Bashington DC, The Black House
Clack.
Clack clack clack.
Lilith lounged on the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, scrolling through her brand-new smartphone with the focused intensity of someone who had just discovered an entirely new category of temptation.
Across the room, Solo and Bub sat upright—far too upright—watching Monny operate his abacus at demonic velocity.
Tiny skull beads snapped back and forth across a bone frame. The entire thing rattled ominously with each calculation. At the top, a carved nameplate gleamed proudly:
"Mammon Spreadsheet."
Digital financial systems had existed for decades in Murica.
But Monny did not care.
His demonic brain processed numbers faster than any software—specifically for finance, and only for finance—and he stubbornly insisted on using his deeply unsettling, fully customized abacus, made from past debtors.
"MOAB… $170,000," Monny muttered darkly. "I fucking hate war…"
CLACK!
With a final, dramatic slide of skull beads, he slammed the abacus shut and lifted his gaze slowly over his glasses toward Solo and Bub.
"We just blew our target GDP this year from 1.5% to fucking minus 0.5%," he snapped. "And both of you have the audacity to ask me to fund this drone program thing?"
"Oh come on, Monny," Solo groaned. "Of course we're burning money. We just launched satellites, and there's a war going on. This is exactly why we need these drones."
Dealing with demons was difficult.
Dealing with Demon Dukes was worse.
Solo had learned that flexible ones like Belphy and Stan could be negotiated with. Give them a bit of playground freedom and they behaved.
Monny was not flexible.
He was rigid. Disciplined. And the sole controller of Murica's finances.
Nothing—nothing—was spent without his approval.
Before Murica was established, demons simply took whatever they wanted by force. Money was irrelevant. Even the Demon King didn't particularly care about it.
Which meant the newly formed nation had started out spectacularly broke.
Except for Monny.
Monny adored wealth. His castle resembled a dragon's hoard—gold stacked in glittering mountains, relics arranged by estimated resale value, and loot from centuries of demonic pillaging catalogued with frightening precision.
Long story short: Solo and the others owed Monny an ungodly amount of money.
He was essentially Murica's unofficial central bank.
Their political structure could best be summarized as:
"Start-up business" vs "Extremely Irritated Investor."
"Don't worry, Solo. I'll handle this," Bub said confidently, patting Solo on the shoulder.
Solo did not look reassured.
"Monny," Bub continued, straightening proudly, "I've known you for thousands of years. I know you don't like spending without guaranteed profitable returns."
He spread his arms dramatically.
"So I present to you—this!!"
Bub tossed several schematics onto the table.
The blueprints were unmistakably modeled after the Apollo 11 spacecraft.
Except the title read:
HADES 13
"Oh, Bub! Is it finally time?" Solo said, eyes lighting up.
"Another rocket launch?" Monny asked flatly, pushing up his glasses.
"Fufufu…" Bub grinned, hands on his hips. "But this time, it's different."
He leaned forward.
"We're going to send demons to space—"
A beat.
"—and conquer the moon!"
Bub then revealed another sketch.
This one was clearly his own work—less "engineering blueprint" and more "proud first-grader art project." A smiling demon astronaut stood triumphantly on a cheerful, round moon, planting a pentagram flag that waved despite the complete lack of atmosphere.
"We'll be the first nation to land there!" Bub declared proudly. "And whatever resources it has—will be ours! HAHAHA!"
RIIIIPP.
"Rejected," Monny said flatly as he tore the drawing cleanly in half and dropped it into the trash.
"NOOO, MR. HANDSTRONG!" Bub wailed.
"Whyyyy?!" Solo added, clutching his chest dramatically.
"Bub," Monny sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "as much of a genius as you are, somehow you're also just an idiot."
He leaned forward, tapping the table.
"You want me to spend another seventy million dollars on space rockets? Fine. Let's say we actually find a gold mine on the moon. How much do you think it will cost to send that gold back to Talvaris?"
"But—we can also use it as propaganda!" Bub argued quickly. "To show how powerful our nation is to the world!"
"Then ask Belphy to fake the moon landing with a fucking movie or something!" Monny snapped. "It's cheaper!"
CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.
"Okay. Okay. Boys. We're getting off track," Lilith said sharply, clapping her hands to shut down the escalating children's argument.
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.
"As much as I agree with Monny that finding gold on the moon is stupid and childish—"
"Baby? Why…" Solo whined softly.
"But," Lilith continued, smirking, "I also agree that the drone program is important."
She straightened and slid several photographs across the table.
Satellite images.
Ravendawn. The Dawn Province. Red circles marked multiple locations.
"So how about finding gold a little closer to home?"
Monny's eyes narrowed. "What's this?"
"With our satellite technology," Lilith said calmly, "our scientists can identify geological formations that may contain oil."
"We can?" Bub blinked.
"Oh shut up, Bub. You never check the departments you don't care about," Lilith hissed.
"How many?" Monny asked.
"So far, nine. What do you think?"
Monny leaned back slowly, a smile spreading across his face.
"Hmmm," he said, satisfied. "I like it. This is what I call bringing freedom and democracy to other nations."
"So," Lilith said, leaning in with a smug grin, "do we have a deal?"
Solo and Bub stared at her in awe.
Lilith had just out-bargained the Demon Duke of Finance.
Again.
Knock knock.
A military aide entered Solo's office.
"Excuse me, sir. We just received a report that the Vandorian fleet is still heading toward our waters."
"Huh?" Solo frowned. "Don't they know we just kicked their ground forces' ass yesterday? Why do they keep sailing here?"
"Uh, most likely because their ground forces' mana-comm was destroyed, sir," the aide replied. "They probably can't report their situation until they find another mana-comm."
"Ah," Solo nodded. "I forgot their communication devices are ridiculously big and impractical."
He waved a hand.
"Well, alright then. Tell Stan and Admiral Rusalka that they can—"
"Ah, wait, Solo," Monny interrupted, smiling thinly. "I have an idea."
He folded his hands together.
"This way, I might be more lenient about allocating some allowance for the drone program, fufufu."
---
160 Kilometers Northwest of the Murican Coast
An aircraft carrier cruised majestically across the waves, escorted by eight destroyers and two frigates. The sea was calm, the sky clear, and morale aboard the HMS Bahamut was unusually high.
On the bridge, officers moved with cheerful efficiency. At the center of it all stood the most decorated among them—a beautiful siren admiral wearing more badges than anyone else on deck.
"Laa laa laaa~," Admiral Rusalka hummed softly to herself.
"It's a very nice day, isn't it, Admiral?" Captain Cetus said, glancing out at the ocean.
"It is, Captain Cetus," Rusalka replied pleasantly. "Our first major sea battle…"
"And here I thought they were retreating after losing their ground forces," Cetus laughed. "Guess luck's finally on our side!"
"Finally…" Rusalka sighed contentedly. "No more killing krakens."
With only two hundred miles of usable ocean inside the divine barrier, Murica's navy had spent decades performing glorified coast guard duty. Their enemies so far had consisted of:
1. Giant octopi
2. Even bigger octopi
3. Slightly smaller octopi, but in large numbers
Yet, Solo had insisted a proper navy would be crucial for future world conflicts.
Most demons had quietly assumed he was being dramatic.
"Ma'am, call from the Ministry of Defense," a communications officer announced.
"Ah, good. Orders are coming." Rusalka picked up the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Minister. Congratulations on yesterday's victory…"
She listened, nodding.
"Yes, they're in range… Mm-hm… mm-hm…?"
Her nodding stopped.
"…What do you mean?"
Captain Cetus watched the color drain from her face.
"STAN, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!" Rusalka roared.
---
250 Kilometers Northwest of Murica's Coast
Vandorian Demon Subjugation Fleet
The Vandorian fleet pushed forward in disciplined formation—a majestic armada resembling Earth's 18th-century men-of-war, except enhanced with magic cannons capable of firing twice the distance of their Earth counterparts, supported by battle mages stationed along the decks.
On the flagship, Admiral Lorenzo stood with his officers, staring out across the open sea.
"Still no news from Duke Pierre's army?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"It's only the second day," another officer added. "They're probably still fighting."
"…You're right," Lorenzo said after a pause. "Broken communication is normal in war."
He frowned slightly.
"But sailing blind in demon waters still makes me uneasy."
"Don't worry, sir," an officer reassured him. "With a fleet like this, we could even defeat the most dangerous sea monster—a kraken."
Lorenzo nodded.
His fleet was enormous: twelve 124-gun ships, thirty 64-gun ships, and forty frigates designated for hauling captured demon slaves.
And historically, demons had never possessed a navy.
Whatever had happened to Duke Pierre's army—
—it couldn't possibly happen to them.
---
Murica First Fleet
Under the moonlight, the First Fleet buzzed with activity.
MH-60 Seahawks lifted off from the HMS Bahamut, rotors slicing the air as they carried Navy SEALs toward their objectives. Below, other SEALs boarded RHIBs, engines humming quietly as they slipped into the dark water.
Captain Cetus watched the operation unfold, his expression tight.
No one was smiling now.
"Sir," an officer reported, "SEAL Teams One through Eight have disembarked. Estimated time of arrival is zero one hundred hours."
"Alright."
The officer hesitated.
"…Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Some of the men say they hear… crying. From the admiral's quarters."
Captain Cetus looked away from the deck.
"…Can you blame her, Lieutenant?"
"…No, sir."
---
Vandorian Fleet — Dawn
TING.
TING TING TING TING TING TING TING TING.
Morning broke with the violent ringing of emergency bells.
Admiral Lorenzo rushed onto the deck in his nightclothes as sailors and battle mages scrambled in every direction.
"Is it the enemy?" he demanded.
"No, sir… we don't see any enemies."
"Then what's the problem?"
"Our ships, sir…" the officer swallowed. "They're gone."
"…What do you mean, gone?"
"All of our frigates are missing," the terrified captain said. "They just vanished…"
Lorenzo stepped forward and stared out at the sea.
The fleet had shrunk.
Only the men-of-war remained.
Avian lookouts circled overhead, scanning desperately.
Hours later, the shaken admiral ordered his remaining ships into tight formation while awaiting orders from the capital.
The king and his advisors responded quickly.
Continue the operation.
Only the frigates are missing.
You still hold naval superiority.
TING.
TING TING TING TING TING TING.
The lookout bells rang again.
All eyes turned upward.
"BOWSIDE! ENEMY SHIP!" the lookout shouted.
Lorenzo raised his enchanted telescope.
Decades at sea allowed him to judge distance and size in seconds.
"No way…" he muttered. "Stripes and pentagrams flag…"
His blood ran cold.
"Demons have a navy now? And those ships… they're enormous." He muttered.
"They're made of iron, sir," the ship captain reported urgently. "No sails. Just like the Dwarven ships—only… I don't see any smoke."
"Sound battle stations." Lorenzo ordered.
"AYE, SIR! BATTLE STATIONS! ALL SHIPS, BATTLE STATIONS!" The captain roared
"INCOMING! HELL DRAGONFLIES! FOUR OF THEM!" The ship lookout screamed
"Ready the ballista!" the captain shouted.
Chaos erupted as sailors and mages rushed to the magic ballista mounted at the bow. Gunners tracked the approaching shapes, while artillery mages prepared to imbue explosive spells.
Two AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters and two UH-1Y Venom helicopters advanced—
—and stopped just outside ballista range.
The two Venom helicopters had massive speakers bolted to their sides.
Then—
SCREEEEEECH.
"AAAAH! THE DEMONS ARE USING SOUND ATTACK!"
"BALLISTAS!" the captain screamed. "SHOOT THEM DOWN!"
"I CAN'T, SIR! THEY'RE OUT OF RANGE!"
The screeching stopped.
TAP. TAP.
"AAAAH, testing one two. Testing one two."
A cheerful female voice followed from the speakers.
"Ah—sorry about that. Ehm, this is the United Demon Kingdom of Murica Navy," Rusalka announced brightly. "You are trespassing in Murica territory!"
Confusion rippled across the Vandorian deck.
"Vandorian fleet! Cease all movements and surrender! I repeat, cease all movements and surrender, or we will use force! You have one hour to comply. Please raise any white flags to signal your surrender!"
The admiral and the captain could only stare at each other.
"Oh, who am I kidding?" Rusalka sighed audibly. "Of course you won't surrender just like that."
Her tone sharpened.
"Listen, assholes. Your invading army was already wiped out by us yesterday. And based on that battle, we already know your war capabilities."
"Our army?" one officer whispered. "Is that why we couldn't contact them?"
"Oh, and believe me," Rusalka continued cheerfully, "we're way out of your league."
She paused.
"By the way, are you missing some ships? Please look to your port side."
The fleet turned.
On the horizon, their missing ships appeared—fourty wooden frigates are being towed by four Murican destroyers, lined up neatly like ducklings behind four very angry metal mothers.
"Cute, isn't it?" Rusalka laughed. "They were really easy for us to hijack—err, commandeer."
A beat.
"But you probably still don't get it, so here's a little presentation."
"Now, we're going to destroy one of your biggest ships. Mm… eeny, meeny, miny, moe…"
Her voice brightened.
"Ah! That one in the rear!"
"Sir," an officer said shakily, "they're talking about the Conqueror."
"Now do you see our leftmost ship?" Rusalka continued. "It's called a destroyer. Please watch closely."
WHOOOSH.
A missile streaked skyward from the leftmost Murican destroyer.
"The thing flying toward you is called a Tomahawk missile," Rusalka explained pleasantly. "It hits anything within two thousand five hundred kilometers."
"INCOMING ATTACK!" Vandorian sailors screamed. "DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!"
Cannons swiveled. Mages raised barriers. Wind spells roared as the ship tried desperately to maneuver.
KABOOOOMMM.
The Conqueror vanished in a blinding fireball.
Its magic shield failed instantly. Shockwaves tore sails from nearby ships. No Conqueror crew survived the blast.
"SIR! THE CONQUEROR IS GONE!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Rusalka mocked lightly. "Did you try to do something?"
She chuckled.
"Oh no, no, no. Our missiles are very fast, very accurate, and very destructive. And anyway—we brought hundreds."
"…How can they do that?" the admiral whispered, hands shaking. "They're miles away from us…"
"And now, one more demonstration," Rusalka continued cheerfully. "Please look at our rightmost helicopter—uh, its the flying thingy you guys call hell dragonflies."
She cleared her throat.
"It's going to go whoosh… and then another ship goes boom."
The Viper fired.
Two AGM-114 Hellfire missiles streaked toward the foremost 124-gun ship.
The ship's mages reacted instantly, erecting a shimmering magic shield. The first missile smashed straight through it, tearing the barrier apart and clearing the way for the second.
KABOOOM.
KABOOOOM.
The 124-gun ship split open with a fireball and began to sink.
"THE GLORY IS SINKING!" the lookout screamed.
"Yep," Rusalka added casually, "we have so many ways to sink your ships."
Survivors screamed as they clung to floating debris—
Until black shapes moved beneath the water.
"T-There's something down there!" one survivor cried.
"Oh!" Rusalka said excitedly. "Did you know that all waters in Demon Territory are heavily infested with dangerous creatures? Especially demon sharks."
The sea churned as a pack of demon sharks surfaced and attacked.
They were twice the size of normal sharks—jet black, with six eyes and three dorsal fins.
"GYAAAA! HELP ME! AAAARGH!"
"Aww," Rusalka cooed. "Poor sailors leaving all their kids behind just to become shark snacks. Sorry, kids. Daddy won't be home tonight. Sniff sniff."
The Vandorians threw ropes desperately, but the demon sharks were too fast.
Within minutes, the screaming stopped as the water turned red.
"Welp," Rusalka said brightly, "that's the end of the presentation."
Her tone hardened.
"Okay, assholes—surrender now and save your men. We promise not to kill you. You have one hour."
The helicopters turned away, rotors fading into the distance.
The Vandorian fleet stood frozen.
Anger and disbelief consumed the admiral.
"T-this…" he whispered. "This humiliation."