Extra's Survival: Raising SSS-Rank Characters Is My Only Option

Sun rays pierced through the horizon, spilling pale light across the Wall as it continued to withstand the relentless attack of the Roamers. By now, the fighting had exhausted most of the men defending it.

And the first thing that happened on the third day was counting.

Counting the casualties from the previous day.

Runners returned from each section of the Wall and reached the Fifth Bastion about an hour after sunrise. Every report was handed to Corr, who had, by now, become the Watcher’s hand, even though he himself was missing one.

Corr sorted through the sheets on the tally board across his knees. He held each page down with the stump of his wrist before turning it with his fingers. He had adapted to the loss surprisingly quickly, just as Encrid had expected from the Far Watch’s best.

”Seven sections have reported,” he said. ”The Seventh and Ninth are still missing.”

”Read me what you have,” Encrid said.

He stood beside the map table, a cup of tea in his hand that had gone cold nearly an hour ago. He had not slept, and neither had anyone else in the Fifth Bastion.

Corr nodded and began reading the numbers.

”The First Watch lost sixty-two men during the night.”

He turned the page.

”The Second lost fifty-five. The Fourth lost ninety. The Fifth lost seventy-one. The Sixth lost eighty-four.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

”The Eighth Watch lost one hundred and forty. That does not include the men who are still being carried to the Healer’s Hall.”

Then Corr reached the final report.

His expression changed.

”The Third Watch reports thirty-one casualties.”

Encrid looked up.

Corr checked the number a second time without being asked.

”Thirty-one dead. Eleven wounded.” He lowered the report slightly. ”The ground there is open, and no better than the Eighth Watch’s position.”

Encrid set his cup down.

By now, he knew the names of most of the men on the Wall, or at least enough of them to understand which commander was responsible for each section.

The Third Watch was commanded by Halvic Ostrand.

From what Encrid remembered, Ostrand was not particularly strong compared to some of the other Watch commanders. Yet his casualties were nearly less than half of those other sections despite facing roughly the same number of Roamers on similar terrain.

”Is there any note with it?”

Corr turned the page over.

”There is a line from the captain about how he is handling his positions. Something about counting breaths.”

”Counting breaths?”

”That is what it says.”

Encrid took the page and read it himself.

The captain had written it in a hurry. The handwriting was barely legible.

’Rotating the men by the count of eighty. Feed bread and water at the fourth hour and eighth hour of the morning.’

Encrid read it twice before looking back at the other reports.

The estimated number of Roamers attacking each section was almost the same.

Yet the Eighth Watch had suffered the most casualties.

One hundred and forty men.

The terrain around the Eighth Watch was not much different from the Third Watch’s position, and even the number of Roamers attacking them was roughly the same.

Encrid’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the casualty reports again.

The flag chain could carry a standing order across the entire northern face in half an hour, but it could only convey predetermined signals. Anything more detailed had to be carried by runners, and even with cultivators stationed along the Wall, relaying an order from section to section would take two to three hours.

That was too slow but it couldn’t be helped.

His eyes settled on the Third Watch’s report.

’Rotating the men by the count of eighty.’

The difference in casualties was too large to ignore that,

Encrid signed and pulled a clean sheet toward himself and began to write.

He kept the order plain and direct. There was no point filling it with unnecessary words when the men who would read it were already exhausted.

Every section of the Wall would implement the Third Watch’s rotation pattern.

A runner, a boy, or anyone else who was unable to fight would stand beside the section captain and count breaths aloud. At eighty counts, the soldiers on the front line would rotate with the next group.

The kitchens would also send bread and water to every section at the fourth and eighth hours of the morning and continue doing so every day until the siege ended.

At the bottom, Encrid added one final line.

Taken from Commander Ostrand’s practice at the eastern gate.

Corr watched him sign it.

”You are giving him the credit?”

”It was his idea to begin with.”

Corr studied Encrid for a moment before sighing.

The order was handed to the runner on the stair, who got up without complaining, because nobody complained about the Watcher’s orders anymore. Not since the trenches had filled. Not since the sheets had burned.

Not after seeing the trenches fill with Roamers and not after seeing the sheets burn along with them.

Encrid watched the runner disappear down the stairs.

It was a small change.

A simple change in how the men on the Wall fought.

But if it saved even a single life, Encrid would consider it worthwhile.

✧ ✧ ✧

The morning was quieter than the night, which was strange.

The horde had not gone anywhere. It still covered the northern killing ground from one edge of sight to the other, forming a vast brown-grey mass that shifted and rolled like water.

Yet the pressure against the parapets had eased.

The ramps made from the bodies of the fallen Roamers had grown too steep and too loose to climb effectively. The creatures at the front were now milling around the base of the Wall instead of constantly attempting to climb it.

Gus came to stand beside Encrid, who was watching the horde from the parapet.

”Are they resting?” Gus asked.

”They don’t rest.”

”Then what are they doing?”

Encrid did not answer. He was not sure himself.

His eyes remained fixed on the treeline. He had been watching it on and off since dawn because something about it bothered him.

He simply could not put his finger on what.

The edge of the forest stood four hundred paces beyond the ruined trenches, a dark line of trees broken by the trampled remains of the stakes through which the horde had already passed.

Nothing had emerged from the treeline for nearly an hour.

That was unusual.

”Gus.”

”Yes?”

”What do you see above the trees?”

Gus followed Encrid’s gaze and squinted.

”Smoke?”

He shook his head.

”No. It’s not rising.”

He stared for another moment.

”Birds?”

All the birds had left two days ago, before the horde had even reached the Wall. Everyone had seen the dark sheets of them crossing over the parapets on the first morning, fleeing south.

But there was another dark smudge above the eastern treeline now.

It was too large to be a single flock.

And it did not move like birds. It moved against the wind. The dark mass thickened, then thinned, then thickened again, almost as if it were breathing.

Corr lifted his glass with his one hand and braced it against the edge of the tally board. He stared through it for a long moment.

When he finally lowered the glass, all the color had drained from his face.

”My lord,” he said.

He handed the glass to Encrid.

”It’s not birds...”

Corr did not take his eyes off the sky.

”Rookwings.”

✦ ✦ ✦