Chapter Thirty:

“The Endless War”

Dawn was breaking over the Kolnheim Warfront, its dim light creeping over an endless sea of battle-worn terrain. The crimson glow on the horizon barely reached the bloodied fields, casting long, eerie shadows over shattered barricades, rusted weapons, and the charred remains of creatures and defenders that had fallen in the night’s assault.

But the war never ended.

Leo stood at the edge of the makeshift fortifications, his hands clenched at his sides as he took in the battlefield before him. Even now, he could hear the distant echoes of combat, the clash of steel, the guttural howls of creatures that refused to stay dead, and the low, constant drone of something unnatural lingering in the air.

Behind him, the nightshift of defenders was staggering back toward the fort, their steps slow and bodies weary. They were not soldiers in the traditional sense, Leo had learned that quickly. They were the discarded, the exiled, the unwanted. And yet, they were the only line of defense against what lay beyond.

The morning shift was already assembling, men and women clad in mismatched, battle-scarred armor, securing weapons dulled by years of use. There was no relief, no celebration of survival. Just another day of holding the line.

"Never thought I’d see it with my own eyes."

Leo turned at the voice. A weathered man with a streak of white cutting through his dark hair stood nearby, his expression one of awe. His armor was dented, his fur-lined cloak more functional than ornamental, but the authority in his stance was unmistakable.

"Players," the man said, exhaling slowly, as if saying it aloud made it real. "We always thought you were just a story."

"I’m real enough," Leo said, crossing his arms. "And so is whatever’s throwing those things at you every night."

The man studied him before nodding. "Name’s Commander Varek Thornhold. I run this mess."

Leo shook his hand, Varek’s grip firm and calloused. "Leo."

"Just Leo?"

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"Just Leo."

Varek smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Good. Names don’t mean much out here. Only what you’re willing to bleed for."

More Players had started to gather now, drawn by the weight of Varek’s words as he explained the battlefield’s grim reality.

Among them were Warriors, Mages, and Archers, each marked by the unmistakable glow of their Player status, studying him with curiosity, some with skepticism.

A tall woman with cropped dark hair leaned on a heavy greatsword, her piercing gaze assessing him. "So, this is real," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "This is what we were thrown into." She let out a slow breath, adjusting her grip on the sword. "Name’s Ingrid Faust. Can someone please tell me what the literal fuck is going on here?"

Beside her, a wiry elf in a faded green cloak adjusted the drawstring on his bow. "Some of us thought the Players would come marching in like gods. Others thought you’d be our death." His voice was dry, unreadable. "I suppose we’ll find out soon enough."

"I suppose we will," Leo said evenly. "And you are?"

"Varin," the elf replied, tapping his bow. "Not that it matters. Just another poor bastard holding the line."

A gruff chuckle came from behind them. A thickly built warrior with an axe slung across his back cracked his knuckles. "Don’t let him fool you. The elf’s got the best damn shot this side of the damned Void. I’m Rendain, if you ever need someone to hack apart a horror, I’m your guy."

Leo glanced back toward the battlefield. "You all keep this up every day?"

Varek exhaled, watching as the nightshift warriors faded into the background while the morning shift moved into place. "Every day. Every night. Every hour."

He gestured toward the battlefield, at the horizon where the enemy warcamp lay beyond the mist, their endless forces preparing for the daily morning assault.

"That mark in the sky, the antlered shadow, you’ve seen it, haven’t you? The Dark One. We’ve fought his forces for centuries, but the truth is, we don’t even know who, or what, he really is. The mask, the antlers, the darkness, it’s all anyone has ever seen. His goal has never changed. He wants the Waystone destroyed, and he wants the Four Guardians. If he ever gets both, it’s over."

Leo’s eyes narrowed as he followed Varek’s gaze to the dark insignia in the sky, hovering like an unblinking eye over the battlefield.

"This warfront’s held for centuries, but we’re running out of bodies to throw at the problem," Varek admitted. "Our numbers thin every year. The Players arriving now? Maybe you’re a curse. Or maybe you’re the last chance we’ve got."

Leo watched as a few Players, already trying to prove themselves, joined the morning shift in reinforcing the lines. His gut told him something about this battlefield was wrong, the respawning enemies, the never-ending cycle.

He exhaled sharply. "If we ever want to stand a chance here, we have to figure out what’s keeping the enemy coming back."

Varek nodded grimly. "That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out for years."

Leo exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the battlefield, the endless war before him, the ominous presence of the Hollow Mother lingering in the back of his mind.

If he could find a way to stop her, to cut off whatever made this war never-ending, then maybe, just maybe, they could finally push back.

Maybe they could finally win.