Whispers of Petty Slaughter
Beyond endless heavens, in the darkness beneath some forsaken land. Above ground, a blood-red moon hung in the sky, but no path reached this place for its light. The walls were hewn from black stone, thin lines of what looked like congealed ancient blood veining the cracks. From the ceiling dangled not a chandelier, but something like the dried spine of a beast, blue flames flickering one at each vertebra.
"Marks."
The pale man spoke. His voice was neither sharp nor loud—like a single water drop falling onto dry bone, a small, clear echo lightly scraping through the black chamber.
"What became of the Eastern Front you poured so much into?"
At that question, the room's breathing grew shallower. The flames didn't waver. This fire was unlike living flame. It neither burned hot, nor shone bright, nor consumed anything. It merely leaked enough light to keep the darkness from fully devouring its own shape.
Beneath that blue glow, the pale man rested long fingers on the table. He stood alone. Even as the Demon King Army's executives gathered, while all others sank into chairs, he stood ramrod straight. He was excessively tall—inhumanly long and gaunt, his bones too frail to support such a frame. Narrow shoulders, elongated neck, skin pale as untouched plaster. But what struck first was his face. No eyes where eyes should be. Grotesque horns protruded from the sockets. A twisted black horn jutted upward from the left, a thinner, longer white one curving downward from the right. They looked as if they'd torn through his face, yet no blood flowed. No wound showed. As if born that way long ago, horns sprouted where eyes belonged.
Yet he saw. More precisely than anyone. More deeply. With that eyeless face, he gazed down on Marks's expression, his fingertips, his silence—everything.
Marks didn't answer. He sat before the black table, a battlefield map of the Eastern Front spread upon it. A map not yet cleared away. A failure not yet folded. Red lines, black stakes, magic beast horde paths, Calamity Entity deployment points layered thickly. Marks's handwriting marked spots everywhere. Thirty-seven minutes. Predicted collapse of the 7th Frontline. Isolate Rushekan. Initiate rear observation. Infiltrate eastern outpost. The script was neat. That neatness now seemed like mockery.
Marks stared down at the map, lips pressed tight. He could answer. The east had failed. The magic beast horde hadn't returned. The Calamity Entity vanished without trace. The eyes and ears the Demon King Army had planted in the east fell silent in an instant. Observation Spells turned to ash, no residual echoes recovered, no battlefield samples even black dust gathered.
And at the center of all that loss stood one person.
Geomgye's Commander-in-Chief.
Ena.
Marks didn't want to speak the name aloud. To utter it would admit his grand design had crumbled because of that one woman.
We failed because she appeared.
The words snagged sharply in his throat. Marks's fingers curled. Nails scraped the table. Skreee. A thin scratch marred the black stone.
The pale man tilted his head. The tips of his horns glimmered faintly in the blue firelight.
"Your answer is late."
Marks finally raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot. Demonic blood ran black, but rage rimmed his eyes in deep crimson.
"The east is finished."
His voice was low, rough as if swallowing iron filings.
"Finished."
The pale man smiled. Lips only—no change in the horn-pierced sockets.
"A convenient word. Like a tail you lop off at will."
Marks's hand stilled. Somewhere in the chamber, someone swallowed faintly.
The pale man continued.
"The report I heard differed."
He raised a long finger. The joints seemed pieced from multiple bones.
"Magic beast horde annihilated." One finger folded.
"Calamity Entity lost." Second.
"All Observation Spells destroyed." Third.
"Residual echoes unrecovered." Fourth.
Before the last folded, he leaned toward Marks.
"And even your prized time calculation rendered meaningless."
Marks's face twisted.
"Azabel."
He growled the name low.
"Don't cross the line."
Azabel laughed. This time with sound—small, thin, scraping bone.
"Line?"
He spread both hands.
"The lines you drew in the east are all erased, yet one lingers here."
Marks rose from his chair. Blue flames shuddered in unison. Black demonic energy surged behind him. Crimson eyes blinked open one by one in the wing-like darkness, all fixed on Azabel.
Lesser demons bowed deeper. No one intervened. Stepping between these two was thrusting a hand between sword and flame.
Marks bared his teeth.
"My design didn't fail."
"Then the results did?"
Azabel's retort was instant. Marks's jaw clenched.
Azabel reached slowly for the table. His fingertip brushed the Eastern Front markers. A red dot on the black map quivered faintly.
"The magic beast deployment was good."
Azabel said.
"The western bait wasn't bad, the contamination signs leaked to the cathedral quite clean."
Marks clamped his mouth. Praise, yet Azabel's tone grated—like dissecting even in compliments.
"Shaking the magic tower's observation net was apt. Tearing Geomgye's sight—the choice itself was sound."
His fingertip pressed the map's center.
"The problem: you placed that woman too far out."
Marks's eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean."
"You calculated the Commander-in-Chief as a piece outside the board."
Azabel spoke slowly.
"Movement means arrival time, arrival means drawing sword, sword means battle begins."
He turned his horned face to Marks.
"She doesn't enter like that."
The chamber hushed. Azabel's voice dropped lower.
"The moment that monster appears on the field, the battle's next phase doesn't begin."
Brief silence.
"The situation ends immediately."
Marks's black aura roiled wildly. Azabel didn't yield an inch.
"Your Calamity Entity was made to fight."
He said.
"Magic beast horde to press, Observation Spells planted to read her power."
He lifted his fingertip. The red dot faded dimly.
"But after she came—no fight, no pressure, no observation left."
Azabel said softly.
"Because you designed a battle."
Marks's brow twitched.
"Designing the battle was the issue?"
"Yes."
Azabel nodded.
"In a form perfect for her to end."
Instant. A purple blade shot out—Marks's aura condensed. It halted before Azabel's throat. Precisely a horn-tip's distance away.
Azabel still smiled.
"Slice away."
He said.
"One less to hear your glorious failure with pleasure."
Marks's fingers trembled. The blade advanced no further. He drew a deep breath. Black aura dispersed slowly. He didn't resit. Standing table-side, he glared down at Azabel.
"Then what's your point."
"Don't make a battle next time."
Azabel withdrew his hand from the table.
"Don't lay a board she can end."
Marks twisted his lips.
"Hide and wait, then."
"Waiting is a hand too."
Azabel glided his fingers over the map. Long nails scraped the black table low. Scraaaape.
Over red Eastern dots, past Geomgye Headquarters, brushing other markers lightly.
"Your board was too big."
Azabel said.
"Big draws eyes."
Scraaaape.
"Eyes drawn, she comes."
Scraaaape.
"She comes, everything you prepared vanishes with the field."
His nail paused at a spot. Azabel pointed.
"So go small."
Marks eyed the spot. A Geomgye squad name and training route scribbled small. Outskirts where the unripe were stationed. On the cusp of drill and real combat. No need for massive magic beast hordes. No Calamity Entity. No escalation to sword-drawing crisis.
Azabel's lips curved slowly.
"Slaughter unformed colts, prepare the future nicely."
Marks's gaze shifted. Calculation emerged from under rage.
Azabel scraped the table once more. Scraaaape. Deeper this time. Black stone dust trickled.
"Ambush the Tenth Squad's greenhorns."
The chamber's air sank lower. Azabel's voice rang unusually clear. That clarity crueler.
"Not a battle."
His horns gleamed aslant in blue fire.
"A massacre."
Marks was silent long. Eastern Front failure loomed. Blank observation logs. Vanished Calamity Entity. The number thirty-seven. And Azabel's tiny mark now.
Incomparable scale. So small, captains wouldn't stir before it ended. So trivial, some might call it accident first.
But blood there. Unripe swords broken there. Geomgye's shifting tide soaks in blood from the start.
Marks smiled slowly. Rough, low.
"Azabel."
"Speak."
"You play truly vile hands."
"You botched the beautiful ones, so I offer the dirty."
Marks eyed the tiny mark. Rage ebbed, vengeance filled. Not blazing like east. A thorn under nail.
No direct call to Ena. No lure for her sword. Cut the fingertips before she reaches.
"Fine."
Marks said.
"This time, small."
Azabel tilted his head.
"Small."
Marks's mouth curved up.
"But messy."
Azabel smiled satisfied. Horns from eyeless sockets seemed longer briefly in blue fire.
"...You're saying the Tenth Squad gets ambushed?"
"Voice down, Roen."
I set down my teacup. The saucer clicked softly against porcelain, echoing in the office.
Click.
The Commander-in-Chief's office was oppressively quiet today too. Outside the window, morning drills rang. Distant sword clashes. Aides' soft steps in the hall. Rustling paper. And Roen's incredulous breathing before me.
"Commander."
Roen said low.
"The Tenth's outer training isn't scheduled firm yet. Are you saying the Demon King Army might target that?"
"Yes."
"May I ask the basis."
None.
Of course none. I answered inwardly. Not aloud. Can't say groundlessly, 'This timing always brings dirty accidents.' Roen would blink, then quietly escort me to medical. Even as Commander-in-Chief, proudly claiming prophetic hunches baffles everyone.
So choose words carefully. Commander-like. Deeply pondered air. Though my brain raced frantic, at least surface plausible.
I tapped a report. Post-Eastern Front docs piled high. Magic beast traces. Demonic residue loss points. Pre-Calamity disruption spells found. Faint dried observation lines near Geomgye Headquarters. And Tenth Squad training revamp draft.
I drummed one lightly.
"In the east, they lost big."
Roen grasped instant.
"The Calamity Entity?"
"That too."
I lowered my gaze.
"And the board's flow."
Roen's eyes narrowed faintly. Good. Hooked rough.
I continued.
"Demon King Army made the Eastern Front a battle. We ended it."
"Yes."
"Low chance they repeat."
Roen paused silent. His eyes swept desk docs. Frontlines. Reports. Training. Demonic residues. Pieces linked swift in his mind. I saw it. Roen's convenient. Half-spoken, he fills convincingly. Sometimes too convincingly, trouble.
"Big frontlines draw you personally, Commander."
Roen said.
"Eastern results warn them plenty."
"Likely."
"Next: scale you can't step into."
I nodded.
"Too small to spot timely."
Roen's face hardened.
"Training."
"Yes."
"Outer transit."
"Yes."
"Small deployment masked as live verification."
"Yes."
Roen's hand slowly fisted. That look said it: he'd finished my unstated logic. Demon King Army skips big fields, stabs small gaps. Strike finishable before Ena called. Attacks too minor for "battle." Ambush when revamp unsteady, shaking Tenth.
Natural enough. High odds. Matches my known flow.
"Cancel schedule, they think us scared."
I said.
"Overguard, Tenth feels babied."
"Issue?"
"Yes."
I eyed Roen.
"They believe themselves advancing blades."
Roen silent.
"Don't break that belief."
Pause.
"But don't make them death-bound blades either."
Roen's gaze shifted. I slid the training draft slowly with a finger.
"Proceed as planned."
"But."
"We see first."
Roen caught my intent then.
"Use as bait?"
"Bait's poor word."
I said flatly.
"Better: we choose the fishing spot."
Roen stared long. Gaze odd. Worry. Caution. Touch of awe.
Stop. Don't look like that. I'm just standing fire-extinguisher-ready at the accident spot. But can't say that from Commander's mouth.
I set down the teacup.
"And..."
The fisherman is me.