The swamp has not finished breathing when the second wave comes.
For a few minutes after Lei warns them, the company still stands in tight formation among broken peat and scattered bodies of the Mireborn Enlisted. Muskets are half-reloaded. Some soldiers kneel to refill powder horns. Others drag wounded men toward the small defensive pocket where Onaga and the recorders are working.
Armor creaks. Men breathe hard. The insects have not returned yet. Wind moves across the canopy in a thin whisper. Then the roots erupt. Not rising like the Mireborn.
Bursting.
Tribesmen surge from beneath tangled roots along the banks as if the swamp itself spits them out. Bare feet splash through shallow water. Mud smears across skin. Iron hatchets flash. Spears thrust upward from crouched positions.
At the same moment, dark figures drop from the canopy.
Archers.
They had been lying flat across thick branches, silent through the entire earlier battle. Now arrows rain downward. The company is caught completely off guard. One arrow glances off a helmet. Another slams into a shield. A third drives into the leather skirt of a soldier's armor and lodges there without piercing deeper.
Shouts erupt.
"Contact! Close contact!"
A tribesman crashes into the forward line, spear thrusting at a slave-soldier's chest. The point scrapes along the layered armor and skids away. The soldier responds instinctively, smashing the butt of his musket forward. The ambush collapses the carefully arranged formation into immediate chaos.
Lei Delun reacts faster than most. He steps onto a fallen root, voice cutting through the noise.
"Groups of four!" he shouts. "Two melee! One musket! One shield — grab branches, boards, anything!"
His platoon responds with drilled reflex. Men cluster rapidly into small squares. One soldier lifts a broken plank from a smashed skiff piece, holding it like a crude shield. Another loads his musket behind him while two others swing hatchets to keep tribesmen back. Arrows strike the plank with dull thuds. The improvised "tanker" leans forward, absorbing impact.
"Now!"
The musket fires between his shoulders. The tribesman in front of them drops instantly, momentum carrying him face-first into the peat. Nearby, another group executes the same pattern.
Block.
Shot.
Push.
The chaotic ambush begins to grind into disciplined response. Meanwhile Onaga Kei kneels beside the injured, hands moving quickly. His sleeves are already dark with swamp water and sweat. Ryong Min Ki sits beside him, writing tablet half-balanced on his knee while simultaneously pressing cloth to a soldier's wounded arm.
"Pressure there." Onaga instructs calmly. "No — higher. Hold steady."
"Arrows from canopy," Ryong mutters while scribbling quick notes. "Mass tribal charge following Mireborn encounter… timing deliberate."
Around them, the eight slave-soldiers assigned as protection tighten their ring.
Their muskets remain loaded but unfired. They watch the surrounding trees.
Every rustle.
Every shadow.
They know the medics cannot move fast. They must hold. Back at the frontline, Hano Kichiro grins through sweat.
"Finally." he mutters.
A tribesman lunges toward him with a long spear.
Hano sidesteps, grabs the shaft with one hand, and slams his hatchet into the wooden haft. The spear snaps. He kicks the attacker backward. Aldo Patriot stands only a few paces away. He does not shout wildly. He speaks in short commands.
"Left group — hold two seconds."
"Center — fire when ready."
"Right — push three steps forward."
The timing begins to synchronize. One group blocks. Another fires. The third surges forward to shove the tribesmen back before they can close the gap. The rhythm builds. The ambush dissolves into dozens of micro-battles. Tribesmen fight fiercely. They know this swamp. They leap across roots, swing from low branches, dart through narrow water channels. Their iron hatchets and crude spears flash in quick arcs. But their weapons struggle against the layered armor.
Metal plates.
Chainmail.
Thick leather beneath.
Spears glance off.
Hatchets strike but fail to cut deep.
Meanwhile the company's blows land cleanly. A single hatchet strike from a trained soldier is enough to stagger a tribesman. A musket shot is devastating.
The difference becomes visible quickly. Several tribesmen collapse after direct hits. Others drag the wounded backward while continuing to shout war cries. Yet the company does not celebrate. Each face is stern. Focused. Eyes narrow beneath helmet rims. They know this is not a simple fight. They know the swamp still watches. Aldo studies the battlefield for three seconds. Then he moves.
"Go with me." he tells ten soldiers.
They break left. The archers. High in the canopy. Aldo leads the group directly into the thickest root cluster beneath the trees. Branches whip against armor. Mud sucks at boots. Above them, archers continue to fire downward at the main formation. They do not expect attackers climbing upward. Aldo slings his musket and draws a hatchet.
"Climb !" he orders.
Two soldiers boost another onto a low branch. He pulls himself upward, then reaches down for the next man. Within seconds the small detachment begins ascending the tangled canopy. Leaves rustle. An archer turns too late. A soldier grabs his ankle and yanks. The tribesman falls from the branch with a shout. Another archer tries to draw again but Aldo reaches him first. The hatchet strikes once. The archer collapses across the branch. Below them the arrow rain slows. Back on the ground, Hano Kichiro begins something different. He picks up a coil of rope from a supply bag.
"Three with me!"
They understand immediately. One soldier loops the rope around a hatchet handle. Hano spins the weapon once and throws. The hatchet flies in a sharp arc, striking a tribesman's shield. Before the stunned man can react, the rope jerks tight.
Two soldiers pull.
The tribesman is yanked off balance directly into their line. Another soldier strikes. They repeat the pattern.
Throw.
Hook.
Pull.
The tribesmen on the right flank stumble as the tactic disrupts their spacing.
"Again!" Hano laughs.
The chained throws begin tearing holes in the tribal formation. Aldo sees the opening.
"Spread!" he commands. "Encircle them!"
His troops fan outward, pressing from multiple directions. The swamp floor becomes a shifting battlefield of splashing water, roots, and bodies pushing against each other.
The tribesmen are fierce. They do not break easily. They shout commands in their own language.
One older warrior waves a carved staff and tries to reorganize the center.
Lei Delun notices. His eyes narrow.
"That one." he says quietly.
He gathers eight soldiers.
"With me. Center strike."
They move like a spear point. The groups of four open a narrow corridor. Lei charges through. A tribesman swings a hatchet toward him. Lei blocks with his musket stock and drives forward. The small detachment punches directly into the center of the tribal line. The staff-bearing leader turns.
Too late.
Three soldiers seize his arms. Lei knocks the staff from his hand. Within seconds the leader is forced to his knees.
"Leader captured!" someone shouts.
The effect is immediate.
The tribal formation wavers. Shouts of confusion ripple outward. Some warriors hesitate. Others glance toward the captured leader. That hesitation is enough.
The company surges. Hatchets strike. Muskets fire at close range.
The tribesmen begin to fall back. But they do not collapse into panic. Instead they attempt something desperate.
A shock push.
Several warriors charge directly at the company line, attacking with reckless aggression. Not to win. To delay. Behind them, others begin retreating deeper into the swamp. The sacrificial push works briefly. Two slave-soldiers are knocked backward. Another stumbles into water. But the momentum cannot last.
Within a minute the remaining attackers are disarmed or collapsed. The swamp grows quieter. Only splashing footsteps mark the retreating tribesmen vanishing through roots and reeds.
Aldo raises a hand.
"Hold pursuit." he says.
The company pauses. Breathing heavy. Armor soaked with sweat and swamp water.
He scans the surrounding trees carefully.
Seconds pass.
No new arrows.
No new shapes rising from peat.
Finally he lowers his hand.
"Injured to Onaga's" he orders.
Several soldiers help wounded comrades toward the medic position.
Onaga looks up as they approach.
"Set them down here." he says.
Cloth bandages appear.
Water skins pass from hand to hand.
The medics work quickly.
Aldo remains standing.
Watching.
Listening.
Minutes stretch.
Only when he is certain the immediate threat has passed does he begin removing his armor.
The metal plates unbuckle with heavy clinks.
Chainmail shifts free.
Others follow his example.
Sweaty faces emerge beneath helmets.
Steam rises faintly from damp clothing.
The smell is strong.
Hano wipes his forehead.
"That was… lively." he mutters.
Aldo does not answer immediately.
His eyes remain on the tree line.
Finally he nods once.
"Relocate to ventilated ground." he says.
They move to a slightly higher patch where wind moves more freely through the branches.
Men sit.
Some wring water from sleeves.
Others inspect weapons.
Lei Delun approaches Aldo.
"You ordered pursuit." he says.
Aldo nods.
"You and two others."
Lei gestures to two nearby soldiers.
They shoulder muskets again.
Without further words, the small group slips into the swamp following the retreat path.
The rest of the company settles into recovery.
Wet clothing is hung across branches.
Leather armor is wiped down and treated with oil.
Chainmail is shaken free of mud.
Metal plates are cleaned carefully to prevent rust.
A few soldiers kneel beside muskets, disassembling locks and wiping moisture from the mechanisms. Others gather discarded hatchets and spears scattered across the battlefield. Tribal weapons are collected into a pile.
Some are crude. Others surprisingly well-forged. Hano examines one iron blade.
"Not bad craftsmanship. They have iron here ?" he admits.
Onaga responses while tending the injured, "Yes, from the rusty-looking water with special techniques, you could get iron."
Nearby, several injured tribesmen groan softly.
They had not been killed.
Only disabled.
Aldo approaches them.
"Treat them." he tells the medics.
One soldier blinks in surprise.
"Even them?"
Aldo's tone remains neutral.
"They are sources of information."
Bandages are applied.
Water offered.
The tribesmen watch suspiciously.
After a few minutes Aldo kneels beside one who appears older.
"You will answer questions." he says calmly.
The tribesman spits into the mud.
"No."
Another remains silent. But pain and exhaustion weigh heavily on them. The company's soldiers stand around, quiet but imposing. Aldo nods slightly.
"Ask again later." he tells his men.
Time passes. Eventually one tribesman speaks. Not loudly. But clearly enough.
Then another. Oaths and traditions weaken under the weight of survival. Their answers come slowly. Fragments. Directions. Descriptions.
By evening Aldo gathers the information.
He stands with several officers and recorders.
"The Witch Enclave lies deeper north." he says.
Ryong writes quickly.
"Distance?"
"Two days travel if careful."
He pauses.
"But we will not follow the expected schedule."
A few soldiers glance up. Aldo continues.
"Publicly we prepare an attack in three days."
Hano tilts his head.
"Publicly?"
Aldo nods once.
"Privately the strike occurs in thirty-six hours."
The men exchange looks. The swamp wind moves softly through the branches. Somewhere deeper in the marsh, a bird finally calls again.
And the company begins preparing for the next movement of the expedition.