Backed Into a Corner

The night was as thick as ink pressing down over the valley entrance. Fog churned all around, carrying a pungent, sour stench. The defensive line had nearly collapsed entirely. Wooden stakes lay shattered, stone barricades had caved in, and the muddy ground was eroded into uneven pits. Every step landed with a sticky sensation, as though the ground beneath their feet were not earth, but the organs of some living creature.

The towering shadow stood in the center of the breach. It was far larger than an ordinary ant soldier, with broad shoulders, thick plates of shell, and upright spines. An oppressive aura faintly seeped from its back. It was no mindless beast, but a squad leader with a measure of command ability. The surrounding ants no longer charged about in disarray. Instead, they formed an orderly arc around it, advancing and retreating as if deliberately driving their prey into a corner.

The tension in the air felt heavier than on any previous night. Sweat slid down the jaw, while the blade in hand was covered in cracks, its surface corroded into mottled patches by green liquid. The grip had grown slippery, and the web between thumb and forefinger had gone numb from the impacts, but the hand did not loosen.

The ants in front attacked again. Three of them pounced in a line, their forelimbs swinging as their claw tips carved long furrows through the mud. The blade swept across, cleaving the shoulder armor of the one on the far left. It staggered back into the fog, but the other two immediately filled the gap. Their tails lashed sideways, striking the stones and sending fragments flying, while acid dripped onto the ground and instantly gave off white smoke.

The high ground to the west was even more dangerous. At