Reincarnated with the Country System

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the fortress city of the Modon. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The once-proud walls of Modon, a bastion of strength and defiance, now bore the scars of relentless assault. The soldiers on the ramparts, their faces streaked with sweat and soot, fired volley after volley of arrows into the advancing horde of Orcs. The twang of bowstrings and the whistling of arrows filled the air, punctuated by the guttural roars of the Orcs as they surged forward.

Many Orcs fell, their bodies riddled with arrows, many raised their crude wooden shields, deflecting the deadly rain. The Orcs were relentless, their eyes gleaming with a savage hunger as they pressed forward, undeterred by the losses they suffered. The defenders of Modon, though outnumbered, fought with the desperation of men who knew that defeat meant not just death, but the annihilation of everything they held dear.

The city of Modon was a strategic linchpin, nestled between two towering mountains that formed a natural chokepoint. It was the gateway to the fertile plains beyond, and its fall would open the floodgates for the Orcish horde to sweep across the land unchecked. The defenders, a mix of seasoned soldiers and hastily mustered militia, knew the stakes. They fought not just for their lives, but for the survival of their homeland.

In the command center of the fortress, a room filled with maps, scrolls, Viscount Ellsworth stood with his commanders. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of their dire situation pressing down on them like a physical force.

Lord Ridon, a grizzled veteran, entered the room.

"Viscount Ellsworth," Ridon began, his voice low and urgent, "why hasn't help arrived yet? Have you been unable to make any contact?"

Ellsworth, a man in his fifties, turned to face Ridon. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles white with tension.

"I haven't been able to make any contact with Duke Farl," Ellsworth admitted, his voice heavy with frustration and despair. "I think they've abandoned us."

"Abandonment!?" Ridon's voice rose, his anger barely contained. "What do you mean? This city is crucial. If it falls, Latvia will have an open path to our lands. There are no other defenses besides this one!"

Ellsworth's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anger and helplessness. Before he could respond, another voice cut through the tension.

"There's another one," said General Bab, a tall, broad-shouldered man.

All eyes turned to him, the room falling silent as they waited for his explanation.

General Bab stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He pointed to a spot on the large map spread out on the table before them.

"Baraka River," he said, his voice steady and sure. "This river flows for miles, and it's wide enough to serve as a natural barrier. I believe Duke Farl has moved all the people to the other side of the river, leaving us here to buy time. They're likely destroying all the bridges and building a strong defense system on the opposite bank."

Ellsworth slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the room. "This is betrayal! He promised me help would come. He gave me his word!"

Ridon's face was a mask of fury, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I didn't expect this from him at all. How could he do this to us?!"

Before anyone could respond, the door burst open, and a soldier rushed in.

"Sir," the soldier stammered, "there is bad news. Latvia— Latvia is bringing Gigantsky to us."

The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of the soldier's words sinking in like a stone dropped into still water. Without a word, Ellsworth, Ridon, and Bab rushed to the balcony.

Ellsworth raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, the lenses crafted with the finest glass available in their land. What he saw made his blood run cold. The binoculars slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground as he took a step back, his face ashen.

The Orcs, who had been advancing on the walls, began to retreat, their ranks parting like the Red Sea. The soldiers on the walls, who had been fighting with desperate courage, now froze in terror as they beheld the scene before them.

From the distance, a line of colossal figures emerged, their massive forms casting long shadows over the battlefield. These were the Gigantsky, S-rank monsters, creatures of legend and nightmare.

The Gigantsky stood up to 50 meters tall, their bodies like small mountains of flabby, green flesh. Their grotesque forms were a mockery of nature, their four legs moving with a ponderous, earth-shaking gait. Their skin was a sickly green, stretched taut over their massive frames, and a row of small, yellow spikes ran down their backs.

They were natural herbivores, once peaceful colossi that roamed the mountains, feeding on vast forests. But the Latvians had found a way to twist them into weapons of war. Their sheer size and power made them weapons of mass destruction.

A massive wooden scaffold had been constructed along their backs, covered in arcane runes that glowed a sickly blue. Atop these platforms stood robed figures—the Beastbinders. Through dark sorcery, these warlocks had shackled the Gigantsky's minds, turning them into obedient tools of destruction. They wielded whips crackling with purple energy, lashing at the monsters' flanks to guide them forward.

With each step, the ground trembled as if in the throes of an earthquake. The walls of Modon, which had withstood countless assaults, now seemed pitifully inadequate against the sheer bulk of the Gigantsky. The soldiers on the walls, their faces pale with fear, began to flee, their courage shattered by the sight of the approaching monsters.

A few brave souls manned the cannons, firing desperate shots at the Gigantsky. The cannonballs struck the monsters with a resounding boom, but they might as well have been pebbles thrown by children. The Gigantsky barely noticed the impacts, their massive bodies absorbing the blows without so much as a flinch.

The first Gigantsky reached the walls, its massive head towering over the battlements. With a single, casual swipe of its enormous forelimb, it tore through the stone like paper, sending chunks of masonry tumbling to the ground. The soldiers who had been standing on the wall were crushed beneath the falling debris, their screams cut short as they were buried under tons of stone.

The Gigantsky continued their advance, their massive feet crushing everything in their path. Buildings were reduced to rubble, streets were turned into craters, and the defenders of the Modon were swept aside like leaves in a storm.

★★★

Private Aldric's breath came in ragged gasps as he sprinted through the ruined streets of the Modon. His armor, was caked with soot and blood. His hands trembled as he gripped his sword, though what good was a sword against monsters the size of mountains?

He had been on the western wall when the Gigantsky arrived. At first, he had fired his arrows with the others, each shot landing true, but against creatures so vast, it was like trying to kill a warhorse with a single grain of sand. Then the cannons fired—booming like thunder—but the behemoths didn't even flinch.

Then the first one reached the walls.

The ramparts beneath his feet shook violently. He saw men—flung into the air like rag dolls, their screams lost in the cacophony of destruction. A massive chunk of debris crashed down just feet away from him, crushing two of his comrades instantly.

He ran.

Not out of cowardice—at least, that's what he told himself—but because there was nothing left to fight for on the walls. He needed to find survivors, regroup, escape if possible.

Now, as he sprinted through the smoke-choked streets, he saw the city falling apart around him. Buildings collapsed in slow, agonizing destruction. The air was filled with the screams of the dying and the triumphant roars of the Orcs, who tore through the streets like wolves among sheep.

Up ahead, a group of civilians—women, children, the elderly—were huddled in the ruins of a chapel. Aldric forced himself forward, waving frantically. "Move! We have to move! The monsters are coming!"
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A deafening *boom* behind him made him turn. A Gigantsky's massive foot had slammed into the ground, sending shockwaves through the earth. The force of it knocked Aldric off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones. He barely had time to roll aside as another chunk of rubble came crashing down where he had just been.

Panic clawed at his chest. He couldn't die here—not like this, crushed and forgotten. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and helped a young boy up from the rubble. "Come on, lad, we have to run!"

The boy, wide-eyed and sobbing, clutched Aldric's hand. Together, they bolted through the ruins, heading for the eastern gate—where, if the gods had any mercy left, an escape route still remained.

Behind them, the city of the Modon died in fire and blood.

★★★

From a distance, a massive Orc watched the destruction with a cruel smile. Ghorrak the Butcher, the leader of the Orc legion, was a figure of pure terror. He was three times the size of a normal Orc, his body a mass of muscle and sinew. His throne, made of bones and carried by four powerful Orcs.

Ghorrak bit into a piece of meat, the juices running down his chin as he savored the taste. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched the Gigantsky tear through the city, their massive forms reducing the Modon to ruins.

"Kill all the living and dead," Ghorrak commanded, his voice a deep, guttural growl that carried across the battlefield. "This is your feast."

The Orcs, emboldened by their leader's words, let out a deafening roar and surged forward, their weapons raised high. They descended upon the city like a swarm of locusts, their hunger for blood and destruction insatiable.

♦♦♦

Battle report