General Neogon surveyed the no-man’s-land between the Rift and his front lines with an irritated expression. Even from this distance, he could see enemies emerging. Mostly war trolls, but there’d been a few broken eyes, and at least ten winged ones, spotted over the past two days. That was enough to confirm that a major incursion was coming.

  Just before his damn retirement.

  “Bastards couldn’t have waited another three months?” he hissed as he took in more and more information. His talent, “Commander’s Eye,” gave him an unprecedented view of the battlefield for miles around him. It was his third-tier talent, upgraded from his common “Hunter’s Eye,” back when he’d been younger.

  He took no small amount of pride in the accomplishment. Not many could say they’d upgraded a common talent to rare, but he was one of the few. A common scout, working his way to general, was practically unheard of, but he’d done it.

  The rift made it largely irrelevant, though. Enemies came from the distortion, and he had to kill them. It was an open field. Scouting, which had been vital during the war with the Rechin Amut, was wasted against the rift. Well. Perhaps not entirely. It had allowed him to notice that band of trolls that had snuck through the lines —and hadn’t that been eye-opening—but it was mostly useless in this situation.

  Against another army, the talent was invaluable. Stuck staring at a wall, playing whack-an-ogre with every enemy that came out? A wall with the eyes of five different border nations on it?

  He’d been cast aside, given a shit assignment to live out the last years of his service requirement before he could be quietly sent home. He’d been okay with that. He’d earned his accolades and was happy to see the last of war. He hadn’t been ennobled or anything so grand, but if there was anything the Tacurian government was good at, it was paying its troops.

  One in four men and one in five women from the entire nation joined the military upon reaching their eighteenth nameday, and eighty percent of them ended up here. A fifty-mile-long arc of battle lines that was Tacuria’s responsibility, bordering the rift.

  The place where monsters came from.

  He remembered the place before the rift. Estermont. He’d grown up there. Filled with villages. Happy people. A few lakes. Then, the rift appeared. Fifteen years gone… maybe twenty?

  The aptly-named Rift-Border Treaty had locked the borders around it. Tacuria was responsible for about thirty percent of the entire circumference, while four other nations made up the other seventy, to varying degrees. That had been deemed fair, since Eastermont had once been a Duchy of Tacuria.

  Back then, the border nations, particularly Rechin, had tried to take advantage of Tacuria, seeing how the rift had weakened them so severely.

  They’d learned better.

  He’d been a big enough part of that lesson that they’d named him General. Unfortunately, he fervently wished he’d stayed a lowly scout, because now it was his duty to report the incursion, and odds were good that his retirement would be delayed another six months.

  At minimum.

  “Heavens be cursed,” he blasphemed. He did that regularly of late.

  Some of the soldiers had started to call it the Everwar, and on days like this, he thought the name fitting.

  War trolls. Ogres. Goblins—endless fucking goblins—were the simplest of creatures the rift could produce. The creatures weren’t all that intelligent, but the rift itself might be. That was why it sent scouts.

  Of the lesser monsters, War Trolls were the worst. Goblins seemed almost eager for death, charging the lines as if they were the head of an army of millions. War Trolls seemed to value their lives, though, and that made some of them clever. Worst of all, they were sadistic fuckers. They tended to bite off limbs. Clean deaths were better for morale than finding out your buddy was eaten alive.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” asked Sergeant Vovel.

  The man was stick thin with a posture that a fencepost might envy. He had a wispy mustache that made him look like a fool, but he seemed to pride himself on the thing. He had a talent that boosted his martial weapons skill directly, which had propelled him up the ranks quickly. Probably too quickly, but he’d either swim or he’d sink.

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  A good man, as best Neogon could tell. He’d never become an officer. Too useful on the front lines. But a battlefield commander? He’d be one of the best. Assuming he managed to swim, of course.

  “Yes, there’s a blasted problem,” Neogon snapped. “It’s going to be an incursion.”

  Vovel quirked a questioning eyebrow. “We knew that, sir. We’ve known that since we started to see the winged ones.”

  “And that isn’t enough of a problem for you?” Neogon said.

  “Not a new one, at any rate,” Vovel returned.

  “Well, how's this for a problem? I think it's going to be a category two,” he barked.

  Vovel frowned, narrowing his eyes at the land around the rift. A shimmering reflection of the land in front of it, like a curtain made entirely of mirrors.

  “What leads you to that conclusion?” he asked.

  “The number of winged ones and broken eyes are part of it, but the main thing is the lack of ogres.”

  “What? What does that have to do with anything?” the sergeant asked, perplexed.

  “They usually send out ogres before an incursion. Leading theory is that the rift likes to soften up the ground before it releases a large number of monsters. It doesn’t learn, doesn’t understand that we’ve got contingencies for that. It just keeps doing what it's always done. The only time it doesn’t release ogres before an incursion is when it doesn’t need them.” Neogon said. “We’re getting a town scraper. Or, worst of all, something new. Along with a mountain of war trolls.”

  Far below, near the front of the rift, small contingents of men and women would surround the war trolls and kill them, usually before they could even roar in protest. It was done in shifts, and the soldiers grunted about it, as if it were latrine duty or some other mundane chore.

  Once, this place had inspired terror. Now, it was just another duty. Potentially dangerous, as the occasional death proved, but nothing like the warzone it once was.

  As long as the soldiers didn’t do anything stupid, the duty, hell, the whole posting, was relatively safe for everyone. Boring days with short shifts fulfilled by a surplus of men and women, eager for the levels. Two hours of hazardous duty followed by twenty-two hours of rest and relaxation. The rank and file never had it much better than this.

  A category two incursion would certainly change that. There would be deaths. Even if he missed his guess and it was a weak incursion, there would still be deaths. But it was nothing the army couldn’t handle.

  So it was with great shock that seven of his soldiers, scouts closest to the border between Tacuria and Eschal, suddenly went dark.

  ‘What the hell?’ he thought. Surprise lasted barely a moment before being replaced with rage. That was seven soldiers who had just died. Scouts. A whole squad, dead in moments, or at least incapacitated all at once. They hadn’t even all been grouped together!

  A sneak attack. Foolish, against one such as him. Monumentally so.

  “Vovel! Send a contingent to the eastern border immediately. I just lost awareness from a full squad,” he barked before picking up his axe. “Sound the alarms! This is not a drill!”

  His talent gave him a general awareness of the health of every soldier under his command. Using this awareness allowed him to feel his soldiers’ mental state in a huge aggregate that came with directions. He still had to send out scouts, but his scouts hardly ever needed to report in. Panic at the west flank? Probably need more soldiers over there. Anger at the rear? Probably a sneak attack.

  And if seven soldiers suddenly died at the east end of a permanent war camp? That was enemy action, and it certainly hadn’t come from the dumb monsters of the Rift. Eschal. Could Eschal have betrayed them? Why!?

  It would’ve been expected—hell, predictable!—if it came from the Rechin. Damn warmongers. But Eschal!?

  Even as the bugles began to sound, a sudden roar echoed from the rift. Neogon’s eyes widened in horror. The incursion. Now!? At the same time as an attack?

  He gritted his teeth as he began to pen messages to the capital and the local duchy, Denarla. They’d need to be informed both of the betrayal and the incursion. Had Eschal known? Had they expected this?

  Well fine. Grand then! A battle on two fronts and… gods, was that a fucking dragon’s head peaking out of the rift’s mirrored surface?

  Despite himself, Neogon actually felt excited. For the first time in a long, long time, he would have to bloody his axe.

  He’d always thought retirement sounded boring, anyway.