Below the rise, the Iron Turtle Heavy Infantry Regiment showed no intention of pursuing.
Count Romon displayed a steadiness utterly at odds with his arrogant appearance.
He ordered his soldiers to work in groups of three, swiftly removing their plate armor and stacking it neatly on the accompanying supply wagons.
Even while resting, these soldiers maintained tight ranks.
The heavy shield bearers on the perimeter remained in a half crouch, the edges of their tower shields sunk deep into the soil.
The army's mages were scattered throughout the formation, their staffs glimmering with faint, earthy yellow light.
It was some kind of geological detection spell, specifically intended to guard against surprise attacks by Worker Mantises tunneling up from below.
For the rest of the afternoon, Romon carried this suffocating "steadiness" through to the bitter end.
This Iron Legion was like a tireless steamroller, repeatedly checking the safety of the ground beneath it before every advance. Every five hundred meters, it stopped, the mages scanned, and the heavy shields moved forward. This clumsy yet effective tactic rendered every trap Veylin had laid along the route completely useless.
Faced with this flawless "Ironwall Advance," Veylin could only watch as his room to maneuver dwindled little by little.
By the time the last rays of dusk fell upon those cold tower shields, the silver-gray forest of steel had swallowed the front edge of the wasteland, forcing Veylin to abandon his first defensive line and pull back.
Inside the coalition's command tent, a map was pinned to the center of a long table.
A tallow candle at the corner of the table flickered violently in the draft. Its dim yellow flame cast Veylin's shadow onto the tent wall, where it twisted and swayed with the wavering light.
Veylin leaned forward, his fingertip resting on