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The battlefield near the Arbiter's barracks was chaotic, but the tide was turning against the rebels. More seemed to emerge from the glowing barracks for every construct they destroyed. The shimmering barriers around the stronghold pulsed and were drawing mana from the grid to repair the damage done by the rebels' earlier assaults.

Lysara frowned as she observed the glowing barriers around the barracks. "I thought we cut them off from the grid," she muttered.

Kael, overhearing her, nodded grimly. "We did. But the ones who built this would've planned for this. They're probably using stored mana crystals or a secondary conduit."

Lysara stood atop the crumbled watchtower, her eyes narrowing as she took in the state of the battlefield. The rebels were holding the line, but their movements slowed and their attacks became less coordinated as exhaustion set in. The constructs, by contrast, showed no signs of fatigue. Their relentless attacks began to push the rebels back, step by step.

A runner scrambled up the tower, his face streaked with grime and desperation. "Commander Lysara, we've got word from the demolition teams—they've been overrun near the east gate. They couldn't plant the charges."

Lysara closed her eyes, her hands gripping the stone railing of the tower so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think clearly despite the frustration gnawing at her. Experience new stories on My Virtual Library Empire

"Pull them back," she ordered. "We can't afford to lose more people. Redirect them to reinforce the north side and help with the retreat."

The runner hesitated, his face falling. "Retreat, Commander?"

"Yes, retreat," Lysara snapped, though her tone was more weary than angry. She softened slightly, placing a hand on the runner's shoulder. "We've pushed them as far as we could today. If we keep fighting, we'll lose more than we gain. Relay the order."

The runner nodded reluctantly and hurried off, running through the chaos below.

Lysara scanned the battlefield one last time before descending from the tower. The rebels were already beginning to pull back; their movements were slow but safe. Cover fire from archers and spearmen ensured that the retreat didn't become deadly, but the strain on the fighters was evident.

Kael stood amidst the rubble near the conduit, his blade hanging loosely in his hand. His armor was scratched and battered, and blood—some his own, some not—streaked his arms. He watched the constructs pressing forward, their glowing eyes lighting up as they advanced towards them.

"Fall back!" he shouted to the rebels around him. "Regroup at the fallback point! Don't get caught in the open!"

The rebels followed his orders, their movements sluggish, but they all listened. Kael stayed behind to ensure an orderly retreat, his blade flashing as he struck down a construct that ventured too close.

Amara appeared beside him, her face a bit pale. "We can't keep this up," she said, her voice filled with frustration. "The constructs don't tire. We do."

"I know," Kael muttered, slicing through another crystalline limb. "That's why we're pulling back. But damn it, I hate giving ground."

Amara placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm. "We'll regroup. Heal. Plan. This isn't the end."

Kael exhaled through his nose, letting his frustrations out, and nodded. "Get the wounded out. I'll hold them here a little longer."

The rebels regrouped at a makeshift camp several blocks away from the barracks. The air was heavy with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Injured fighters were laid out on stretchers, their groans filling the air as the healers worked tirelessly to tend to them. The golden glow from Lira's earlier efforts had faded, leaving the rebels to rely on themselves.

Lysara entered the camp, her expression grim, but she composed herself. She moved from group to group, checking on the injured. The rebels looked to her for leadership, and she knew she couldn't show the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Kael arrived soon after, his armor dented and face set in a hard scowl. "We've secured the retreat. No one was left behind."

Lysara nodded. "Good. How bad are our losses?"

Kael hesitated, then shook his head. "Too many. But it could've been worse. We held them longer than I thought possible."

Amara joined them, wiping her bloodstained hands on a rag. "The healers are doing what they can. The rest need food and rest. If we push again too soon, we'll collapse."

Lysara sighed, crossing her arms. "We've made some progress at least. The eastern approach is weakened, and we've removed several of their constructs. They know we're not backing down. That's something."

Kael grunted. "It's not enough."

"It never is," Lysara said quietly. "But no one said this would be easy. Taking a city in a day? Only fools think that's possible. We've shown them what we can, and that's enough for today."

As the rebels settled into the camp, the mood was exhausted. The battle had been hard, and the losses were heavy, but they had progressed toward their goal.

Lysara stood at the edge of the camp, gazing toward the distant barracks. The glowing barriers still pulsed faintly.

"We'll hit them again tomorrow," she murmured to herself. "And the day after that, if we have to. They'll fall eventually. We just have to keep fighting."

…

Inside the heavily fortified council hall, the Arbiters gathered again. Even though the whole city beneath them was chaotic for the whole day, it was filled with the sound of clinking goblets and indulgent laughter.

The central Arbiter, his immense frame barely contained by his ornate robes, leaned back in his throne-like chair. A cup of wine was clutched in one hand, and his other rested on the armrest, fingers drumming lazily. "So, the rebels have finally learned their place," he said, his tone smug.

A gaunt Arbiter with skeletal features nodded eagerly. "The reports confirm it, Your Eminence. The fighting near the barracks has ceased. The rebels have retreated."

The central Arbiter chuckled, his triple chins wobbling with the motion. "Retreated? Ha! I knew they were no match for us. Let this be a lesson to those rats—our constructs are invincible. They might have scratched at the walls, but they'll never breach the heart of our dominion."

Another Arbiter, a round man with an overly ruddy complexion, raised his cup in a toast. "To the fall of the rebellion!" he declared. "Let this night mark the end of their foolishness!"

The rest of the Arbiters joined in, their voices blending into a feast of drunken agreement. Servants scurried around the chamber, carrying platters with roasted meats, golden pastries, and glistening fruits. Cups were refilled as quickly as drained, and the room grew warmer each passing hour.

The central Arbiter gestured for more wine, his face flushed with intoxication. "Let us celebrate our triumph, my friends! Tonight, we feast not just for ourselves but for the glory of our god, who has blessed us with power beyond reckoning!"

A few of the more cautious Arbiters hesitated at the mention of their god. The silence from their divine benefactor in recent days had been unsettling, but the wine and the sense of victory drowned out their doubts.

"Perhaps the rebels have realized their foolishness," said the skeletal Arbiter, his bony fingers tearing into a piece of roasted fowl. "They were fools to rise against us in the first place."

"They'll be scattered by dawn," another Arbiter slurred, his face half-hidden behind a golden mask. "No one will dare challenge us again. Our constructs, our barriers—everything they've done is meaningless against the might of the Arbiters."

The central Arbiter smirked, raising his goblet once more. "Then drink, eat, and be merry, my friends! We are untouchable!"

The feast grew louder. Servants struggled to keep up with the demands for more food and drink, their faces pale with exhaustion. Plates of delicacies were passed around and discarded, half-eaten, as the Arbiters' appetite for indulgence overwhelmed their sense of self.

By the time the moon hung high in the sky, the chamber was a scene of waste. The table was littered with overturned cups, scraps of food, and spilled wine that pooled like blood across the pristine white tablecloth. The Arbiters slumped in their seats, their faces ruddy from overconsumption.

The central Arbiter let out a loud belch, his head lolling to one side as he waved a pudgy hand dismissively. "Enough," he slurred. "Let them come... let them try again. They'll fail. Always fail..." His words trailed off as his eyes closed, and moments later, his snores echoed through the chamber.

One by one, the other Arbiters succumbed to their drunken mind and fell asleep. Some passed out in their chairs, their faces pressed against the table. Others sprawled on the marble floor, their opulent robes stained with wine and grease.

The servants exchanged nervous glances as they began to clear the table, their movements quick and quiet. They knew better than to disturb the Arbiters in their current state because they did it once before and the outcome of that wasn't pretty.