2 Miles North of the DMZ
Vandoria–Ravendawn Main Army
The Vandoria–Ravendawn coalition army buzzed with nervous preparation. Soldiers sharpened blades, tightened armor straps, and whispered prayers to the goddess with the kind of sincerity usually reserved for last meals.
"Just remember—stay behind me," said Fumi, a young human adventurer clad in green armor, a shield strapped proudly to his left arm. "My shield will protect us from the demon's muskets until we get close to their line."
"Yes, Master. I know you will always protect us," said Talia, a raccoon-type beastman girl. Once a slave, now a party member—at least on paper.
"Master! Master!" chirped Firo, a childlike chicken-type beastman girl who had also been purchased by Fumi. "After we finish this quest and you become S-class, you'll keep your promise and give Firo lots of meat, right?"
"Of course!" Fumi replied immediately. "And I'll also give you both a special 'meat' tonight, hehehe."
His grin twisted into something deeply heroic and profoundly perverted.
Fumi hopped onto a nearby rock and struck a dramatic pose, shield raised high as he faced the distant demon lines.
"So don't worry!" he proclaimed loudly. "This Fumi—known across the land as the Shield Champion—will protect you from the evil demons with his impenetrable magic shield!"
He held the pose. Then–
SPLAT
Fumi's head suddenly exploded.
It vanished in a red mist, leaving his body still standing on the rock—shield raised, chest out, heroic stance perfectly intact.
"KYAAAAAAAA!" Talia and Firo shrieked as warm blood sprayed across their faces.
"THE SHIELD CHAMPION IS DEAD?!" a nearby soldier screamed.
"SOMETHING KILLED HIM BEFORE HE COULD CAST HIS SHIELD!" another shouted.
Panic rippled through the formation as soldiers ducked instinctively, some staring at Fumi's headless corpse like it might finish the speech.
---
1.6 Kilometers South of the DMZ
Malvorath Mountain Range
"Got him," Kovalski murmured, eye still glued to the scope.
Through the lens, chaos spread neatly across the enemy line.
His spotter calmly took out a pencil and drew a red X over Fumi's portrait in their target-list booklet.
"This is Sierra One-Four," the spotter said into the comm. "Gentlemen, we've just bagged the Ace of Diamonds. That puts us twelve points ahead."
The channel immediately erupted.
"Oh, come on!"
"Fucking Kovalski!"
"Boooo!"
Kovalski and his spotter only chuckled, already scanning for the next name.
Since the Vandoria–Ravendawn coalition army had thoughtfully parked itself in an open field across the Malvorath Mountain Range, General Hanz had decided to deploy multiple sniper nests along the hills.
Priority targets—officers and so-called "dangerous individuals"—were provided courtesy of the Asmodeus Bureau.
With a clear line of sight and absolutely no cover, it was, functionally, a shooting game for Murican snipers. And the score was climbing.
---
45 Miles North of the DMZ
Vandoria–Ravendawn Wyvern Station
The Wyvern Station sat on a natural border where the Ravendawn Dark Forest met the barren stretch of the DMZ. Despite its ominous reputation, nothing from the forest ever approached it. When three hundred wyverns gathered in one place, even the fiercest predators understood the concept of hierarchy and survival.
The station itself sprawled across multiple camps, each housing ten wyverns and their riders. Wyverns couldn't be clustered too closely—pack too many together and territorial fights would break out. A wyvern brawl was not something any army wanted to interrupt.
Each beast was the size of a two-story house.
Each beast handler was fully aware of that fact.
After receiving orders through his comm crystal, the station commander summoned all squad captains to his command tent. They gathered around a large battle map laid across the central table.
"Alright," the commander said, pointing decisively. "Squads one to ten—you're the vanguard. Eliminate enemy aerial units and clear a path for the second wave. Squads eleven to twenty-three, proceed directly to the Great Demon Gate and hold position until ground forces arrive."
He paused, allowing the captains to absorb the plan.
"As for squads twenty-four to thirty, you'll push deeper into ene—"
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
The ground lurched violently. Dust cascaded from the tent rafters as explosions rolled across the station.
"W-What was that!?" someone shouted.
The commander and captains burst out of the tent just in time to see four sleek metallic shapes roar overhead, ripping through the sky with a thunderous howl that made ears ring and bones vibrate.
Wyverns across the camps screeched and hissed, wings flaring instinctively. Whatever those things were, every wyvern felt it.
Predator.
"WHAT WAS THAT!? ENEMY WYVERNS!?" a captain yelled.
Despite the panic, the commander—veteran of countless campaigns—snapped back into command almost instantly.
"ALL OF YOU! BACK TO YOUR UNITS AND SCRAMBLE! WE'RE LEAVING NOW!"
Captains sprinted for their wyverns, vaulting into saddles as massive wings beat the air and kicked up clouds of dust. Just as the first beasts began lifting off, one captain froze and pointed upward.
"They're coming back!"
---
Inside the F-16 cockpit, demon pilots scanned their instruments calmly.
"Pixie Three to Pixie Leader," one pilot reported. "Multiple bogeys lifting off at my two o'clock. Permission to engage? Please advise."
"Negative, Pixie Three," came the reply. "Maintain formation. Proceed with main objective."
"Roger that."
Each pilot adjusted their targeting, selecting different wyvern camps.
"Ripple, ripple, ripple," the pilots said almost casually as they fired.
Rockets detached from the pods—two Hydra 70mm unguided rocket pods per jet, one pod assigned to each wyvern camp.
White smoke streaked across the sky.
"THEY'RE SHOOTING SOMETHING!" a wyvern captain screamed, staring at the incoming trails.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
Multiple camps erupted simultaneously. Fire, debris, and torn wings filled the air as wyverns shrieked in pain and confusion.
"Those damned creatures!"
One captain drew his bow with shaking hands and began chanting to activate his archer skill.
"O Goddess, grant me—"
FWOOOOSHH
The F-16s were already gone.
"They're… too fast…" the captain whispered, lowering his arrow.
The sky thundered again.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
Another squadron screamed overhead. More explosions tore through what remained of the camps. This time, the captain didn't even try to aim.
He already knew.
In less than five minutes, twelve F-16s had unleashed one hundred sixty-eight unguided rockets into the wyvern base.
When the smoke finally cleared, three-quarters of the wyverns were dead.
---
DMZ
Vandoria–Ravendawn Main Army
An hour later, Duke Pierre had been receiving reports nonstop.
Officers. Elites. High-ranked adventurer.
Heads exploding. Limbs vanishing. Entire bodies collapsing without warning.
They knew it was a demon attack.
They just had no idea how.
The prevailing theory was curses—some kind of advanced curse trap planted across the battlefield. Priests conducted mass purifications. Mages blanketed the area with dispel rituals. Specialists combed the ground inch by inch.
Nothing.
No curses.
No traps.
No magic residue of any kind.
Duke Pierre refused to leave his command tent.
He explained this to his aides as "strategic prudence."
Everyone else understood it as fear.
Then the ground shook.
A deep, guttural growl rolled through the camp—low, pained, and unmistakably draconic.
Pierre flinched. "W-what is that commotion?"
He stepped outside just in time to see a wyvern descending awkwardly, wings beating unevenly as it struggled to land. The moment it touched down, its rider nearly fell off, scrambling to his feet and sprinting toward the Duke.
"Sir!" the man shouted. "Captain Jacques, Wyvern Corps Third Unit! I bring an urgent report!"
Pierre stiffened. "Speak."
"The wyvern station has been attacked—presumably by demons. Our comm crystal was destroyed, which is why I came in person. Many wyverns were slain before they even managed to launch."
"W-What!?" Pierre sputtered. "How did they attack you? Do the demons also possess a wyvern unit?"
Jacques shook his head vigorously. "No, sir. They attacked from the air—but they were not wyverns. Their wings didn't flap. And they flew faster than anything I have ever seen."
Pierre's face drained of color.
"That's impossible! No enemy units passed through the Gate! And nothing can cross the mountain range—it's seven thousand meters high! Even wyverns can't reach that altitude! Are you suggesting they have a hidden base behind us!?"
His voice climbed higher with every sentence.
"I… I don't know, sir…"
Pierre clenched his fists. "How many wyverns survived? And where is your commander?"
"The commander is dead," Jacques replied stiffly. "Eighty-three wyverns remain, including mine. They are heading here as we speak. I came ahead to receive orders from you, sir."
The Duke swallowed hard.
For all his cowardice, Pierre was no fool. Decades of political maneuvering had sharpened his instincts. He forced his breathing to slow and began thinking.
"No…" he muttered. "The demons are crafty. They must be hiding their flying units somewhere behind our lines. And since they haven't continued their assault on the main army, their range must be limited—shorter than wyverns."
He stroked his ornate mustache thoughtfully.
"This setback is… unfortunate. But we still have sufficient forces to proceed."
Pierre straightened, his spine stiffening as he forced authority into his voice.
"We launch the assault now! Inform all surviving wyvern units to engage the demons immediately. Their primary objective is to secure the Great Demon Gate."
He raised a finger sharply.
"Ground forces will advance afterward. We must not give the demons time to prepare another trick."
"Yes, sir!" Jacques snapped.
Wyvern riders and nearby officers immediately broke into motion, sprinting off to relay the Duke's orders across the camp.
---
FOB Doors
Stan stood beside General Hanz on the helipad as the CH-47 Chinook completed its final pre-flight checks. The twin rotors hammered the air in heavy, rhythmic pulses, kicking dust across the concrete. Next to the helicopter is a massive cargo crate, secured tight and patiently waiting.
Stan watched it the way a child watched a birthday cake being carried toward the table.
"Oh~ happy day, happy day," he sang softly to himself.
General Hanz raised an eyebrow. "Has it been too long, sir?"
"You bet it has," Stan replied cheerfully. "After the Buer rebellion, things got boring. I was hoping he'd rebel again, but unfortunately these days he's more into politics." He sighed dramatically. "No fun anymore."
Hanz chuckled. "Heheheh. Perhaps because he already learned—in the most painful way possible—that rebelling while you're still around is futile, Your Grace."
Stan laughed, deep and hearty. "Hah! It's been a while since someone called me that."
"My apologies, sir," Hanz said. "All this… excitement… it brings me back." He smiled faintly. "To the old days."
Stan turned toward him. "Do you miss it, Hanz? Running around the battlefield, thrusting enemies with your lance?"
"If I may be frank," Hanz replied without hesitation, "no, sir. Not at all."
"Oh?" Stan tilted his head. "Enlighten me."
"Well, sir," Hanz said, pride clear in his voice, "nothing beats the present. These days, I can send hundreds—thousands—of enemies to the afterlife from miles away, while sitting at home playing with my grandkid. It's truly gratifying."
He nodded firmly. "I wouldn't trade that kind of satisfaction for anything in this world. Past or present."
"AAAHAHAHAHA!" Stan slapped his knee. "You'd never change, Hanz. Good to know."
"And I never planned to, sir."
Stan leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Oh, speaking of satisfaction… did you know that with our new satellite tech, we can put a camera on the missile itself? Watch it live."
His eyes widened theatrically. "Just imagine it. Us, sipping our morning coffee, watching our enemies' final expressions right before the bomb hits their face."
"Seriously, sir?" Hanz blinked. "Oh my… this truly is the best time to live."
"I couldn't agree more."
They both burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, completely drowned out by the rotors.
A soldier approached and snapped a sharp salute. "Excuse me, sir. Preparations are complete."
Stan let out a satisfied breath. "Well then, General, I have to go." He patted Hanz on the shoulder. "I'll leave the rest of the battle to you."
"Very well, sire," Hanz replied. "Have a good hunt."
"Always."
Stan boarded the Chinook. Moments later, the helicopter lifted off, rotors roaring as it rose into the sky, the oversized crate swaying gently beneath it.
---
Vandoria–Ravendawn Army, Center
The coalition army stood in formation, tense and silent.
Reports had been pouring in all day—soldiers collapsing with their heads bursting apart from unseen attacks. No warning. No defense. Morale had cracked under the weight of it.
Priests insisted it must be a hidden curse.
That directly contradicted the earlier statements from the higher-ups, who had confidently declared that demons were weak.
No one believed either explanation.
Then a shadow rolled across the field.
The remaining wyvern corps—everything that had survived the earlier chaos—soared overhead in tight formation. Cheers erupted from the front lines.
To the soldiers below, the wyverns meant hope.
Fire breath.
Air superiority.
A decisive opening strike.
All of them had no idea what had happened at the wyvern station earlier.
"HURRAAAAAAAAH!"
But their confidence only lasted for three seconds.
BOOM
BOOOM
BOOOOM
Dozens of wyverns detonated midair, bursting into fiery blossoms. Wings shredded. Bodies torn apart by something too fast to see.
"W-WHAT IS HAPPENING!?" Duke Pierre screamed.
"L-LOOK! FROM THE CLOUDS! SOUTHWEST!" shrieked an avian lookout, one of the battlefield observers whose superior eyesight made them invaluable.
"H-How… t-they're flying higher than the mountains…" Pierre muttered, voice hollow.
High above the peaks, contrails streaked downward like white scars carved into the sky. From far away came the faint roar of engines—an alien thunder.
Four F-16s descended from the upper atmosphere and released another volley of Sidewinder missiles.
The wyverns never stood a chance.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
Another dozen beasts exploded. Their massive carcasses fell straight into the densely packed ranks below, crushing soldiers, snapping shields, and ripping formations apart.
"A-ANOTHER ATTACK FROM THE SOUTHEAST!" a lookout screamed.
A second squadron dove in from the opposite angle. More contrails. More white streaks arcing down.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
In under thirty seconds, every remaining wyvern was annihilated.
Silence followed.
A suffocating, stunned silence as soldiers stared up at an empty sky.
No wyverns.
No air support.
Nothing.
"I… I-impossible…" Duke Pierre muttered, clutching his mustache as if it might anchor him to reality. "T-this is impossible…"
But a general could not freeze.
"A-ATTAAACK!" he bellowed with all the strength he had left. "MOVE! THE ENEMY CAN STRIKE THIS FAR! MOVE OUT! CHAAAAARGE!"
Horn-blowers raised their instruments with shaking hands.
VOOVOOOOOOOOOOMMM
The flanks hesitated—but the logic was undeniable. Whatever was killing them could do so as long as they remained still.
"C-CHAAAAARGE!"
"UOOOOOOHH!"
Thirty thousand soldiers surged forward, boots pounding across the wasteland.
The vanguard—thirteen thousand strong—sprinted ahead, widening the gap from the center ranks. On the left flank, Prince Luxius rode among the Ravendawn forces, eyes scanning the terrain.
He was waiting for something.
BOOM
A single explosion blossomed in the center of the vanguard line, flinging bodies and scattering limbs.
That was the signal he was waiting for.
Prince Luxius immediately signaled his officers. The horn sounded.
VOOOOOOMMM
Without hesitation, all six thousand Ravendawn troops veered sharply west, peeling away from the battlefield.
"W-WHAT ARE THEY DOING!? ARE THEY RUNNING AWAY!? THOSE COWARDS!" Duke Pierre roared.
"Sir, our left flank can pursue—"
"No," Pierre snapped. "We'll deal with them after the demons. There will be no Ravendawn after this. I swear…"
Behind the Ravendawns, the vanguard pressed forward alone.
Reduced to seven thousand.