Chapter 67: The Flank and the Feint

Chapter 67: The Flank and the Feint We fell back to Sector 28, and it was a masterpiece of tactical ugliness. The entire sector was a grim, industrial-looking cavern filled with rusting, behemoth-sized pipes and a dizzying network of metal catwalks. The air tasted of rust and ozone. It was a claustrophobic, confusing, multi-leveled hellscape. It was the perfect kill box. Alyssa’s army, smelling blood in the water and high on the thrill of having wounded one of my commanders, pursued us with a relentless, arrogant speed. Her silver-arrow-wielding Dark Elf archers, the bane of my vampiric existence, took up positions on the high catwalks, their crystalline bows glowing with triumphant, holy light. They began to rain down their vampire-slaying death from above, turning the cavern floor into a deathtrap. My forces were pinned down, taking cover behind rusted machinery and crumbling concrete pillars. "This is untenable, my Lord!" Reina yelled, her voice tight with effort. She had just punched a Crystal Golem so hard that it had shattered into a thousand glittering shards. BOOM! The ground trembled from the force of her blow. But even as she recovered, a stray silver arrow had grazed her arm, leaving a sizzling, angry burn that healed far slower than a normal wound. "We cannot win a ranged battle against a foe that can negate our very nature! Their position is superior!" She was right. Every time one of my werewolves or other darkness-aspected minions tried to move, a volley of silver death would force them back into cover. BOOM! CRACK! An arrow slammed into the concrete pillar Fenris was hiding behind. The impact was a sharp explosion, and a visible shockwave of force blew a chunk of concrete the size of my head off the pillar, showering him with dust and debris. We were trapped. "Who said we were fighting their battle?" I replied, my voice a low, confident growl that carried over the din. I was crouched behind a massive, defunct generator, the pinging of arrows striking the thick metal above my head a constant, irritating rhythm. "Pixia, give me a schematic of this sector’s Transfer Network. Now." A holographic map appeared in front of me, shimmering in the dim light, visible only to me. It showed the main Transfer Array we’d used to enter, and another, smaller icon at the far end of the sector, a single, lonely point connected by a dotted line. It was covered in digital dust bunnies. "A Maintenance Return Terminal, my Lord," Pixia’s voice explained in my mind, her tone clipped and efficient. "A one-way, short-range teleporter used by builder-type subordinates for quick access to infrastructure. According to the schematics, it leads to the service corridor directly behind those primary catwalks." A slow, vicious, fang-filled smile spread across my face. It was beautiful. It was a back door they didn’t even know existed. "Chloe," I sent the command through our mental link, a focused pulse of pure will that cut through the chaos of the battle. "Your Shadow Strikers are on flanking duty. Take Grunt and your snipers. Use the Maintenance Terminal. I want you to appear behind them like the vengeful ghosts of every minion they’ve ever killed. Leave no survivors." "Understood, my Lord," her voice replied, as cool and sharp as a blade of ice. I watched on my internal map as her unit’s icons detached from the main force and vanished into a side tunnel, moving with a speed and silence that was utterly terrifying. Now for the bait. The glorious, dramatic, and utterly convincing bait. "Isabelle!" I roared, projecting my voice across the battlefield so that every one of my soldiers, and every one of hers, could hear the sheer, unadulterated panic in my voice. "Full retreat! We’re breaking! The position is lost! Get everyone back to the main Transfer Array! Move! Save yourselves!" It had to look real. It had to look like a genuine, morale-shattering rout. Isabelle, my brilliant commander, my former hero, understood instantly. She was a phenomenal actress. "You heard him! Fall back! It’s a rout!" she yelled, her voice filled with a perfect, convincing desperation that deserved an award. "Every man, woman, and monster for themselves!" The effect was instantaneous. My forces, who had been hunkered down, turned and scrambled back towards the entrance, a chaotic, disorganized mob. Orcs tripped over goblins. Lilim shrieked with feigned terror. It was a beautiful, masterful performance of cowardice. Alyssa’s forces, seeing us break, let out a triumphant, unified roar. Her archers leaned over the railings of the catwalks, laughing as they took gleeful potshots at my retreating minions. Her ground troops, a horde of Crystal Golems and enchanted goblins, surged forward from their cover to cut us off. They had abandoned their defensible positions. They had overextended. They had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. Then, from the darkness of the service corridor behind them, silent, brutal death arrived. Chloe materialized first, a whisper of shadow appearing on the main catwalk. Her three Goblin Snipers appeared beside her, their dark-wood bows already drawn, arrows nocked. And from the floor below, the ground itself seemed to explode upwards. BOOM! Grunt, the Kobold Warlord, erupted from an unassuming access tunnel, his iron-shod maul held high. The wind shrieked as he launched himself at the nearest cluster of archers on a lower catwalk. He was a meteor of pure, concentrated fury. CRACK! The maul connected with the metal supports of the catwalk. The impact was an absolute detonation of sound and force. The entire structure buckled and tore with a scream of tortured metal, sending a dozen of the elite, silver-arrow-wielding Dark Elf archers screaming down into the darkness below. A massive shockwave of displaced air and shrapnel blasted outwards, shattering the pipes on the ceiling and shaking the entire cavern. The remaining archers spun around, their smug, triumphant faces morphing into masks of pure shock and terror. They were caught between a feigned retreat and a very, very real hammer. "Now," I whispered, a predator’s smile on my face. The chaotic retreat of my own forces stopped on a dime. Every single one of my minions turned, their eyes no longer filled with feigned panic, but with a sudden, savage, and bloodthirsty fury. The feint was over. The trap was sprung. The slaughter was about to begin.