Like the Sun Rising Naturally
"Smooth."
Azabel muttered as he trimmed his horns with a knife, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—like the sun rising without fanfare.
Scrape. Thin blade grazed the horn's surface, sending grayish powder drifting onto the back of his hand. No blood. No pain, it seemed. More than treating a part of his own body, he moved his hand like a craftsman meticulously polishing a flaw on an antique ornament.
Scrape. Another slice. A chip of horn fell away. Azabel blew lightly on the powder accumulated on his hand.
Foo. The grayish dust scattered into the air, never reaching the floor. The spells etched into the command room floor absorbed it like hungry mouths, and faint red lines glimmered briefly.
He smiled slowly at the reaction. The surface displayed the terrain on the outskirts of Geomgye. Low mountain paths. Dry ravines. An old, abandoned watchpost. Training markers along the route. And hovering faintly over that path: lines. The projected outer training route for the 10th Squad.
Not yet finalized. Information known only to a select few even within Geomgye. Fragments impossible to gather through normal scouting. To obtain them, Azabel had paid a steep price: three human collaborators. Nineteen demon scout soldiers. Seventy-two observation orbs made from magic beast eyes. One fake contamination sign planted in the cathedral's western branch. And a spatial catalyst, rare even within the Demon King Army.
Expensive. But expense doesn't equate to waste. Pay the price, and strike where the enemy least expects.
What he'd bought wasn't troops, firepower, or a colossal calamity. A gap. A tiny rift in space. A hidden sheath along the predetermined path, invisible until the precise moment it's torn open, unleashing the forces packed inside.
Suddenly. From close range. Between retreat and advance.
"Quite the price," Azabel said, resuming his trimming. Scrape. The horn's tip smoothed further. "But worth it."
His adjutant, standing beside him, said nothing.
Azabel hadn't prepared this force to kill Kaion. He knew how strong Kaion was. A Geomgye captain. That title wasn't mere decoration—especially for the 10th Squad captain. Head-on, he'd likely match even a Demon King Army executive.
Fighting such a foe squarely was a last resort.
"Kaion Belkrad." Azabel murmured the name. A red line crossed the front of the training path. "First rift: the vanguard."
Another line at the rear ravine entrance. "Second: the tail."
The third floated along the mountainside flank. "Third: the side."
Finally, a black dot marked the narrow pass for retreat. "And the escape route."
The adjutant's throat bobbed faintly. He swallowed.
Azabel didn't miss it. "Worried?"
The adjutant bowed his head. "Kaion may consolidate his forces faster than expected."
"He will," Azabel said calmly. "He's strong, after all."
"Then—"
"The goal in pitting troops against the strong isn't always victory." Azabel's knife tip tapped the disc. Red dots swarmed like insects. "Over five hundred small fry can't kill Kaion."
He stated it flatly. "But they can tear his attention apart."
Rescue one side, and the other lies exposed. Abandon one, and the screams grow louder. Order retreat, and the vanguard gets pinned. Order breakthrough, and the rear gets severed. The stronger the captain, the heavier the weight of choice sinks.
Azabel relished that point. The crack born when the strong try to protect the weak. Battles a single sword could end, mired in mud by the numbers to defend.
"Kaion will surely hold his own against a Demon King Army executive," Azabel said softly. "But while guarding over five hundred small fry?"
He trimmed another sliver. Scrape. "Even if he holds, a captain surviving alone isn't victory."
The adjutant's eyes dropped. Azabel smiled. "That's a captain's weakness."
And in that brief moment, the spatial rifts he'd bought would tear open.
He raised his hand, and a small glass vial floated beside the disc. Inside swirled an ambiguous light—not gold, not red. Staring too long made the space outside the vial feel thin. A spatial catalyst. Hard to handle even for the Demon King Army.
Cracks veined its surface, faint screams leaking through. Azabel gazed at it fondly.
"What if Kaion protects them all?" the adjutant asked.
Azabel paused his knife. He didn't look at the adjutant. His eyeless face, horns protruding where eyes should be, remained fixed on the disc.
"Then it's valuable intel."
"Valuable intel."
"Kaion can protect the 10th Squad amid five hundred's chaos." Azabel smiled. "Next time, prepare a thousand."
The adjutant's face paled.
"Even if it fails," Azabel said evenly, "we lose only what we can afford."
He wiped horn dust from the blade with a handkerchief—pristinely white, impossibly clean. He folded it neatly and tucked it into his sleeve.
"An ambush can't start with a bang," he said. "Not until the screams begin."
A pause.
"No one should know it's started."
Crack. Space's rifts yawned greedily.
"Let's go, everyone."
The devil, convinced he was calamity incarnate, stepped toward the sun. Unaware it would end in ashes.
"Captain... how long do we keep this up?"
A dust-choked voice drifted from the rear. Kaion Belkrad didn't turn. He stared ahead.
Low mountain path. Narrow march route hugging a dry ravine. Crushed stones rolled under boot soles; sparse thin-leaved shrubs dotted the slopes. Sky clear, unclouded blue. Sunlight warmed scabbards, shoulder guards, sweat-damp necks. A breeze from the distant forest swept long along the path.
An ordinary day. Fine for training.
That very ordinariness grated on Kaion's nerves.
"Until I say."
His voice was firm. No needless explanation. There was none to give.
The squad member swallowed again. Normally, that would end it. A captain's order was an order—especially on the march.
But hours now. The entire 10th Squad moved in full 360-degree vigilance. Vanguard didn't fixate forward. Rear didn't watch only behind. Flank swords scanned slopes, brush, rock shadows, ravine depths in rotation. Hands gripped hilts without loosening. Chatter dwindled. Even drinking, they covered each other's sightlines.
One hour. Two. Nearing three.
Too long for training. Too quiet for combat. Complaints were natural.
"...But full vigilance on the march for hours now..."
The voice trailed off. The squad member knew: this bordered on questioning orders. Could claim it was seeking confirmation, not complaint—but on the battlefield, distinctions meant little.
Kaion inhaled slowly. Dry earth filled his lungs.
"Order."
That ended it. No more questions from the rear. Just a faint grind of teeth.
Kaion heard it. Pretended not to.
Truth was, he didn't know the reason either. Commander-in-Chief Ena had ordered the 10th Squad's outer training as planned. Maintain full vigilance en route. Keep vanguard-rear spacing constant. Triple-check before entering the ravine. On surprises, no pursuit—collapse formation immediately. Keep retreat open, but don't fix eyes there.
Specific. Overly so.
But missing the key line: why. What to guard against. Nothing specified.
Roen had delivered the orders curtly: "Commander-in-Chief's command."
That sufficed. Kaion accepted, bowed, led the 10th out.
And now, he explained an unknown reason to his men. Tricky spot.
Truly vexing, Kaion thought inwardly. Outwardly, unchanged.
Captains must time admissions of ignorance carefully. Fine in downtime. Essential in briefings. Acknowledge intel gaps, build judgment atop them.
But mid-march. Before hours-tense squad. On outer training under direct Commander-in-Chief orders.
So Kaion stayed silent. Watched instead: path, slopes, tree shadows, wind direction, too-quiet birds, grasshopper chirps cutting at intervals.
On a path where nothing happened, he sought every possibility.
"Left flank, tighten interval."
Left column shifted half-step inward instantly.
"Rear, no slowing."
"Yes!" Short reply from behind.
"Vanguard halts at ravine mouth."
Front swords signaled with hands. No shouts—just gestures, glances, clipped responses moved the line.
The 10th had a rep for sloppiness: strong personalities, varied styles, battle reliance on personal instinct.
But trained swordsmen under Kaion. They obeyed amid shakes, moved amid grumbles, gripped blades sans conviction.
That much, he trusted.
Separate from trust, though: an odd prickle at his nape's base. Like someone far off balanced a needle-tip on paper, waiting to pierce.
Irritating.
"Halt."
Kaion raised his hand. Column froze.
Clink. Scabbards shifted faintly at waists. Boots ground to halt on dirt. Last footsteps echoed into the ravine, bouncing thinly off rock.
Kaion scanned slowly. Ravine mouth ahead. Gentle slopes flanking. Few trees, but rocks and shrubs chopped sightlines. Rear path open. Plenty wide for retreat.
Too open. Too inviting.
Kaion's hand rested on his sword hilt. Didn't draw. Just felt the weight.
Then, faint whisper from rear: "Nothing there..."
Kaion turned. The whisperer clamped shut. No reprimand needed. Careless words, but understandable.
Nothing. Yes. No magic beast tracks. No demonic aura. No pre-ambush bird flurries.
Thus, dangerous.
Commander-in-Chief ordered full vigilance in emptiness. Meaning she saw what Kaion couldn't. Or raised her sword against the yet-to-come.
Throat dried at the thought.
Ena's orders were always terse. Concise, sometimes sparse. But rarely void behind them.
Eastern Front. Casualty logs. Training reforms. Overkill words at first always bared meaning in blood later.
This time too?
Kaion narrowed his eyes.
"Captain?"
Cautious call. No answer.
Wind blew. Leaves rustled. Dry grass rubbed. Swish.
And amid it, faintly: crack.
Tiny. Rock cooling and cracking. Or dry twig twisting.
But ice shot down Kaion's spine.
"All hands."
Voice dropped low. Squad eyes sharpened. Grumbles vanished.
Kaion drew. Shing. Clear ring spread along the path.
"Collapse to circle."
Before the order fully propagated:
Crack-rack.
Space tore. First at ravine rear. Black line in sunlit empty air. Lengthened in a blink, yawning like a wound.
Stench poured: rusted iron, old blood, demon-soaked flesh.
And footfalls. Dozens. Hundreds. More.
Kaion understood then. Commander-in-Chief. You saw this.
Before thought finished, second rift on vanguard slope. Third on flank. Fourth under retreat-path shadow.
Space ripped wide; Demon King Army rabble swarmed like vermin.
Short gasps from squad.
Kaion didn't advance. Instinct screamed charge first rift, sever necks.
That was his way. How he'd carved paths till now.
But Ena's orders pinned his mind: No spacing gaps. No pursuit. Collapse formation. Retreat open, eyes unbound.
Teeth gritted.
"Circular defense!"
Voice cracked the ravine. "Rear, fall inward—no holding!"
Swords moved. 10th contracted. Imperfect: some panicked, some drew first, some leaned toward foes.
Kaion saw all tilts.
"Don't break!" he roared. "One more step out, you're dead!"
As words landed, first demon soldier breached his range. Low crouch. Rictus grin. Rusted blade.
Kaion's sword swept horizontal. Sslash. Head flew.
Before blood sprayed, second lunged. Kaion twisted, flat-blade shoved it back, severed third's arm. Kicked fourth beyond line.
More repels than kills. Priority: trim numbers? No. Hold formation shape. Prevent lone rushes. Keep eyes from screams.
Swinging, he bellowed on: "Left, two steps back!" "Rear inward!" "Vanguard, no chase!" "Pull fallen!" "Eyes front!"
Throat burned.
Demon rabble: weak. Pathetic. Kaion could clear dozens in one breath if focused.
But clear one side, screams from another. Aid vanguard, rear buckles. Grab rear, flank opens. Check retreat, front swords itch to pursue.
Azabel's math was precise. Kaion Belkrad was strong. But more to guard, heavier the blade.
Kaion bore the weight, teeth clenched. We hold.
We hold. No baseless order from Commander-in-Chief. This had a follow-up.
Then.
Ravine crest. Highest rock.
Fluttering garb. Sunlight at first glance—so natural there. Like dawn sun, post-dusk light.
Amid black rifts, demon stench, vermin steps: someone stood as if fated.
Kaion's breath caught. Some 10th looked up. Even rabble faltered briefly.
Ena was there. Geomgye Commander-in-Chief. Black Eastern garb. Silver-white hair. Black-sheathed sword at waist. Illyun undrawn.
Yet ravine air shifted.
Ena looked down. Expression calm. No rage. No surprise. As if always meant to stand there.
She spoke slowly.
"Well held."
Kaion realized then how long he'd held his breath.
Her gaze turned to torn rifts.
"Now."
Shing—
"I'll take it."