DMZ
Dawn crept over the ruined DMZ village.
Most of the fires had already burned themselves out, leaving behind thin pillars of gray smoke drifting lazily into the morning air. Rangers moved through the wreckage, performing perimeter checks—slow, methodical, and thorough—just in case any raiders had missed the memo about being dead.
Inside a Humvee, Ivy sat wrapped tightly in a blanket, cradling a hot drink with both hands. A Murica medic hovered beside her, repeatedly checking her pulse.
"I'm fine," Ivy said again, tired but polite. "Really. Just… shaken."
The medic nodded and checked her pulse anyway.
A few meters away, Bella lay slumped against a rubble, utterly exhausted. She stared at Ivy from a distance.
"Here," Captain Irving said, handing Bella a cup of coffee while tearing open his MRE with his teeth.
Bella accepted it automatically.
"Captain…" she muttered, "…will I ever be promoted?"
Irving took a slow, exaggerated bite of his meal.
"He yelled at me for fifteen minutes," Bella continued. "Fifteen. Over the radio. That's a quarter of an hour."
Irving chewed thoughtfully.
"…this chili mac is good," he said.
"You're ignoring my question."
"I am."
Bella deflated instantly.
"Huff… maybe I should just go back to my parents' farm," she sighed. "They live in the South, so I think they didn't watch the broadcast."
"One of the film crew told me the broadcast is relayed by something called a satellite from space," Irving said calmly. "It reaches the whole country."
He took another bite.
"South included."
"Nooooo…" Bella covered her face with both hands, voice muffled by despair.
"Oh, cheer up," Irving said, patting her shoulder with the hand not holding his fork. "The war's just getting started. Plenty of chances to redeem yourself."
"Sigh… you're right."
Bella slapped both her cheeks hard.
"I can do this! There's plenty of enemy to kill to make Mom and Dad proud—"
"HEEEEY!! OVER HERE!"
The scream cut through the ruins.
Bella snapped upright, machine gun already aimed at the source before her brain fully caught up. Across the rubble, a group of survivors waved frantically.
A member of Jehovah's Accusess stood proudly at the front, arms raised. Thug A, Thug C, and several others trailed behind him, limping but alive.
"See?!" the zealot shouted. "I told you! My Demon God would deliver us salvation!"
"Ah, you're right," Thug A said eagerly. "After this, I promise I'll become one of your members!"
Captain Irving raised an eyebrow, still chewing. "Another survivor?"
"Looks like it," Bella said, waving back. "HEEEY! YOU GUUUYS!!"
They waved even harder.
"I'M SOOORRY—BUT ORDERS SAID ONLY ONE SURVIVOR IS ALLOWE~D!" Bella yelled, cocking her M240L.
"WHAAT?" The survivors cupped their ears.
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The group collapsed instantly, lifeless bodies dropping amid the rubble.
Captain Irving finished his MRE, folded the empty packaging neatly, and stood up.
"Well," he said, dusting off his hands, "I guess that's the last of it. We should bail before the party starts."
"What party?" Bella asked.
Irving pointed behind her.
Several kilometers away, silhouettes of a massive army crested the horizon—stretching from left to right, pouring across the land like a living tide.
Bella swallowed.
"Oh my…" she said quietly. "I don't have enough bullets for this."
---
The Black House
Solo and Lilith were having their morning meeting with the Minister of Finance and Trade, Monny, and the Minister of Defense, Stan.
Everyone was in an absurdly good mood.
"I still can't get over last night's show!" Lilith beamed, practically glowing. "Satellites are amazing!"
"Exactly," Stan said with a proud nod. "Even with a few hiccups, it was excellent for military recruitment."
"The ratings hit a record-breaking thirty-two million viewers," Monny grinned. "Highest pay-per-view in Murican history. HAHAHAHA."
"Wow," Solo said. "That's… nearly half the country."
Monny puffed out his chest. Originally, the feed had been intended for internal military use only. He had loudly argued—at length—that not monetizing it would be a criminal waste of satellite potential. After several hours and one whiteboard full of projected revenue graphs, Solo had eventually agreed, citing the added benefit of tech promotion for the upcoming public internet rollout.
"Belphy did great," Solo said. He paused. "Some scenes were… intense. But I guess I've seen worse."
Solo realized it was the first time in this world he had watched humans die.
Strangely, he felt nothing.
Maybe it was because he'd grown used to living among demons. Or maybe it was because, in his past life as a journalist, he'd already witnessed the same—or worse—atrocities committed by humans against other humans.
"And the marketing was excellent," Monny continued, tone entirely professional. "Luke's promotion numbers skyrocketed."
Stan leaned forward, grinning. "Well! Since you got your precious revenue spike, you won't complain about how I spend taxpayer money in the upcoming battle, right?"
"…"
Stan smiled wider. "Come on. A deal's a deal."
Monny clicked his tongue. "…Tch. Fine. Just don't go overboard with the expensive stuff."
Knock. Knock.
An aide stepped into the room.
"Excuse me, sirs, madam," he said carefully. "We just received a message from the Vandoria–Ravendawn coalition. They've agreed to hold negotiation talks by noon."
Stan stood immediately.
"Speak of the devil," he said. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got preparations to make."
And with that, he left the room.
---
DMZ
The center of the ruined DMZ had been cleared into a temporary meeting ground.
Hannya stood calmly at its heart, flanked by Murican Rangers standing at ease. Across from her were the Vandoria–Ravendawn representatives—Duke Pierre and his knights. Behind them stretched an army so vast it swallowed the horizon, ranks upon ranks standing ready for war.
"Hey, demon girl," Duke Pierre barked. "Where is Leviathan?"
"His Excellency is currently arranging diplomatic drafts for other kingdoms," Hannya replied evenly. "I am here to represent him and the Murica Foreign Office. We demand that you pull your army back from our border and issue a formal apology for the atrocities committed in this village—namely, the killing of innocent civilians, dozens of Murican citizens, and leaving behind only one poor survivor…"
Duke Pierre frowned.
One?
He had explicitly ordered the mercenaries to leave dozens alive to spread terror. Someone, somewhere, had just earned a very short career.
"So the Demon Duke is not here?" he pressed.
"…No. He is not," Hannya said. "We also demand reparations for this act of aggression. A detailed list will be delivered at a later date."
"Reparations?" Duke Pierre burst into laughter. "HUAHAHAHAHA! Ohhh—are you blind? Can't you see how utterly defeated you are? My army covers the horizon, ready to crush you, and not a single Demon Duke stands before me! Hahahaha!"
Hannya watched him without expression, patiently allowing the laughter to run its course.
"Ooohh… heh heh," Pierre finally said, wiping his eyes. "I was prepared for the worst, but the Goddess's blessing truly shines upon us today."
He unfurled a parchment with a flourish.
"Regardless, I stand here as a noble of my kingdom. Here are our demands—if you wish me to halt the invasion."
Hannya scanned the parchment.
"Two hundred thousand gold… eighty thousand skilled labor slaves… fifty thousand female slaves… and full submission to Vandoria as a vassal state…"
"Yes, yes," Pierre said smugly. "I see your attempt to present the Demon Kingdom as civilized, and I acknowledge it. But I also see that your kind has grown weaker than you were millennia ago!"
He jabbed a finger toward her.
"The world will soon learn of your weakness. Still, Vandoria is generous. We will civilize you—by taking you as our vassal and shielding you from other kingdoms that might prefer to erase you entirely."
"Unfortunately," Hannya said flatly, "slavery and vassalage go against our beliefs in democracy and freedom."
Pierre scoffed.
"I grow bored of watching witless beasts pretend they understand politics."
He snapped, voice booming across the DMZ.
"SUBMIT, OR MY ARMY WILL SWEEP YOUR BORDER! AND MARK MY WORDS—WE WILL BE MORE TERRIFYING THAN ANY DEMON COULD EVER DREAM OF BEING!"
He paused, turning red.
"AND WILL YOU STOP POINTING THAT DAMN THING AT ME!?"
He pointed at the cameraman—and Belphy—who had been filming the entire exchange.
"Oh—ah, please don't mind us," Belphy said, performing a theatrical chef's kiss. "Your character work is magnificent. Stay in it."
Pierre sputtered.
"...Whatever!" he barked. "I GIVE YOU UNTIL THE END OF THE DAY TO SUBMIT!"
"…And cut! That's a wrap," Belphy said, exhaling.
The camera crew and Rangers broke into applause. A few even cheered.
Duke Pierre and his knights stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
"For the international version, please submit the footage to our office before the weekend," Hannya reminded Belphy as she turned away.
"Tch. Your office and its deadlines," Belphy muttered, packing up his equipment.
They walked away together, continuing their conversation, completely ignoring the duke.
"W—WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?" Pierre roared. "ARE YOU IGNORING ME!? AND WHY DID YOU THROW THAT ON THE GROUND LIKE TRASH!?"
He pointed furiously at the discarded parchment.
"Ah, that?" Hannya said without stopping. "Like you said—it's trash. Why would I waste my time, or my boss's time, on something with no value?"
She paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
"You want to know why it has no value? Because by the end of today, the ones presenting it will be nothing but lumps of meat."
She sighed, then added calmly:
"Here's something unclassified. Yes, our demonic capabilities have weakened—but by choice. With our current technology, every soldier we field is ten times deadlier than ever before."
She gave him a polite bow, a faint smirk forming.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I hope you have a nice day."
She turned and walked away.
"H—HOW DARE YOU!?" Duke Pierre screamed. "I DECLARED WAR ON THE DEMON KINGDOM! WAR! I WILL RAZE EVERY INCH OF YOUR LAND!"
His threats echoed across the DMZ as the demon contingent departed—without a single demon glance back.
---
Moments Later
At the rear of the Vandoria–Ravendawn coalition's main army, Duke Pierre entered his command tent.
It was less a tent and more an extravagant pavilion—silk drapes, gilded poles, and embroidered carpets—far better suited for a royal banquet than a battlefield. Inside, Archbishop Antonio, Archmage Durac, Prince Luxius, and several senior officers were already gathered around a sprawling war map.
"Those insolent demons," Duke Pierre scoffed as he crossed the tent and lowered himself into a throne-like seat at its center. "I was a fool to believe they could comprehend even basic manners."
A beastman slave stepped forward, poured wine into the duke's goblet, bowed deeply, and retreated without a sound.
"So they refused our offer," Archmage Durac said.
Prince Luxius folded his arms. "Then what is the plan?"
Duke Pierre exhaled slowly.
"Contact the wyvern corps," he said. "Have them prepare for immediate deployment. All units will focus on eliminating hostile forces surrounding the Great Demon Gate. The demons must not be allowed to retreat and seal it."
His eyes traced the map, fingers hovering over key positions.
"Additionally," he continued, "destroy any aerial transport on sight. If the demons attempt to airlift troops into our rear using their so-called Hell Dragonflies, intercept and erase them before they land."
"Yes, sir," an officer replied.
Pierre leaned back, swirling the wine in his goblet.
"Ground forces assemble immediately. Beastmen and mercenaries will form the vanguard." His gaze sharpened. "And before anyone raises the question—the Ravendawn army marches with them."
"What of the Demon Duke Leviathan?" Archbishop Antonio asked.
"Their diplomats claim he is absent," Pierre replied. "It may be deception. We proceed regardless. Archbishop, ensure your holy knights are ready."
Antonio placed a hand over his chest, faint light shimmering around his gauntlet. "My knights stand eternally ready to smite evil."
"Good." Pierre turned his attention to Luxius. "And you, Prince, will lead your troops forward. There will be no objections."
Prince Luxius stiffened, jaw tightening. "…Understood."
Pierre rose from his seat, his cape brushing against the carpet.
"Excellent. We launch the assault in three hours."
---
After the briefing, Prince Luxius returned to his own tent.
It was modest—practical canvas and plain furnishings—an unremarkable structure compared to the Duke of Vandoria's lavish pavilion. Before entering, he scanned the surroundings carefully, ensuring no Vandorian personnel were nearby.
"Meja," he said quietly to his guard, "make sure no one approaches my tent."
"Yes, Your Highness," the guard replied.
Inside, Luxius moved to a wardrobe chest and opened it. Beneath folded garments, he retrieved a satellite phone. He pressed the auto-dial button and waited.
When the call connected, he spoke in a low voice.
"This is Luxius. The attack will begin in three hours… And they intend to use us as the vanguard. exactly as the demon predicted."
---
Ravendawn, Raven Castle
Meeting Room
"…Understood, Your Highness."
The call ended.
Archmage Gregor lowered the satellite phone and released a long, tired sigh. He turned around to face King Luxtor—and Leviathan, who stood beside the throne.
King Luxtor had heard everything.
The news that his only son would be sent to the front lines—used as expendable vanguard—was written plainly across his face. His jaw was clenched, hands curled into fists, rage barely contained.
"Well, Your Majesty," Leviathan said pleasantly, "the time has come for your decision."
He smiled.
"Are you prepared to make a deal with the devils?"
Luxtor did not answer.
His expression hardened, anger simmering beneath the surface, heavy and dangerous.
---
FOB Doors
The forward operating base buzzed with controlled chaos.
Vehicles rolled out in steady streams. Units moved with purpose, voices sharp, orders clipped. From the opposite direction, a motorcade of Humvees entered the base, stopping cleanly in front of the command center.
Stan hopped out, adjusted his jacket, and strode inside with a confident grin.
"Glad I still made it in time," he said. "Hanz—what's on your playbook today?"
General Hanz and his officers snapped to attention, delivering crisp salutes.
"Nothing extravagant, sir," Hanz replied, gesturing toward the tactical display. "Since the enemy intends to overwhelm us with sheer numbers, we opted for a conventional approach."
The battlefield map lit up across the screen.
"We begin with the F-16 corps in phase one," One of the officer explained, pointing at the wyvern stronghold. "Three hundred wyverns were too many for direct engagement, so we planned to cripple their base in the first sortie and eliminate remaining forces in the second."
Stan nodded once.
"After air superiority is secured," the officer continued, "Apache units and Abrams battalions will advance for a synchronized ground-air assault. A flanking maneuver along the enemy's main line should fracture their formation before they can establish an organized defense."
"Good," Stan said. "Attach some Vulcan units to the armored divisions. Enemy avian fighters are likely to prioritize our armor if left unchecked."
"Yes, sir," Hanz confirmed. "And regarding the Ministry of Culture's directive to keep the Great Demon Gate intact—since it is one of the few structures we can officially classify as cultural heritage—we positioned our primary defensive line several miles ahead of it."
Stan exhaled, satisfied. The grin never left his face.
"Solid work," he said.
He leaned closer to the map.
"Now for my main question," Stan added. "Where do you need me?"