The moment Arin stepped into the chamber, he felt it.

  Weight.

  Not the physical kind—no, this was heavier. Invisible. Crushing.

  More than three hundred pairs of eyes turned toward them at once.

  It was instinctive. Like predators sensing movement in tall grass, every general, marshal, priest-general, and appointed commander seated in the half-circle followed their entrance with quiet, unnerving precision. Arin resisted the urge to flinch. He had faced goblins, starvation, death, and the agony of resurrection—but this? This was different.

  This was politics.

  They were guided forward by Tian Cheng, their footsteps echoing against polished stone as they approached a long table positioned at the very center of the room. Behind it, rising in a grand arc, sat the leaders of every nation, alliance, and faith still standing on Earth.

  The layout reminded Arin vaguely of something he had once seen in an old book: the U.S. Senate chamber. A half-circle of power, all eyes directed toward a single focal point.

  Them.

  He swallowed.

  I’d rather fight another goblin horde, he thought grimly.

  They took their seats. The murmur in the chamber died down—not because it was commanded, but because everyone had decided at once that silence was more dangerous than noise.

  A man rose from the central dais.

  He was tall, lean, with silver-threaded black hair pulled neatly behind his head. His expression was calm, unreadable, like a lake frozen over just enough to hide its depth.

  “My name is Xian Mu,” the man said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber. “I will be chairing this council session.”

  A subtle pause.

  “This meeting concerns intelligence gathered beyond the front lines. Specifically—life behind goblin-controlled territory.”

  Arin felt his spine straighten.

  “I propose we begin simply,” Xian Mu continued. “Identify your unit. Then provide a brief summary of your situation.”

  The weight shifted.

  Arin felt it settle squarely on his shoulders.

  Of course it would be him.

  He was the eldest among the younger generation of his family. Grandson of Karl Sonneberg. Former competition leader back when life had been… simpler. All of that combined into one undeniable fact: the room expected him to speak.

  And he hated it.

  Social settings had never been his strength. He was more comfortable with trees than people, with silence than ceremony. Yet the years in the woods had taught him something else, too.

  Respect mattered.

  Slowly, deliberately, Arin rose from his seat and snapped into attention.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm inside his chest. “My name is Arin Sonneberg. I am attached to Special Reconnaissance Unit, Legion Twenty-Three.”

  A ripple moved through the chamber.

  “For the past three weeks,” Arin continued, “we have operated under direct orders from Marshal Herman Merz. Our mission was to determine how goblin forces breached our defensive lines.”

  He finished, then sat.

  The silence that followed was… strange.

  Not shocked.

  Not dismissive.

  Confused.

  Most of the council had expected a curiosity. A lucky survivor group. An anecdote. Not this.

  They had assumed these scouts had hidden behind enemy lines for over a month and stumbled back through weakened defenses by chance. Useful for morale, perhaps—but nothing more.

  The only reason their mouths were not open was that they were too disciplined to let it show.

  Slowly, dozens of gazes shifted.

  Toward Herman.

  The old marshal sat calmly, hands folded, expression neutral—almost serene. Only those who knew him well could detect the faintest hint of satisfaction behind his eyes.

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  Xian Mu noticed.

  “Is this accurate, Marshal Herman?” he asked.

  There was curiosity there now. And something sharper beneath it.

  Herman inclined his head. “Yes. I selected this unit specifically for their skill set. I suspected a hidden passage and believed they had the highest chance of confirming it.”

  A pause.

  “They returned alive,” he added. “Which I take as a good sign.”

  Xian Mu studied him carefully.

  “And I assume,” he said, “that you dispatched them through the sub-bridge route?”

  It was Europe’s responsibility this month. The others knew that. Some had failed similar missions before—many had not returned at all.

  “That is correct,” Herman replied evenly.

  Xian Mu nodded once. “Then let us hear the full report. Begin at the beginning.”

  All eyes returned to Arin.

  He stood again, moving toward the large map mounted on the chamber wall. It depicted the known territories beyond the portal—sharp, precise lines near the front, fading into uncertainty the farther they extended.

  “After crossing beneath the bridge,” Arin said, pointing, “we lost ten members during the climb. The route is… unforgiving.”

  A grim acknowledgment passed through the room. Loss was expected. Still mourned—but expected.

  “We emerged from a concealed entrance,” Arin continued, “and traveled for seven days toward the suspected origin point of the goblin incursions.”

  He traced a line across the map.

  “What we discovered,” he said, “was unexpected.”

  He described the river. The tidal phenomenon. The bridge that appeared only during ebb tide.

  The chamber shifted.

  Low murmurs rippled through the generals like wind through tall grass.

  “If this is true,” someone muttered, “what else have we missed?”

  Before Arin could continue, a voice cut in.

  A general from Africa rose slightly from his seat. “If your scouts could not locate this bridge,” he asked, “how did the goblins?”

  Bertho answered before Arin could.

  “It comes down to numbers,” Bertho said calmly. “We lack the manpower and supplies to maintain long-term observation. Goblins do not.”

  He glanced briefly toward the speaker. “They can wait. We cannot.”

  The Ethiopian general studied him, eyes sharp—but after a moment, he nodded and gestured for Arin to continue.

  Bertho exhaled quietly. They had passed that hurdle, as Ethiopian scouts were responsible for that section. If they failed without reason, it would reflect poorly on them, and the messenger would not be received kindly. Not to mention the historical tension with the EU—being suppressed by Europe was something their pride could not allow, especially as one of the only African countries never colonized during the Scramble for Africa. It was something Arin had likely not realized yet, as Bertho signaled for them to continue speaking.

  “After confirming the crossing,” he said, “we chose to return. Our supplies were nearly exhausted.”

  Several heads nodded. No one questioned that decision. Everyone in that room knew what dying felt like.

  “At first,” Arin continued, “we intended to return via the underground route. It was safer—no goblin lines to breach.”

  He paused.

  “But when we arrived, the forest had been occupied.”

  The room stilled.

  “The goblins,” Arin said carefully, “were constructing siege weapons.”

  For the first time, Xian Mu’s composure cracked.

  “…Repeat that,” he said.

  Arin met his gaze. “Siege towers. Ladders. Structured construction.”

  Silence.

  Not confusion.

  Fear.

  Because if goblins could build siege weapons—

  Then the war had just changed.