Two thousand meters above the ground.
Ola adjusted the strap of his windproof goggles. From this altitude, the scenery below was clearly visible. He leaned halfway out, peering through the thin wisps of cloud at the winding black river beneath him.
Even after several consecutive days of accompanying these flights, the veteran of thirty years still struggled to believe his eyes.
In his experience, marches always came with cracking whips, officers' curses, and inevitable chaos. Yet the terrifying discipline below left him speechless no matter how often he witnessed it-not even the most boastful bard would have dared invent such a tale.
There were no lumbering baggage trains like those of human armies, no wisps of cooking smoke rising from campfires. There was only a tireless black torrent rolling north.
The formation of twenty thousand black beetles was performing a hair-raising "gear change."
The second echelon of beetles, which had been running along both flanks and replenishing their energy by gnawing on scraps of wood along the route, suddenly accelerated. With coordination beyond human reach, they forced their way into gaps in the burdened ranks while maintaining a marching speed of roughly eight kilometers an hour.
Clack.
The collisions of chitin shells blended into a continuous rattle.
Ola watched the Worker Mantises carrying heavy supply crates turn slightly sideways as they ran. Their replacements slotted precisely into position, bony clasps springing out of their backs to complete the lateral transfer of several tons of supplies in a fraction of a second.
The beetles relieved of their burdens immediately withdrew to the flanks and began eating food their kin had prepared along the roadside. Meanwhile, the fresh contingent shouldered the supplies and continued north without slowing.
The entire process wasted scarcely a second.
A human army could march for no more