“Report,” Rathos barks. He sits behind his desk, sorting through an assortment of orders, invoices, and reports some idiot decided to dump all over the desk while he was away. His helmet anchors one corner of a half-curled map. Even now, its crimson glow leaks between the papers half burying the helm.

The centaur [Scout] salutes.

“A force of four hundred thousand is slowly marching towards Sanavil. They will arrive in seven days at their current pace. This is the detailed report.” The [Scout] hands over a scroll.

Rathos suppresses a grimace as he reads the contents. Four hundred thousand personnel equates to roughly three hundred thousand [Soldiers], another hundred thousand or so logistic and support personnel, and untold thousands of merchants, whores, noble retinues, and clingers-on. Still, three hundred thousand nominal combatants is a far larger force than he expected Skalag to field in only a month. A direct confrontation would not be in his favor considering he can field at most thirty thousand [Soldiers], ten thousand of which would be poorly trained conscripts.

Right now, he wants to sigh, but a [General] does not show weakness. The only saving grace is that the enemy army is poorly organized and without a unified chain of command. It is also heading directly toward Sanavil, which gives Rathos a certain freedom to pick the battlefield. Holding up in Sanavil itself and putting the new walls to use is an appealing and tactically sound option, but if his army gets bottled up by a siege, then he’d lose the other cities he’d just conquered.

“Is that all to report?”

“Yes [General],” the [Scout] replies.

“Then you may leave. On your way out, inform Damair and Thorous to come to my tent.”

The [Scout] salutes and walks out. A minute later, Damair enters alongside Thorous.

“[General]!” they call and salute. “You asked for us?” adds Thorous.

“Yes,” Rathos replies. He looks at the male centaur. “Damair,” Rathos points at a map on the table, “we’ve got an army coming from the north. I need you to take your fastest mounted [Archers] and attack the enemy army's baggage train. Burn as much of it as you can, but don’t harry them for more than a day. Any longer and the enemy might respond. Any questions?”

Damair resolutely answers, “Sir, no sir.”

Rathos nods. “Then go,” he commands.

Damair salutes and rushes out. Not a second later, Rathos hears him yelling orders.

Rathos turns to Thorous, currently the highest ranked [Captain] in the camp. “Thorous, I need several things from you,” he grunts as he spreads the map. He points at a nearby city, “Doreson should be finishing up his siege. Send a [Messenger] to him and inform him to return to camp as soon as possible.” Rathos slides his finger south on the map until he is pointing at Sanavil, “Send a message to Abdel. Tell him to rush the training of the new [Soldiers]. Get them as battle-ready as possible within a week.”

“Sir, those are recently captured-”

“I know they are,” Rathos interrupts Thorous, “but we need bodies if we are to have any hope of repelling the incoming army. Even if they are partially trained, they can still be useful to stop a flank, or at the very least, slow it down.”

“That's still-”

“[Soldier],” Rathos cuts her off. “If I could, I wouldn't even think about having low-level, untrained personnel in my army, but I have no choice. We have an army over ten times larger than ours marching on our position. I need bodies.”

Thorous, though unhappy, slowly nods. She snaps a salute and leaves the tent.

Rathos allows a sigh to escape his lips after a moment. He’s beaten larger armies before, but never with such a disparity in numbers. Three hundred-thousand against thirty or forty thousand, and ten thousand of those raw recruits? Difficult. Practically impossible were the other three quarters of his troops not elites with novel abilities. He can win. However, there is no room for error. The battlefield must be perfect, and the commander hopefully isn’t too bright.

With a grunt, he looks down and checks the maps on the table. Specially made maps that not only denote locations, but also terrain. In any war, the environment in which a battle is fought will always benefit the defending side. In this case, the enemy is predictably coming for Sanavil.

His finger moves and stops at a location. The [General] smiles. Yes, that will do. He reaches out and grabs his helmet and puts it on. Then, he releases a command through his aura.

“All [Soldiers], break camp and prepare to move. We leave in three hours.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Funnily enough, civilians do not typically like the invaders that attack their cities and butcher their defenders. Maybe it’s something about the upset to the natural order, or the natural distrust of foreigners and outsiders mixed with nationalism, or maybe it’s the collateral damage the average man must suffer. There is, after all, no such thing as a clean war, and nobody appreciates you for destroying their lives and livelihood, not to mention family and friends.

There is, naturally, an exception to this pattern. It is all a matter of phrasing, a shift of perspective. It is not the evil monsters, come to slaughter the valiant defenders and depose the rightful [King]–no, it’s the righteous liberators, come to defeat the brutal oppressors and cast down the bloody despot.

People are funny like that.

Doreson marches through the just conquered city of Eaglewood, surrounded by cheering throngs. They sing and yell and cry in jubilation. They scatter flowers at his feet and dance in his wake. Whatever ruler has come to take Eaglewood, they’ll have to try very hard to be as hated as their “Great Leader.”

What is even happening, Doreson wonders.

“Hmmm…” His silent ruminations and audible grumbles are drowned out by the cheers. Their positive reaction is so abnormal that he can’t help but watch for a trap. At any moment, he expects a dozen [Assassins] to stab him in the back, or [Archers] to pop up on the roofs and pepper him with arrows.

Eventually he arrives in the plaza before the lord’s manor, and there his doubts are cast aside.

From a scaffold dangle a dozen corpses of men and women wearing noble dress, torn and ragged, before the gate, more people are crucified, and from tall lamp-posts hang corpses broken on the wheel. A bloody and bruised man kneels on the scaffold, his neck pinned to the block by the blade of Dragkenoss’ halberd.

When Doreson mounts the scaffold, the cheering dies. Doreson grimaces at the silence.

“Is this him?”

“This is him,” Dragkenoss nudges the injured [Lord] who turns his head. The man's eyes land on Doreson’s own.

“Mercy! Please, I…” the man looks at one of the corpses and shudders. “Please,” he begs.

Doreson frowns. “[Analyze]” he mutters.

Aren Stockman

[Lord] Level 31

[Tyrant] Level 47

“I see. So that's why your people don't like you.” He looks around, noting the displayed corpses and the silent, growing crowd. From their gazes and posture, he can sense their fear, anger, and hope.

He allows the silence to linger for a second longer.

“End him,” he orders.

Dragkenoss raises his halberd.

“No! Please! I can be usef-”

The halberd descends. A head rolls.

And once more, the revelry commences, but with more bloodthirsty cries. The [Strategist Captain] sighs. For some reason, this city makes him ache inside. Killing, conquering, winning; he’d dealt with those feelings in the dungeon. He’s grown numb to it.

But the sight of happy civilians looking at him as a savior drains him.

“Doreson?” Dragkenoss calls his name with a worried tone.

“I’m fine,” he answers more for himself than the old centaur who raised him. “I just… Give me a moment. Go help with rounding up the [Guards]. The people will advise you on who stays alive.”

Dragkenoss nods after a moment. He taps lightly on Doresons shoulder as he passes by.

As Dragkenoss leaves, Doreson moves forward. He walks around the corpse of the [Lord] and reaches a pillar made of stone, instead of crystal like in the dungeon. He’s leveled a lot over the past month from leading the army. Hopefully, he leveled again.

He places his hand on the pillar and hears the Voice of the World in his thoughts.

Doreson

Level 125 [Strategist Captain]

Class Upgrade Requirements Met.

Commencing Class Change.

Attempting to upgrade class [Strategist Captain] to class [General]

Upgrade Successful.

You are now a Level 125 [General]

New Skill Awarded

You have gained the skill [Tectonic Battlefield]

Doreson retracts his hand from the stone. He feels a headache come on as his body changes. His muscles tense violently, then enlarge all at once. The world becomes greater in clarity. He feels information flow into his mind, memories he’s never had, teaching him about his new skill and its ability.

And just like that, the pain and pressure disappears. He straightens himself. His body feels lighter, stronger. His mind is unfettered, his thoughts free and easy.

“So this is how he always feels,” Doreson whispers to nobody. He looks around, finding eyes turned towards him. His [Soldiers] smile. They feel the shift in his aura, similar now to the one Rathos wields.

“Doreson!”

But his musings are cut short. He looks up to the top of a building. Tessa stands atop it, her face is grim.

“[General] Rathos is ordering a full withdrawal.”

____________________________________________________________

When it comes to leading armies, none can do better than a [General]. It takes more than the capacity to organize, lead, and command, it requires a keen strategic insight and the ability to ruthlessly exploit the opportunities granted to them. Even most [Kings] and [Emperors], classes that run cities and nations, often do a poor job when directly leading an army.

And so, while one cannot do better than a [General], there are some that can come close. [Nobles] that choose to specialize in war can become a [Warlord]. Some classes, like a [Strategist Captain], can grow into a [General] with time and experience, and even before reaching that precipice of power exert a lesser strength. Then, there are the cases of those that manage to be both at the same time, an entirely random example of this being a [Royal Strategist].

“What the fuck are you dimwits doing?” Jade berates the [Tacticians]. “How can you all be so incompetent? It was clearly a delaying tactic!”

Her outrage is met with muted defiance but also shame. They’d made a mistake, one which will cost them two days of travel yet didn’t stop the destruction of hundreds of carts, carriages, and their supplies.

“How were we supposed to know it wasn't a direct attack?” one of the braver [Tacticians] asks, only to dodge a cup thrown by Jade.

“By fucking listening to me!”

She gives all thirty of the [Tacticians] a glare. Each of them are in charge of their own kingdom’s armies and tasked by their leiges to bring glory, honor, and plunder back home. They are a large, disorganized rabble hellbent on playing out their political rivalries on the battlefield and they’re getting on her nerves. It should be the opposite. As the supreme commander, she should be the one getting on their nerves!

“I ordered you all to keep your baggage trains safe and to not attack,” she growls, “but you idiots ignored that order and sent out your fucking slow as shit cavalry. Do you have any idea how much food was destroyed and time wasted chasing after only a thousand mounted archers?”

The [Tacticians] are silent.

“Fifty thousand cavalry. More than half your armies’ cavalry chased a thousand of those horse-legged fuckwads for five–fucking five–hours! And what did your oh so clever ideas accomplish? Hmmm!?” She glares around the room. “Jack shit, you fucking nincompoops!” she screams. “And then! THEN! Each of you dumb shits started preparing to attack an army that doesn't even exist!”

She continues berating them, even calling individuals out, but the matter at hand is that she doesn't have the time or political support to create a perfectly functional army. Like her, they came for an easy victory using overwhelming numbers. She thought it was going to be simple… until she learned how much effort an army of four hundred thousand troops and thirty commanders actually requires to lead.

Thus, she is left with what amounts to a horde. A slow, agonizing horde that will eventually do battle with Sanavil’s army, or, more likely, the city itself. Rathos would be an idiot to attack a force this many times larger than his own.

But that presumes she can get the damn army there in the first place.

___________________________________________________________________________

Like a well-trained machine, the new infantry from Sanavil merges into the army. With a few simple orders, the [Captains] and [Lieutenants] billeted the newly mustered soldiers and assigned them to veteran platoons.

A day passes and the expeditionary force returns. At its head is Doreson, a smile permanently plastered on the centaurs face. The centaur looks giddy, excited even as he makes his army walk in [Double Step]. A waste of a skill, but a short cooldown one.

When Doreson gets near enough, Rathos feels an aura descend on him. Instinctively, he releases his own, then slowly realizes what he just felt. Shaking his head, Rathos removes his obnoxious helmet.

“[General],” Doreson greets with a salute.

“[General],” Rathos replies with an approving grin.