it began.
The clearing soon rang with the crack of splitting wood and the dull, steady scrape of shovels biting into sunbaked earth. Gilbert worked alongside Sir Garric and Roran, driving the battered shovels into hard soil that fought them for every inch.
Eva and Johnny hovered close. Johnny tried his best to imitate the men, tossing up loose dirt in small, proud scoops. Eva helped pile stray branches into rough bundles, humming under her breath as if trying to keep fear at bay.
Bit by bit, under the watchful glare of the sun, Ashwood's first crude palisade line began to take shape. Logs were dragged into place, stacked in a haphazard row where eventually sharpened points would stand defiant against whatever horrors the dusk might bring. It wasn't much. It wasn't nearly enough. But it was something. And for now, that was all any of them had.
Hours passed in a whirl of perspiration and numbing ache. Gilbert's palms were burned and raw from the shovel handle. His shoulders ached from a deep, throbbing burn that appeared to go all the way to the bone. Every breath he took tasted like dry grit and stinging resin from the split ash trees.
However, as the skies grew dimmer into the distant horizon in a blaze of orange and bruised purple, the clearing had been altered. Rough logs from felled ash trees sat in uneven rows, gradually acquiring shape under Garric's strict directions.
They had hammered simple posts into the dirt trench and stacked the logs behind them in a rudimentary brace. It was nothing compared to the great fortifications of the cities, fortress, and strongholds within or even the substantial timber walls of better-stocked fief holds, but for Ashwood, it was a marvel built with sweat and determined despair.
Gilbert stood on the edge of their work, chest heaving. His hair hung damply to his brow. Dirt and sap stained his sleeves up to the elbows. But for the first time since waking up in this horrible prison, he felt a small throb of pride beneath his rib cage.
They had done this. Somehow.
That's when Reinhardt knew that possibly, somehow there's still a hope to see tomorrow.
Villagers had begun to emerge from their crooked houses, lured by the continuous thud of axes, scrape of shovels, wild laughter, and curses of Garric's injured soldiers. A few people leaned against bent door frames, arms curled tightly. Others huddled in small groups, talking behind hard hands. Their features were a sea of weariness, sunken by chronic hunger and etched with lines from too many deaths.
Some of the faces were cautious. A few people appeared to be curious. One or two even had the tiniest glimmer of wonder. However, many people maintained the same shuttered, distrustful looks.
What a waste, those expressions appeared to say. Why bother to develop anything at all? When the next terror will simply squash it flat. Just hide and run… or accept faith
Gilbert's chest tightened as he some villagers. A part of him wanted to shout across the distance, telling them that this was for them and that it could be their only opportunity, no, our opportunity. However, he remained silent. Words have never swayed them before. Only the sight of backs bent to honest work, hands scorched and bloodied, could chip away at that stony despair.
Garric leaned against the haft of his shovel, breathing heavily. Sweat ran across the elderly soldier's worn face, soaking into the deep grooves of his wounds.
"Look at 'em," Garric muttered after a minute. His voice was low and harsh, as if he was not amused. "Folk starved of hope so long, they wouldn't know what to do with it if it walked up and offered 'em bread."
Gilbert swallowed, his gaze still surveying the small crowd. "Perhaps they'll come around. Maybe they will bring some water tomorrow. Alternatively, you can fix fence gaps." Garric uttered a low grunt, half skeptical, half pleased. "Aye. Perhaps they'll keep waiting for the sky to fall. Either way, we'll keep swinging until it does."
The sky was already dark, as creatures loomed around, demon hoard nearing in a few hours that will soon scorched the night, painting the horizon with dying fire. The new palisade's lengthy shadows spread across the front's village with a makeshift wooden door, creating jagged, crooked, and uneven lines that a seasoned architect may have laughed at.
But for Gilbert, standing there with dirt on his cheeks and hands throbbing from hours of painful labor, it was nothing short of amazing. With a slight, crooked smile, he reflected that the palisades would not last long.
Although rushed, it's far from perfect.
Then he let out a soft, almost incredulous breath as the young Lord mumbled to himself,
"But hey, at least we have protection."
[System Notice: Territorial Update]
Gilbert paused for a moment, inhaling the hot, dusty air. His eyes traveled across the uneven fence, the rough trench line, and the sweat-soaked backs of the warriors who'd swung axes so hard that their arms nearly failed.
Then, with a faint chime, his vision wavered. The system's pleasant, disembodied voice echoed softly across his mind.
Ashwood Village
The defensive rating has improved.
Territorial DEF: F → F+
Gilbert let out a faint laugh. It was thin, partly hysterical, but nonetheless authentic.
An F+.
It wasn't much more than a child's scratch in the ground, but it was noticeable. Then the system's soft radiance changed. Without warning, a rich scarlet rushed across his vision, harsh as a slap. Letters burn brightly and brutally in the fading
[System Alert]
[Estimated time until demon horde arrival:]
02:38:07