"Our territory is being compressed," Sir Harvey announced, awaiting them by the lift. He launched into his report before Duke Pafaheim and the headmaster had steadied themselves from the elevator's tremors. His earlier awkwardness upon encountering his liege lord atop the wall had vanished entirely. "Their endless reinforcements are swallowing our front line, and their cavalry is running circles around our infantry, tying the formations in knots."

  "Details, if you would," the duke prompted.

  "They persistently harass our infantry's flanks, exploiting their superior mobility to manipulate our formations and send them chasing shadows." The knight's stocky build, bald head, and dense beard gave him the appearance of an oversized dwarf. "Our foot soldiers cannot sustain such attrition indefinitely." Only then did he register the youthful figure standing beside the duke. "I am Patrick Fort, Headmaster of Saint Asini..." the boy offered.

  "Saint Asini? What might that be?"

  "A magic academy, Sir Knight," the duke interjected, eyebrow raised in mild reproof. "This is the Academy's headmaster, the reinforcement I have personally summoned. He shall deploy arcane forces from our walls to repel the Godman advance."

  The knight's gaze flickered between them, his confusion carefully masked beneath professional composure. "Understood, my lord." He nodded. "How might I assist you, sir?"

  "Well..." Patrick hesitated. "I simply require a vantage point overlooking the battlefield."

  Sir Harvey gestured broadly with thick, calloused fingers. "The entire wall provides excellent visibility." Patrick acknowledged with an awkward nod. "No additional requirements?" "None at present."

  "Very well," the knight replied. "I eagerly anticipate your magical contribution to our defensive efforts." Turning to Ricard, he continued, "My lord, we should inspect the eastern battlements. The siege engines and ballistae there have developed numerous malfunctions..."

  "Hmph..." the old duke snorted derisively. "I should have had our quartermaster sewn into a stone sack and catapulted outward. Come, Harvey. We must also address interior defense configurations..." After two strides, he pivoted back. "We place our trust in your abilities, Master Headmaster."

  "I shall exert my utmost effort."

  Following their departure, Patrick experienced a profound sense of abandonment. He recognized the irrationality of this feeling—after all, he had insisted upon accessing the wall to deploy his magical barrier, aspiring to become Cynthia's solitary savior, believing himself adequately prepared both physically and mentally. But the moment the older, more capable men were gone, invisible claws began to tear at his insides, and each breath became a struggle. The boy couldn't precisely identify the sensation—perhaps fear, perhaps responsibility's crushing weight.

  Patrick Fort proceeded eastward, seeking a less populated section of the wall. Approaching the battlements, he was immediately assaulted by the battlefield's complex atmospheric symphony—a tidal wave of sensory information. His gaze first swept across the distant vista—the seemingly limitless expanse of Wymar Forest—before deliberately lowering his focus past corpses, spilled blood, and billowing smoke. (I stand three hundred and twenty feet above, surveying the battlefield from this commanding height.) He bit his lip nervously. (I have not touched the blood and tears, yet their weight crushes me all the same.) His chosen position was relatively secluded, distant from the trebuchet emplacements. Only scattered archers maintained their equipment nearby. Occasionally, Godman arrows reached the battlements, though most fell short of the imposing wall.

  "That position is hazardous, sir." The unexpected warning jolted him from contemplation. "I suspect nowhere within my current proximity could be classified as safe," he responded hopefully, turning—only to discover his cautioner was a rotund archer approximately his own age. The soldier struggled to string a longbow, his undersized steel helmet precariously balanced while his right foot awkwardly braced against the bowstring. "No assistance available," the corpulent youth explained with a grin. "Self-reliance is mandatory here—particularly during wartime." Patrick positioned his oak staff against the battlements and knelt to assist with the stringing process.

  "You practice the arcane arts?" The archer eyed the staff curiously. "Indeed."

  "Might I render assistance?" the stout boy inquired. "Assistance?" The headmaster glanced up with surprise. "How precisely would you contribute? Perhaps cast spells on my behalf?"

  "Ah... oh." The archer tapped his helmet sheepishly. "My apologies—my mental faculties occasionally falter."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Such momentary lapses affect us all periodically." Patrick rose, placing a reassuring hand on the archer's shoulder, consciously projecting maturity and dependability beyond his years.

  The corpulent archer set aside his newly-strung longbow, retrieving a weathered recurve bow for repair. Patrick reclaimed his staff, seeking appropriate placement within the stone structure. After considerable effort, he located a suitable crevice for insertion. He tested the staff's stability, ensuring it would remain immobile during incantation. The archer had suspended his activities, transfixed by the mage's methodical preparations. "I intend to generate a magical barrier," Patrick explained, intuiting the unspoken inquiry. "Though the process lacks visual spectacle, and my success remains uncertain."

  "A magical barrier..." the archer repeated contemplatively. "Capable of excluding Godman forces?" The headmaster confirmed with a nod. "Temper your enthusiasm—as I indicated, success remains uncertain." The archer's continued smile suggested he had failed to detect the undercurrent of apprehension.

  Patrick Fort elevated both arms, extending them outward to initiate Source accumulation. The archer anticipated an extended, esoteric incantation, yet observed the mage's lips remained motionless. "The actual casting phase has not commenced. Source gathering requires no verbal component," Patrick clarified. This explanation prompted another amiable nod.

  The yellow diamond adorning the staff's apex began emitting irregular luminescence. Patrick perceived vast quantities of Source converging around his position. This energy originated from the Primal Source deep beneath Cynthia's foundations, with contributions even from distant Kulen Mountain. (Why is the wall experiencing vibrations?) His peripheral vision registered the archer's unstrung bow plummeting from the parapet. (Could the goblins' assertion be accurate—does the Wall of Cynthia truly extend deep into subterranean regions?) The archer muttered profanities while retrieving his scattered equipment. (If so, then ancient races undoubtedly employed magical means in its construction. Otherwise, it would not respond to my extraction of Source from the Primal reservoir.)

  Patrick manipulated his fingers precisely, causing the diamond's pulsations to accelerate. (Almost sufficient.) A subtle smile materialized. (Just a little more, and I'll have drawn nearly all the Source from this land. To think I'm capable of something so unnatural, so blasphemous...) He laughed out loud, though the archer, blanched with fear from the intensifying tremors, failed to notice. (Yet still inadequate.) His expression sobered. (How paradoxical. I wonder how Halleck and Idaho's mission progresses.)

  The corpulent supply-soldier, simultaneously terrified by the spontaneous seismic activity and captivated by the imposing presence of the mage—crowned with a ceremonial wreath, pale yellow robes billowing dramatically—witnessed both spectacles vanish instantaneously. Patrick abruptly terminated his Source extraction, hands collapsing onto the battlements, perspiration streaming freely as he gasped for breath. The Wall of Cynthia, previously groaning and shuddering, abruptly resumed its millennia-old slumber.

  "W-what precisely transpired?" the supply-soldier ventured cautiously.

  (The subterranean wall structure... magical properties... Primal Source...) These conceptual fragments illuminated his consciousness with lightning-like clarity. (Ancient races... subjugation and enslavement... Titan Gods—giants...) And it was these words, clicking together by chance in his mind, that formed a possibility so terrifying it made the archmage stop drawing on the power at once. (Merciful heavens... I nearly precipitated Cynthia's destruction. With marginally increased effort, I could have completely compromised the wall's structural integrity...) He sealed his eyelids, perspiration dripping from his trembling lips. Until this moment, he had harbored uncertainty regarding the historical existence of the Titan Gods, purportedly predating even the ancient races. Conventional knowledge derived exclusively from petroglyphs, fragmentary documentation, and generationally transmitted oral traditions. Few scholars willingly addressed the subject; even the ancient races exhibited pronounced aversion to the topic. Today, however, through Halleck's inadvertent revelation and the wall's responsive manifestations, Patrick's skepticism regarding this primordial divine race had evaporated completely. Their historical reality was now indisputable—potentially as supreme overlords of the primeval world.

  "Esteemed mage!" The portly archer edged closer, carefully avoiding physical contact. "Are you unharmed? Did your incantation falter?"

  Patrick shook his head ambiguously. "Do you indicate physical distress or magical success?"

  "Success," he clarified, wiping accumulated moisture from his facial features. "I have aggregated sufficient Source."

  "Excellent, Master!" The supply-soldier revealed yellowed dentition. "I feared excessive magical exertion might induce physiological collapse... particularly given the seismic manifestations." Observing the mage's disinterest in further dialogue, he retracted discretely, resuming his inventory of damaged archery equipment.

  (That conflict belonged to primordial antiquity...) Patrick Fort reminded himself. (A confrontation between godlike entities, long since consigned to historical obscurity. My focus must remain on present hostilities—this conflict between mortal men.) He steadied his breath, checked the yellow diamond on his staff, confirming its store of power, then said to the supply-soldier, "Do me a favor. Find me a spyglass."

  "A spyglass?" The archer tilted his head quizzically. "Such instruments remain exclusive to commanding officers, given their scarcity. I've often wished for such a device to calculate trajectory distances—it would facilitate proper selection between two-feathered and four-feathered arrows..."

  "That's right. And I need you to borrow one from a commander on this wall," the headmaster cut in. "Because as of this moment, I am in command here."