3,000 Meters Above
A C-130 Hercules cut cleanly through the pristine blue sky. Sunlight glinted along its wings as slow, lazy clouds drifted past the windows, unbothered by geopolitics or impending war crimes.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot each held a steaming cup of tea freshly brewed by the crew.
"Thanks," the pilot muttered, eyes half-closed as she inhaled. "Damn… that smells good."
"Man," the co-pilot sighed after a sip, staring out the windshield, "I still can't believe the sky can look this damn beautiful."
"I know, right?" the pilot replied. "No wonder our ancestors were obsessed with human territory. If I had to stare at the same eternal thunderclouds every day, I'd have blown my brains out too."
"Yeah," a crewman behind them chimed in, leaning forward with his own cup. "That bitch goddess locking us under a permanent storm blanket for centuries? Absolute mental health catastrophe. Now I don't even argue with my shrink when she tells me to 'go outside and enjoy the sky.'"
"Before this," the co-pilot added thoughtfully, "my coping mechanisms were basically 'bar' or 'brothel' every damn weekend."
"Or," a voice crackled through the intercom, "you could try finding hobbies that don't bankrupt you."
All three demons glanced toward the cargo bay.
Back there, half a dozen crewmen were hunched over a massive sheet of metal, paintbrushes moving in frantic but practiced rhythm.
The co-pilot raised an eyebrow. "…Not all of us are 'artsy' like you guys."
"Are you done back there?" the pilot called out.
"Almost—almost—aaaand done!"
The co-pilot and the crewman unbuckled and headed into the cargo bay.
On the metal sheet lay their finished work.
A sexy demon girl, mid-wink, blowing a kiss while sitting atop a cartoonish bomb.
Below her, in bold letters:
WELCOME TO MURICA
The crewman let out a low whistle. "Damn. You guys really outdid yourselves."
"You think they'll like the present?" one of the painters asked, tilting his head.
"Oh, they'll love it," the co-pilot grinned. "This is something to die for."
The pilot's voice crackled through the comm.
"All hands, to stations. We're almost on target."
The painters stepped back, admiring their handiwork one last time, before securing it proudly onto the GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast.
A.k.a Mother of All Bombs.
The co-pilot returned to the cockpit. The rest of the crew strapped in at their stations. Above them, the sky remained peaceful—criminally so—while far below, something unfortunate was about to happen.
"Overlord, this is Soccer Van," the Combat Systems Officer reported. "Approaching target."
"Copy, Soccer Van," Overlord replied. "Proceed. Green light. I repeat: green light."
The cargo bay doors slowly yawned open. Wind screamed into the aircraft.
"We have visual," the CSO said calmly. "Releasing in five… four… three… two… one… release."
"Bombs away!" the gunners shouted.
"Overlord, Mother is on the way. Soccer Van is RTB."
Far below, death began whistling toward the ground.
---
Murica "Bison" Tank Company
RATATATATATATATATATATA
BRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTT
The running battle tore across the open plains. Vandorian cavalry—centaurs and horsemen alike—poured forward in a relentless tide, chasing Abrams tanks and Vulcans as smoking wreckage and bodies littered the ground behind them.
The Muricans had a problem.
"ARE YOU DONE WITH THE HULL MAGAZINE?!" the gunner screamed, his voice cracking as he mowed down charging centaurs with the coax.
"THERE'S A FUCKING REASON WE NEVER USE IT!" the loader bellowed back. "BECAUSE IT TAKES TOO FUCKING LONG TO RELOAD!"
"COME ON—COME ON—COME ON—COME ON—" the gunner hissed through clenched teeth, firing nonstop as horsemen closed the distance, hooves pounding like a drumline from hell.
"And… done! UP!"
The loader slammed the turret hatch shut.
"ON THE WAY!"
BOOOOM
The cluster of centaurs detonated in a spray of gore and flying limbs, bodies cartwheeling through the air.
"That's our last six rounds, by the way," the loader added flatly.
"FUCK! THERE ARE STILL THOUSANDS OF THEM!"
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
"MERCURIAL THRUST!"
A holy knight hurled a spear blazing with divine magic. It skimmed past Stan's arm, carving a hot line of blood through the air.
Stan roared and spun, swinging his GAU-8 like a baseball bat.
THUMP
The knight folded mid-air like a rag doll, bones snapping as he slammed into the ground in a twisted, unmoving heap.
Dozens more surged forward, emboldened now that Stan was within melee range.
That confidence lasted seconds.
Stan bulldozed through them. Each swing sent bodies flying—some launched end over end, others simply crushed where they stood.
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
Behind him, the AC-130 laid down continuous fire, saturating distant formations while carefully avoiding Stan's immediate perimeter. Friendly fire was bad optics.
Stan's chest expanded.
Something bright flickered behind his teeth.
A sphere of swirling energy condensed in his mouth—
—and then unleashed.
BOOOOM
A beam of raw hellfire tore through an advancing formation, detonating them in a rolling inferno.
It did absolutely nothing to stop the other hundreds still charging.
Stan groaned, swatting another knight aside.
"Ugh… I'm seriously gonna ask Monny for more gunships after this shit."
---
Vandoria Army, Center
Duke Pierre galloped behind the mass of his troops, eyes fixed ahead as thousands of soldiers surged toward the Great Demon Gate.
It was right there.
Just a few more miles.
Victory—finally—felt close enough to touch.
"SIR!" an avian lookout cried from above. "Enemy soldiers spotted at the gate!"
"How many?" Duke Pierre barked.
"A couple hundred!"
Pierre's lips tightened. "Any hell dragonflies? Demon elephants?"
"No, sir! Just demon chariots and infantry!"
Duke Pierre broke into a grin.
His gamble had paid off.
"Their war beasts and ammunition are limited," he declared. "They're expecting us to retreat after all those attacks!"
He raised his arm high.
"SEND THE SIGNAL!"
"CHAAAAAARGE!"
The horn blared.
VOOOOOOOOMMM
"RRRAAAAAAGHHH!"
Thousands of voices merged into a single war cry as the army thundered forward. Seven thousand men sprinted toward the Gate, bloodlust and desperation blending into one final, suicidal charge.
Then—
SHIIIIING
A light appeared.
White. Pure. Blinding.
It tore open the air just above the center of their formation.
Some soldiers looked up.
Others didn't even have time to wonder why the sky had suddenly opened.
KABOOOOOOOOOMMM
The world disappeared.
A two-kilometer-wide explosion swallowed everything. Thousands of lives were erased in less than a second. The valley magnified the blast, transforming it into a roaring tunnel of wind, dust, stone, and flying metal racing at over three hundred kilometers per hour.
Those outside the immediate blast radius weren't spared.
They were smashed against rocks.
Impaled by shrapnel torn from their comrades' weapons and armor.
Hurled through the air, bones snapping on impact.
Survivors flew dozens of feet—necks broken, limbs twisted, bodies landing wrong.
Duke Pierre was thrown violently from his mount, slamming into the ground and bouncing hard.
But somehow a green barrier flared around him, shielding him from the storm of debris.
---
Vandoria Army, Left Flank
The explosion terrified horses and centaurs alike, bringing the entire flank to a dead stop.
From where they stood, they witnessed the largest fireball they had ever seen.
Not even an archmage's magic could create an explosion of that magnitude.
The battlefield fell silent—except for the distant echo of destruction.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
The soldiers stopped charging at Stan.
For a few seconds, they forgot Stan even existed.
"O-only God can wield power like that…" one soldier whispered.
"T-the demons… the demons have their god fighting for them…" another muttered.
Soldiers, mages, and priests alike dropped to their knees. Weapons slipped from trembling hands. Prayers poured out in broken voices.
Stan watched the distant fireball bloom and fade.
"Fiuuu," he whistled. "Yeah… definitely better to see in person than on camera."
---
Vandoria Army, Center
"Cough… cough…"
Duke Pierre pushed himself upright, ears ringing, vision swimming. Blood trickled down his temple.
The green pendant he wore for protection flickered weakly—then cracked straight down the middle.
He looked forward.
His army was gone.
Where seven thousand soldiers had stood, there was now only a vast, smoking crater.
"W-what… happened…?" Pierre croaked. "Where's my army…?"
Around him, a few dozen survivors staggered to their feet, bleeding, dazed, staring at the void where everything had been.
Then one soldier pointed with a shaking hand.
"L-look… the demons… the demon chariots are coming…"
Two M2 Bradleys and eight Humvees rolled into view, engines growling, guns already leveled.
Duke Pierre felt something inside him finally break.
There was no confidence left.
Only fear.
"RETREAT!" he screamed.
"RETREEEAAAT!!"
---
Murica "Bison" Tank Company
"Sir! They're retreating!" the Abrams driver shouted.
The Vandorian left flank didn't need to hear Duke Pierre's order to figure that out.
They already knew they were fucked.
"All units halt."
The Abrams screeched to a stop. For a brief moment, the battlefield went eerily quiet.
"…This is Bison leader to all units," the commander's voice came over the comm. "Advance. Chase them down."
The entire line surged forward.
With the last of their remaining ammunition, they tore into the fleeing enemy.
RATATATATATATATATATATA
Bodies—centaurs, humans, horses—vanished beneath sixty-two tons of moving steel as the tanks rolled on.
---
Vandoria Army, Center
Pierre fled through the valley, terror clawing at his throat, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Both his left and right flanks were in full rout. Thousands were fleeing from mere dozens of enemies.
Fear of death at demon hands now far outweighed any fear for his career.
His assessments had been wrong.
Catastrophically wrong.
"DUUUKE! OVER HERE!"
A familiar voice called out.
Pierre turned.
Its Archmage Durac. Still alive—somehow—though one arm was missing, the stump hastily cauterized.
"A-Archmage!" Pierre cried out. "You're alive! We're retreating to Dawn to reorganize!"
"Yes," Durac panted. "Yes, we must. From there we can contact the capital for reinforce—"
SPLAAATT
Durac's head exploded like a dropped watermelon. For no visible reason.
Pierre screamed.
"H-hi—HIEEEEEE!"
---
Malvorath Mountain Range
Kovalski exhaled slowly and lowered his rifle.
"And that, gentlemen," Kovalski said calmly into his comm, "is the Ace of Hearts. Putting us back in the lead with five points."
Beside him, his spotter grinned and scratched Archmage Durac's photo off the laminated target list.
"FUUUUCK, I WAS ABOUT TO WIN!" someone yelled over the channel.
"Heheh," Kovalski spotter replied, "too bad, Sierra Echo. That thousand dollars is ours."
Kovalski frowned slightly. "Say… why did command suddenly take Ace of Spades off the list?"
"I dunno," his spotter said, shrugging. "Something about a present for a new friend."
Kovalski lifted his rifle again, peering through the scope.
Duke Pierre was still running. Tripping. Scrambling. Pure panic.
Kovalski didn't pull the trigger.
Orders were orders.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM BOOOM
The AC-130 tore through the retreating masses. Survivors fled in blind panic, trampling over one another as they ran, abandoning any thought of formation—or of Stan.
Stan didn't bother chasing.
He shrank back down into his demonfolk form, naked and completely unbothered. He gave a lazy wave just as a Chinook descended nearby.
The crew rushed out, already prepared—one with a cloth, one with a cigar, and one with a bottle of whiskey.
"Good work, sir."
Stan tore the cap off the bottle with his teeth and chugged deeply.
"AAAAAAHHH," he exhaled. "So refreshing."
They lit his cigar.
"Another day in the office, I guess."
"Too bad we didn't record this battle," one crewman muttered. "Would've sent a strong message."
"Oh, don't worry," Stan said, glancing toward a nearby hill with a knowing smile. "The world is watching us."
---
Hill Near the Battlefield
Two human spies observed the chaos.
One peered through a telescope, carefully documenting the aftermath. The other sketched rapidly, recording every vehicle and aircraft he could see.
"What should we report about that giant explosion?" the first spy asked. "I don't see anything that caused the attack."
"I don't know," the other replied. "Maybe they planted it beforehand? It's the only path to the gate anyway. An explosion trap there would make sense."
"…Not only did the battle last less than a day," the first continued, "but a thirty-thousand-strong army got defeated by just a dozen enemies. And that's not even counting the wyverns and avian warriors. Do you think the higher-ups will believe this?"
"It's not our job to make them believe," the man said as he packed up his tools. "We just report what we saw. That's all." He paused. "I bet other spies are thinking the same."
"Do you think… how many spies like us managed to escape the DMZ village that night?"
"A lot," he answered. "Especially the ones from the major kingdoms."
They disappeared into the hills.
Their reports would reach their respective high commands.
Murica already knew spies were everywhere. But Mo had insisted they be left alone.
Let the world see a little of Murica's power.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
And best of all—
There were plenty more surprises hidden up their sleeves.