DMZ
The DMZ had slowly turned into a village.
Yurt-shaped tents formed loose rings around the conference building, spreading outward like a stubborn organism that refused to die just because it was planted in the middle of a wasteland. Humans and beastmen mingled freely. Some were merchants sniffing out new opportunities. Others were settlers with fewer ambitions—mostly survival.
Despite being located in what was technically nobody's land, life wasn't half bad.
The Muricans had installed water pipes, public bathrooms, and other facilities that immediately raised the living standard from "desperate refugee camp" to "functional village." For many people here, that was more than enough.
Children ran along the dusty road, laughing and kicking up dirt without a care in the world. They weren't afraid of the human soldiers or the demon soldiers.
Both sides were "the nice people."
Especially the demons.
The demons kept handing out colorful sweets the locals had never seen before, which immediately earned them an unfair popularity advantage.
Hannya, the diplomat stationed at the border, had become something of a local celebrity. Everyone in the DMZ knew her—her friendliness, her bright smile, and her habit of remembering names.
One child in particular stuck to her like glue whenever she visited.
A wolf boy named Little Timmy.
"Hey, lady," Little Timmy asked eagerly, tail wagging behind him, "what did you bring today?"
"Nuh-uh," Hannya said, crouching down to his level. "Say it nicely."
"Pleeease, big sis…" he whined, dragging the words out with practiced precision.
She chuckled and reached into her bag, pulling out several wrapped hamburgers.
"Whoaah!" Little Timmy gasped. "Hamburgers! YEAAY!"
They sat together on a bench, unwrapping the food as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
"Big sis…" Little Timmy said between bites. "Do you think Mommy and I can come to your kingdom?"
Hannya paused.
"I don't know yet, Timmy," she said gently. "My… bosses are still figuring out how to bring you in."
"Really!?" His eyes sparkled. "Wow! I'd love to live there! Your kind are nice."
He chewed quickly, then added,
"All this time, people were lying when they said demons are evil."
Hannya smiled—but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I mean," Little Timmy continued, mouth full, "some humans are okay too. Like the Ravendawn soldiers. Sometimes they played with me."
Then his ears drooped.
"But the Vandorians… they are bad people."
Hannya stayed quiet, letting him talk.
"When Mommy and I were in Vandoria," he said softly, "we were running a lot. They always tried to make us slaves."
"…Why don't you and your mommy move to Ravendawn?" Hannya asked carefully.
"We tried," Little Timmy said. "But there's not enough food there. That's why Mommy brings me here."
Hannya's chest tightened.
As the sun fully set, she climbed into a Humvee with the other diplomatic staff and soldiers.
"Okay," she said, leaning out the window, "big sis has to go back to the base now. I'll see you again tomorrow, Timmy."
Little Timmy nodded enthusiastically, clutching a bag of hamburgers meant for his mommy.
"Thank you, big sis."
The Humvee began to roll away.
Hannya stared out the window, her thoughts stuck on Timmy's story.
Then suddenly, she leaned out and shouted,
"TIMMY! TOMORROW BIG SIS WILL BRING YOU SOME SWEETS!"
Little Timmy jumped.
"AND AMAZING FOOD CALLED PIZZA!"
His excitement exploded instantly.
"PROMISE??"
"PROMISE!!"
They waved at each other, both smiling wide under the warm glow of the sunset.
---
Little Timmy's Tent
"MOMMY! MOMMY! LOOK!" Little Timmy burst into the tent, nearly tripping over himself. "BIG SIS GAVE US HAMBURGERS!"
"Oh, Timmy…" his mother laughed softly, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you, my boy."
He wriggled in her arms, barely able to contain himself.
"Oh! And Big Sis said her boss is trying to get us inside her kingdom!"
His mother froze for a moment, then relaxed.
"It would be nice if we could go there."
"I know, right?" Timmy said excitedly. "I bet there'll be a lot of hamburgers there. And also pizza!"
She tilted her head. "What is pizza?"
"I dunno," Timmy admitted cheerfully. "But Big Sis said it's an amazing food. And she said she'll bring it tomorrow."
His mother smiled, brushing his fur gently.
That evening passed quietly.
Inside the small tent, they shared their food, their laughter soft and unguarded. For a few hours, the world outside didn't exist.
Later, before dawn.
Little Timmy was asleep when someone shook him.
"Timmy… wake up. Wake up."
"Mommy?" His eyes fluttered open. "What's wrong?"
Before she could answer, he heard it—screaming. Shouting. The crackle of fire.
When he fully woke, the tent glowed orange from outside light.
"Timmy," his mother whispered urgently, her voice trembling, "you need to hide."
She dragged him toward the bed, shoved him underneath, and hurriedly piled blankets, sacks, and scraps of junk over the opening.
"Don't make a sound," she whispered.
The tent door burst open.
A heavy boot stomped inside.
From his hiding place, Little Timmy peeked out.
The soldier wore ancient Roman-like armor, stained dark in places that weren't rust.
"DIE, YOU LOWLY BEASTMAN!"
"MERCY! OH PLEASE, MERCY!" his mother screamed.
The sword came down.
Blood splashed across the tent.
Again.
And again.
Little Timmy pressed his hand over his mouth, his body shaking as he watched his mother fall, the blows continuing long after she stopped moving.
"HAHAHAHA!"
The Vandorian soldier laughed, hacking at her body with wild, careless swings.
Outside, more screams echoed.
The same scene played out again and again across the DMZ.
---
4 Miles from the DMZ
A few hours later, the sun rose.
A Humvee convoy rumbled down the road toward the village. Inside one of the vehicles, Hannya sat upright, a stack of pizza boxes balanced carefully on her lap.
She was smiling.
"That sure is a lot of pizza, ma'am," the driver said, glancing at the boxes.
"Yeah," Hannya said brightly. "I promised it to a little kid. I'm his big sis, you know."
The radio crackled.
"10-33, 10-33. We've got visual of smoke coming from the DMZ."
"Copy that," the driver replied, his tone sharpening. "Proceed with caution."
Hannya turned toward the window.
In the distance, black smoke climbed into the morning sky.
Dread tightening her chest.
---
DMZ
The DMZ was gone.
What had once been a rough village was now a field of ruin. Tents had collapsed into ash, their frames warped and blackened. Others were still burning, flames licking weakly at fabric already half-consumed.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Humans. Beastmen.
Even demon soldiers—the ones who had been stationed here to keep the peace.
Murica's Rangers moved through the wreckage in a tight sweeping formation, boots crunching over debris and broken ground. Weapons raised. Eyes sharp.
Several meters behind them, Hannya followed, kept deliberately at a safer distance.
She was shaking.
From around a collapsed tent corner, laughter echoed—high and cruel.
A group of Vandorian soldiers stood in a loose circle, jeering at a bloodied Ravendawn soldier slumped against the ground.
"Contact, two o'clock," one ranger whispered into his comm.
The Vandorians didn't notice a thing.
"You beast-lover scum," one of them sneered. "You should go to hell with them."
Another soldier lifted his sword, lining up the strike.
RATATATATATATATATA—
The world exploded with gunfire.
One Vandorian's head snapped back as a round punched clean through his skull, blood spraying outward. The others fell in the same instant, bodies jerking as bullets tore through armor and flesh.
They didn't even have time to scream.
All of them dead.
Silence returned just as abruptly.
The Vandorians lay still.
The Rangers moved in, surrounding the lone surviving Ravendawn soldier, who was shaking so hard he could barely sit upright.
"You," a ranger said firmly. "Tell me what happened here."
"They…" The soldier swallowed, voice breaking. "They ordered us to kill the demon soldiers. And the civilians."
His breath hitched.
"I refused. So they tried to kill me."
"Who are they?"
"The Vandorians," he said weakly. "Their main force already left."
Hannya heard that.
Something inside her snapped.
"TIMMY!" she screamed, pushing past the Rangers and sprinting into the ruins. "TIMMY!"
"MA'AM! IT'S DANGEROUS!" the Ranger captain shouted after her.
She didn't slow down.
She ran, voice cracking, panic spilling out with every breath.
"TIMMY! TIMMY, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
For a moment, there was only the crackle of fire.
Then—
"Big… sis…"
Hannya froze.
She spun toward the sound.
From beneath a pile of corpses, a small hand trembled upward, fingers weakly reaching for the air.
She ran.
Little Timmy lay in the dirt, drenched in blood.
"Timmy! Don't worry, I'll get help. You'll be okay!" Hannya dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking.
"…Big… sis…"
"No, no—don't talk. Save your strength, please," she begged, tears streaming down her face.
"I NEED MEDICAL SUPPORT HERE!" she screamed toward the approaching Rangers.
Timmy forced a tiny smile.
"Did you… bring the pizza…?"
Hannya nodded frantically, sobbing.
"Yes. Yes, I brought the pizza. So many kinds. And sweets too."
His breathing grew shallow. His small body went slack.
"You're… the best… big… sis…"
His hand slipped from her grasp.
His eyes faded.
"Timmy… no… no…" Hannya pulled him close, clutching his lifeless body.
Then she screamed her lungs out toward the sky.
"WHYYYYYYYYYYYY~!!"
"CUUUT! CUT! FUCKING CUT!"
The scream was drowned out by a booming voice through a megaphone.
"WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU TO SCREAM LIKE THAT!?" an obese demon roared, leaping up from a director's chair.
He stomped toward the scene, face red with fury. "I SAID SUBTLE! A MUFFLED, HEARTBREAKING CRY! NOT A GODDAMN OPERA!"
"I—I'm so sorryyy!" Hannya whimpered instantly.
"We're taking a break!" the obese demon barked.
The tension evaporated.
The film crew exhaled in relief. "Hannya" shimmered and reverted into her succubus actress form. Around her, the "dead bodies" stood up, stretching, yawning, and casually morphing back into succubus and incubus.
"Little Timmy" hopped off the ground, leaned against a crate, and took a cigarette. His hooker-slash-assistant handed him a lighter without looking.
Nearby, the real Hannya stood beside the obese director—Belphegor—as he flopped back into his chair with a grunt.
"Mr. Belphegor," she asked carefully, "may I ask you something, sir?"
"Mm?" he grunted. "What is it?"
"Why the hell are you turning me into this crybaby big-sis material?"
Belphegor clicked his tongue.
"Tch. You government people don't understand art," he said dismissively. "It's called character development."
Despite his official title as Minister of Culture, Belphegor spent most of his time outside his office producing his own "cultural products."
Solo had complained once. Belphegor's response had been simple:
"Demons don't have culture. I'm fixing that."
Solo lost the argument immediately.
"Say," Belphegor added, rubbing his chin, "your office really sure this'll go international? Those humans don't even have TV."
"They have something called a mana-comm crystal," Hannya replied. "It works pretty much the same."
"I hope those things have good resolution," Belphegor muttered.
An attendant approached, handing Hannya an envelope.
"Mail delivery."
She opened it and flipped through the photographs inside.
"Sir, this is from Mr. Asmodeus's office," she said. "Pictures of the Vandorian military."
"Hmm, let me see…"
Belphegor leaned forward and examined them.
"…WHAT THE FUCK!?"
---
The Black House
A green orc hunched over his computer, reading glasses perched precariously on his wide nose.
On the screen was the blueprint of an MQ-9 Reaper drone.
Half-finished.
One problem with his unique skill was that there was no download feature. None. Zero. If he wanted something from Earth's internet, he had to redraw it manually—line by line, component by component.
Down to the smallest screw.
The bigger problem was that he absolutely sucked at drawing.
Before computers had been invented, his most infamous failure had been an oil refinery that exploded three months after completion due to what the report politely called a "faulty design." Hundreds of demon workers died.
The surrounding city, however, had declared it a beautiful fireworks event and turned the explosion into an annual celebration.
Solo squinted at the screen, trying to get the wing proportions right.
Then suddenly Lilith and Mo burst into the office.
"Solo, we have a problem," Lilith said flatly.
"What is it?" Solo folded his glasses and set them aside.
"I just got an angry call from Belphy," she continued. "He says he needs another month to finish production due to—quote unquote—'fucking wrong wardrobes.'"
Mo sighed. "Apparently the Vandorian references we gave him before are a couple hundred years outdated."
"And?" Solo said. "We just need to wait, right?"
"Unfortunately," Mo said, handing him several aerial photographs, "we don't have time for that, sir."
Solo looked down at the images.
"Our spy plane caught Vandorian fleets being amassed at the port of Dawn," Mo continued. "Meanwhile, Ravendawn Castle shows heavy movement. Every day, a battalion marches in. We predict more will follow."
Lilith crossed her arms.
"We can't wait for Belphy anymore."
Solo leaned back.
"Damn… but what about our PR?"
Murica had recently managed to make contact with other kingdoms. The problem with being a Demon Kingdom was meant everyone already assumed you were the bloodthirsty villain. Murican diplomats barely got their foot in the door before it slammed shut.
That was why Levi and Mo had pushed the idea of using the upcoming conflict with the Vandorians as public relations material.
If the world could see demons as the victims, opinions might soften.
Hence, Belphy had been commissioned to make a promotional video about it.
Lilith tapped the table thoughtfully.
"Maybe… instead of making fiction," she said, "we just record a real one?"
Solo blinked.
"I mean," she added, "Belphy's storyline isn't exactly far off from reality."
"You're suggesting a false flag operation," Solo said slowly.
"Well…" He scratched his chin. "It's kind of hard to make demons look like victims without… actual demon victims."
He waved vaguely.
"I can't just let our soldiers or diplomats get killed and take pictures of it. They're expensive."
Mo shrugged.
"Hmm. What about demons that nobody will miss?"
Solo looked up.
"Who?"
Mo hesitated for just a moment.
"Maybe… the Jehovah's Accusess?"
"..."
Even demon nations had annoying religious cults scattered everywhere, preaching the teachings of some random demon god. Most of them weren't dangerous.
Just loud.
Persistent.
And extremely good at knocking on doors.
"Yeah," Solo said instantly. "That works."
"Yep," Lilith nodded. "Totally. No one will miss those door knockers."
Later that night, Belphy reportedly reverted to his true demon form and went on a rampage across the film set after being informed that the production had to be redone—changing it from a war drama into documentary.
---
Ravendawn Kingdom, Raven Castle
Duke Pierre and Archbishop Antonio stood on the balcony, watching fresh troops pour into Raven Castle. Most were mercenaries—men who carried unrest like a profession.
Ravendawn citizens and even the castle's own soldiers suffered under them, but numbers drowned every protest before it could grow teeth.
"…Are you sure this will be the last one?"
Duke Pierre turned back to answer King Luxtor's question, patience wearing thin.
"How many times do I have to repeat myself? Yes. The king promised to give your sovereignty back after this. Vandoria won't need this backwoods territory anymore once the war ends."
King Luxtor exhaled, the weight on his shoulders only shifting, not lifting.
"…Thank you, Duke Pierre."
He gave a stiff nod, then turned and walked away. The Duke smirked, quiet but sharp.
"Are you truly prepared to let go of this castle?" Antonio asked, arms folded inside his ceremonial robes.
"Let go? No," Pierre replied. "This place is perfect for rounding up the slaves before they're shipped to Vandoria."
Antonio frowned. "And you believe the owner will agree to such use?"
"Which owner?" Pierre chuckled softly. "None of them will be alive after this war to argue otherwise."
His eyes returned to the courtyard below, where the line of mercenaries seemed endless—marching in like iron-gray ants through the castle gate.
He smiled as they passed, already imagining a wealthy future built for him.