After being away from Sanavil for two weeks, harrying the enemy army back to their city and then mapping the land around it, Rathos crests a final hill and gazes on the great wall nearing its completion. The wall towers, twice as high as the old ones, thicker and- he blinks as a sheen of energy travels lightly over the pearly white wall- enchanted?

To say that enchanting walls is expensive is like saying that lakes have a lot of water. Both statements fail to convey how large the sums truly are. Enchanting a small object, such as a spearhead, with a simple enchantment is pricey. Enchanting a hundred is expensive. Enchanting a city wall will completely ruin a kingdom’s budget for the next decade.

Instead of enchantments, most kingdoms rely on high level [Stonemasons], who use their skills to make the wall especially durable. The kingdoms that can manage to squeeze out enough money to enchant their walls… Well, those walls probably aren’t that thick.

Then again, exceptions do exist. Camelot's walls are thick and enchanted with magic that very few [Enchanters] can comprehend, let alone attempt to imitate.

Still, the resources, the crystal required, boggles his mind.

Without stopping, his regiment trudges towards Sanavil. They are exhausted from their long journey, but are still able to keep going thanks to their high levels. When they return, he will have them take a good long break.

Rathos tilts his head and glances at Doreson. The [Strategist Captain] lacks a great deal of experience. His mindset is too focused on how to lead instead of leading, an important distinction between a [Strategist] and a [General]. Rathos hopes that with experience, Doreson will eventually shift his class to [General], a far more powerful and versatile class.

Rathos hears the drum of hooves and immediately turns to notice a detachment of heavily armored centaurs heading their way. He feels them enter the range of his aura but detects no hostility.

Dragkenoss strides up. His unit creates a defensive formation around the centaur [Archers] while he himself moves next to Rathos’s chariot.

“[General] Rathos.” The centaur salutes with a hand extended on his forehead; an interesting salute that the [King] demands of his troops. Overall, Rathos doesn't mind it. It’s far less ostentatious than kneeling or bowing to a commander.

Rathos salutes in return, “Dragkenoss, has your mission been completed?”

He nods. “Yes, the [Priestesses] have been transported safely and have currently fully integrated with the red cross…”

Dragkenoss pauses, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What happened?” Rathos asks.

Dragkenoss scratches the side of his head, unsure how to explain.

“Well, the new [Priests] and [Priestesses] got some new skills. It's… well, you might want to see it yourself instead.”

Rathos slowly nods.

“I see… And the integration of the new infantry? I imagine the process has been difficult.”

Dragkenoss perks up, his ears twitch as a smile forms on his face. “Very well, actually. From what I hear, Darrow has the entire army running smoothly.”

Rathos raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“I see. I’ll want to check in on the infantry myself once I inform the Queen of the current situation.”

_____________________________________________________

It doesn't take long to pass through the gateless walls and enter the fields of large tents. Each tent will eventually be replaced with proper permanent buildings once the wall is completed, which, if Rathos inferred correctly, will probably take less than a week.

He dismisses his troops to take a break while he continues his way into Old Sanavil where trade is already flourishing between the humans and the… monsters. As he rides up the streets, people quickly make way, giving his chariot a wide berth until he arrives at the castle. Oh how he wishes he could see his family first, but he must report to his superior.

Inside the castle gates, he finally dismounts from his chariot, getting a saddened look from his two centaurs that have been pulling him around.

Rathos shakes his head at the species so weirdly fond of being used as draft animals. He tells them to wait for him before he mounts the steps and enters the keep proper. He follows painted arrows up another flight of stairs and past several rooms before he arrives at Nighmora’s chambers.

The twin doors are opened by the guards in attendance, granting him the sight of the [Queen] sitting in her throne, her alien eyes watching him. Two more Gejan [Guardians] stand ready, armed and armored, at her sides.

Rathos moves in front of the Queen and takes a knee.

“I have returned,” he informs her.

Nighmora waves her hand. “Dispense with the formalities. I still do not understand their meaning no matter how much Rose attempts to help me understand. Tell me succinctly how the battle went. I’ve already heard the reports, but I wish to hear it from your own mouth.”

Rathos stands. “The battle was a complete victory. With a single engagement, I was able to destroy the enemy armies ability to engage our troops. After they started retreating, I hounded them until they reached the safety of their walls. Their numbers are depleted and their morale is at an all time low. [King] Tersus won’t be a threat to Sanavil for a long time.”

Nighmora’s tail swishes above her head, like a snake ready to attack at any moment. “A temporarily acceptable victory. How long until you will take their city and kill this Tersus?”

“My [Queen]?” he asks her, confused.

Nighmora tilts her head. “The enemy dared to attack us. Merely defeating them in a single battle does not eliminate the threat. We must take his city and end this [King]’s life.”

“You want me to destroy the city?”

“Of course not,” she replies and he sighs in relief.

“I want you to slaughter their leaders, root out those who will not be loyal, and conquer their [Kingdom]. You should prepare to leave tomorrow.”

Rathos freezes, eyes widening in disbelief. She is ordering him to destroy a kingdom, as though it was the most normal thing to do.

“So soon?” he forces the words from his mouth. “The [Soldiers] need rest and the new infantry requires more training.”

Nighmora looks at Rathos like a predator inspecting whether he is prey or not. She nods slowly.

“Your reasoning is sound. I forget that the new infantry will require additional preparation. It would be wasteful to send them out unprepared.”

She leans back onto her seat. “You have two weeks to train them and prepare. Then you will eliminate the threat,” she orders.

Before Rathos can say anything else, she reaches to her side, grabs an object and throws it at him. He catches it instinctively. A moment passes as he realizes the item now in his hand.

“Regardless of the continued threat, you have performed dutifully in your task of defending Sanavil. For that, I am rewarding you with a sword from the [King]’s armory.”

Rathos looks at the sheathed sword in his hand. The scabbard is pure white with the images of pink flowers throughout. Sharing in its vibrant white is the handle, which is delicately curved while having big bright letters etched on the hilt. In hot pink, he reads the words Joy.

“The blade is of Legendary quality, a perfect fit for the [General] that leads my army,” she exclaims.

Rathos swallows. As someone who collects weapons and armor, he can feel that the sword in his hands is truly powerful, though he does dislike the color. Then again, with a name like Joy, he shouldn’t expect it to have an aggressive color scheme.

Without realizing it, Rathos walks out of the room, only then remembering that he was going to complain about two weeks being too short a time.

Sighing in annoyance, he heads back down. As he does, he unsheathes the sword, revealing a toothed black and red menacing blade that looks made to violently shred foes.

On the edge of the blade, right by the hilt that says Joy, is an etched message.

-Through Non-violent Genocide

_________________________________________________________

Rathos reaches his estate. The place looks the same as he had left it. The garden is trimmed, the building is clean, and when he probes the place with his aura, the defenses are still active.

With a rare smile on his face, he climbs the steps and the doors of his residence open.

“Welcome home,” his [Butler] says while he moves out of the way. Rathos enters his residence and immediately frowns.

“Where's Izabella? Where is Henrietta? Kasandra?” he asks quickly, his heart rate rising.

The [Butler] bows. “Mistress Izabella is currently playing with a Gejan child named Aisha, and both Henrietta and Kasandra are currently working at the tower.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Rathos opens his mouth and closes it. He opens it again… and nothing. The kitsune have stolen his two fox-kin [Maids] and his daughter is with…

“Who’s Aisha?”

“She is a Gejan Child who lives in the tower. A student of the Ktisune Volpe.”

“A student… of that monster?”

His [Butler] quickly raises his hand placatingly. “Mistress Izabella has been visiting Aisha often and has returned unharmed every night. She should return before the sun has set.”

Rathos relaxes, but only slightly. The fact that his daughter is alive and well is what matters. So long as she is well. Then he remembers.

“Scarlet, is she well?”

The [Butler] nods. “Yes, she has been visiting every night and dining with Izabelle.”

He grunts slowly as his [Butler] extends his hand to take Rathos’s coat.

Rathos shakes his head. “I only came to check and see that Izabelle is safe. I still have more errands to run. I will return tonight.”

With those words, Rathos leaves his residence. His feet quickly take him away from his home and onto the city cobblestone road.

His first stop is to meet an old friend, someone who can explain to him what the hell this new sword can do.

It’s a ten-minute walk to reach the dwarf’s smithy, but Rathos pauses when the smithy comes into sight. Where there was once a single building about the size of a small house, now stands an industrial complex a dozen times that size. Now, there are five smelters, four as large as the original and the fifth dwarfing the rest.

Rathos takes in the sight and resumes his walk towards the smithy. A line of people gaze at the smithy from a distance, held back by armed [Gejan guards]. Rathos walks past the civilians. The [Gejan guards] give him a single glance, a quick salute, and do not move to bar his path.

He can't believe the changes. He was gone two weeks… and everything has changed. Twenty Gejan work, pumping bellows or hammering away. A few quick [Silent Analyzes] reveal that the [Gejan] are all low level [Smiths] or [Apprentices]. There are even some humans in the mix, but no centaurs. Rathos supposes they wouldn’t do well with having to hunch over all the equipment as they work, nor would their fur make it comfortable.

Eventually, after a short search, Rathos finally finds the dwarf near the large smelter.

The dwarf is busy slamming hard on a piece of darkened metal, each swing of his hammer barely molding it.

“Garrus,” Rathos calls out and the dwarf stops. A stream of sweat drips down his forehead.

The [Blacksmith] scowls until he looks up, then smiles when he sees who it is.

“Rathos, you’re back! I heard you trounced the clean freak,” he exclaims, placing down his hammer to the side.

“It was relatively simple. But enough about me,” Rathos waves his hand around, ”what is all this?”

The dwarf smiles. “This is my new smithy. The [Queen] wants me to train [Blacksmiths], but I told her to fuck off. So she proposes upgrading my smithy, so I told her to still fuck off again.”

Rathos raises a curious eyebrow. It does sound like something Garrus would say, though it is a bit dangerous.

Garrus chuckles. “Then she said she would build me a smelter that can melt adamantium.”

He shrugs. “Well, I can’t fucking say no to that.”

Rathos turns his gaze to the metal on the anvil. The blackened metal is already cold.

“I thought only the dwarfs could work with adamantium,” he asks.

“That's only because they have a fucking magic volcano to heat up the metal.”

Rathos points at the smelter. “So that's as hot as a magic volcano?”

“Fuck no! It’s a lot weaker. It takes forever to get the damn adamantium hot enough to work with, and even then, it is still difficult.”

“Aren't you supposed to smelt steel with a bit of adamantium mixed in?”

Garrus snorts. “Of course not! Adamantium gets hard too quickly, far too fast to mix with steel. That's why you need specific skills to make the process fast enough that the metal fully mixes. Skills you only get as a [Master Blacksmith].”

“So you need to level?”

“Take a look,” Garrus smiles cockily while folding his arms.

‘[Silent Analyze]’

Garrus Spectator

Level 96 [Head Smith]

“You’re level ninety-six,” Rathos says, quite impressed, “you are leveling really fast. You even had your class upgraded.”

The dwarf nods. “Yup, I’ve been working constantly with adamantium. It’s been helping me level, “he points at the large piece of adamantium still on the anvil, “and once I make Gauntlets out of that, I think I’ll level again.”

“Gauntlets? Out of pure adamantium? Who can even use something like that?”

Garrus looks down, the dwarf blushes, his face reddening quickly, “Rose,” he says weakly.

Rathos sees the blushing dwarf, and doesn't comment. Something has changed… and he feels it best not to ask any further.

“I see. I’m sure she may be able to wear them,” he reaches to his back and unties the flower covered sword, “I was rewarded with this weapon for my victory.”

“What kind of sissy flower cove- shite, tha’ be legendary!” the dwarf exclaims, his mouth going wide as he stares at the blade.

“It's called Joy, but I don’t have a clue what it can do, which is why I came to you.”

The dwarf swallows his spit and closes his mouth. Silently, he waves to Rathos to follow. They enter a nearby building. Rathos feels his senses weaken. The building is warded.

“Fucking legendary. She gave ya a shite legendary sword. Thas fuking crazy,” he shakes his head, eyes still trained on the sheathed sword. He moves to a desk and taps it.

Rathos moves and lays the blade on the stone before moving away.

“Alright, fuck! Why flowers? Who dah fuck makes a masterwork sword covered in sissy shite?”

The dwarf shakes his head, disappointed, “At least the name fits. Heh, Joy.”

He unsheathes the blade, revealing the eviscerating red and black edge. He reads the etched words.

“Fuck.” he exclaims.

He takes a deep breath.

“[Identify].”

Garrus almost drops the sword.

“Thor’s meaty fucking ballsack! Who would make this here shite!?”

“What's wrong? What can it do?” Rathos asks.

“Evil fucking sword!” Garrus continues. “Fucking evil and insulting.”

“Just tell me what it can do.”

Garrus frowns at the blade. “It cuts people and then forces them to laugh.”

“Laugh? That's it?”

Garrus nods. “It's the only enchantment, but boy is it powerful.”

“Doesn't seem that dangerous.” Rathos adds.

But Garrus is already shaking his head. “We have enchantments, skills, abilities to completely stop pain or madness. But laughter,” he swallows,” nobody expects to be forced into violent uncontrolled laughter. I’ve never heard of any enchant or skill to defend against something like this.”

“Mental defense,” Rathos counters, but Garrus continues shaking his head.

“Against a legendary level enchantment, you need a specialized defensive skill solely to stop laughter. I don't even think that shit even exists.” Garrus explains. He moves forward and sheathes the blade. He picks it up and hands it to Rathos.

“Never ever allow another dwarven smith to see this blade, otherwise you may find yourself at war with the entire dwarven kingdom.”

Garrus takes a deep breath. “Fuck, I need a drink. Want to join me?”

“Another day,” Rathos states, “I still have many errands to run.”

Rathos leaves the smithy. His stride takes him to the entrance where his chariot awaits. He climbs on the chariot, the two centaurs seemingly gaining renewed vigor.

With a word, they blast off, heading towards the camp filled with his new infantry. He needs to assess the situation as soon as possible. Even though Dragkenoss praised Darrow's ability to organize, Rathos knows that such a task is far harder than most would realize.

He hopes that he will find some semblance of order when he arrives.

______________________________________________________________________

The difference between a good [General] and a great one is their intuition. Rathos knows war, he understands that war is almost exclusively based on two things: Deceiving an enemy to gain the advantage, and pressing an advantage when you have it. However, deceiving an enemy is hard and detecting a deception is even harder. In the murky fog of war, a commander’s intuition, honed through a lifetime of war yet unmeasured by skill or level, is often his only guidance. In this art of deception and advantage, Rathos is a master artist. Before his crafty plans and well honed intuition, the levels of enemy [Generals] and their devastating skills are naught but vainglory.

Knowing when you are about to fall into a trap before [Danger Sense] goes off, or avoiding a direct confrontation with a weaker enemy because you feel something is off; it is these small feelings, a type of understanding of the flow between armies and units, that gives Rathos a limited omniscience.

He feels that now, a wrongness as he approaches the encamped infantry. He looks at them, hard at work, moving through the camp with veteran concentration. The camp seems organized and clean, with everyone busy doing something.

He orders his chariot to stop at the entrance. He orders the centaurs to wait before he walks into camp. Joy is slung on his hip, next to his usual sword. The [Soldiers] see, their eyes curious, but only for a moment before they look away with a hint of fear. Of dread. Once again, he feels uneasy. None of the [Soldiers] show anger towards him. He expects it, he practically wants someone to try to strike him down so he can send a message.

But nothing. He passes unhindered. Some of the [Lieutenants] even offer him a salute. He gives them a nod, but continues his way to the largest central tent.

When he reaches the tent, he finds human [Guards] instead of the Gejan [Guards] as he expected. The [Guards] salute, both gulping loudly, as he passes them by. He enters and frowns. At an overflowing desk sits a human. A quick [Silent Analyze] reveals the man is a level 61 [Captain] named Abdel.

The man is busy, desperately scratching his quill across a paper before adding it to the towering stack of documents beside him. His hand moves quickly and non-stop, too engrossed to notice Rathos has arrived at the man's desk. The [General] takes a keen look around the room. It is organized, efficient. Papers are neatly stacked and labeled. The tent reminds him of his old [Quartermaster]’s office.

After another minute of standing silently and evaluating the room, Rathos coughs lightly.

The man's hand stops writing as he quickly looks up. It takes him a moment to realize who he is looking at. All at once, the man jumps to attention. His hand flies to his forehead. “[General]!” he shouts, a panicked expression on the young man's face.

Rathos nods expressionlessly. His gaze is cold, hard, but not angry. He wields authority, and for that, he must act the part.

“[Captain] Abdel,” he begins, watching as man swallows, “You seem to be sitting in Darrow’s seat. Explain yourself.

Abdel swallows again, a nervousness born from inexperience. “Darrow placed me in charge of organizing and running the camp, sir.”

It takes Rathos a great deal of self-control to keep from raising his eyebrow. Especially because he can tell that the man is not lying. He is intrigued, especially since that Darrow doesn't seem to be very bright. But, maybe Rathos is wrong. Maybe Darrow is a master of delegation and had successfully chosen the best person to run the camp.

A camp that looks like it is filled with experienced war veterans. Each [Soldier] Rathos passed looked like he had suffered a near-death experience, one which scarred them to this day. He wishes to ask them about it, but forcing a [Soldier] to relive such memories is not something he would ever do.

“I see. Then where is Darrow currently?”

“At the training grounds, sir.”

Rathos hums for a moment.

“Lead me to him,” he orders and Abdel nods.

Abdel stumbles as he steps around the desk. “This way,” he says, and Rathos follows.

As they walk, Rathos stares silently as [Soldiers] squeeze out extra effort, working ever harder as they pass by.

Eventually, they arrive at the other end of the camp. A vast training ground where [Soldiers] are in the midst of training in constant one-on-one spars. On the side are a hundred Gejan and two hundred centaurs wearing the red cross. Standing with the Gejan is Darrow as he gazes at the [Soldiers], a gleeful smile on his lips.

Then Rathos sees it, one of the spars turns dangerous as a mace finds contact with an open arm. A loud crack rings out and the human [Soldier] screams. The [Soldiers] sparring around them barely notice what happened. Instead, they ignore it, continuing their spar.

Then, five centaurs rush out towards the injured [Soldier], who see them. The [Soldier] panics.

“NOO! Please, I'm fine,” the [Soldier] screams in terror. The man gets up, his mangled arm dangling as he attempts to run away from the centaurs. But he is too slow.

The centaurs arrive, each unstrapping a whip from their side. The first whip rushes out, striking him on the back. The man trips with a scream. The centaurs surround him.

Then they start whipping without abandon, the sound loudly echoing as leather aggressively strikes flesh.