War's Here, and I'm Totally Screwed!

Pathetic orc! War had broken out. Know what that means? I'm fucked.

This wasn't like getting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠some half-assed platoon leader briefing: "Eh? North Korea launched a missile, so everyone in the company, behave yourselves." No, this was the kind of shit where you could blink for a second in those 24 hours and get a "congrats, you passed the civil service exam" notice from the Grim Reaper himself.

Honestly, it was like those two prideful idiots who puff up at each other—"Fuck it, just swing already," "No, you swing first"—talking big but never actually throwing punches. Humans, demihumans, monsters—in gamer terms, Alliance vs. Horde—these two factions had been posturing for decades, glaring at each other like they were about to throw down. But this time? It looked like they were going all-in until one side was wiped off the map. The scale was on a whole other level.

Before, it was just armed raiders slipping down in small groups. Now? Think armed raiders scaled up to full legions at minimum. That gives you an idea. And get this—even from the scraps of intel floating around, the human alliance had apparently come prepared this time. But all we heard was defeat after defeat. Not a single victory report.

No wonder even I, sucking sweet honey in the rear command post, spat out my treat when the defeat notice came in and threw a fit: "Lost again?!" Being a former human, I already hated how monsters dragged their feet on everything, but war breaking out in this half-assed state? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Infuriating. At least play some decent push-and-pull so a backline slacker like me could keep sucking that honey longer.

But unlike me, the lunatics under my command were hounding me like, "Why aren't we charging into battle right fucking now?!" Well, yeah—they were the cream of the crop, handpicked maniacs from across the continent. Of course they'd rage at being benched during a bloodbath like this.

What could I do? Every support request from the flanks, I shot down with a big fat "Nah, we're not going." The combat units sitting out fights? Battalion commanders were sending pissed-off letters, bitching me out, and I just ignored the lot, playing hard to get.

Maybe that's why one day, unlike our mangy griffons, a sleek, badass griffon—prime griffon stock—landed at our base. Oh shit, high-ranking brass sent this one. I dropped to the dirt, kowtowing, snatched the letter, and ripped it open. "Oh, fuck me."

It was a dispatch order, straight from the Demon King himself. Someone had clearly buttered him up about our unit—bullshitting that we were an invincible squad of superhumans. Who the hell kissed his ass like that? Oh, right. "That bald fucker!" Bald Balrog, that long-winded prick. Even the dragon rider hadn't been demoted. Whatever.

Direct pick from the Demon King? What choice did I have? Some punk brigade commander getting a hotline from the president—hell, even division commanders can't mouth off to the prez. Who was I to bitch?

"Boss! Me, war, hate!" A four-headed twin ogre stomped up, personalities firing off in sequence, demanding we go scrap already. How'd I parse that mess? Lazy to name 'em all, so by order spoken: 1. "Boss," let's smash those fuckers. 2. "Me" is ready. 3. We're always "war"-thirsty. 4. Staying cooped up here is "hate." Two heads, four egos—each yapping their own shit. Happens.

Fine, orders from above anyway. No need for your tantrum; we're shipping out to fight. So I ordered our ever-circling mangy griffon—always sharpening beak and talons mid-flight—to summon the whole unit.

Ku-ku-ru-ku! The griffon soared up, one of our rare flying units, blasting the muster call across the base fast. Even these thick-skulled idiots clocked it when I personally called assembly—faces lit with hype, no infighting for once, filing into the training grounds.

"Battalion commander entering!" *Bam~ bap~♪* "Hey! I said cut that shit!" As I headed to the podium, I smacked the back of a goblin's head to stop the carnation-looking-but-canary-voiced plant monster band—Carnelia military band—from playing their hunt-lure-eat routine. Army PTSD from saluting commanders? Yeah, no thanks.

I climbed the stage, facing hundreds of glaring eyes. "Uh, it's hot, so I'll keep it short."

*Wooooh! Spit it out! Not some bullshit about golden autumn harvests!*

"..." Too many principal assemblies? Anyway, cleared my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠throat a few times, snatched an axe from some nearby goon, and smashed the podium to splinters. Clean split, crashing down—hundreds of eyes locked on me like, "Could it be? Finally?" I just nodded silently.

And boom.

*Waaaaaaah!!*

*Fight timeeee!!*

*Red Bear! Red Bear!*

Like a White House crowd foaming at the mouth after terrorists got smoked. Maniacs chanting my name, losing their shit. But do they get it? I'm marching these fuckers to their deaths.

What? Like rushing mid with Teemo for a quick discharge—gonna feed the whole squad to wrap this war fast. Holding these psychos back? No perks. Constant insubordination, wake up to disasters, begging brass for reinforcements, then catching heat. Their lumpy mugs make me puke for real.

And worst? Who keeps a commander who loses his entire unit? I'd fire my ass too. No civil service gig in monster land, no pension—better bail with a clean "I'll take responsibility and discharge honorably." Looking good.

Then bolt to the village. After? Bald Balrog or whatever—who cares? Guy looks set for a thousand years of luxury. Watching my "friends"—different faces, but buddy-buddy today, laughing it up—I smirked evilly and snuck back to my quarters.

Oh, side note: dinner that night sucked balls, so the cook got roasted whole like a spit pig. No wonder I can't get attached.

Next day, our ragtag army assembled—sizes all over the place, no straight lines, but every member's an all-star. No other unit touches this lineup. Mangled looks standard; savagery and cruelty? They compete daily—who needs to say more?

Orders: Recent scout found a backroad in the Black Rock Mountains. Humans learn of it? They'll swarm. Hand it over, their supply line opens; ours for the southern push gets cut. Occupy first, hold it.

Expected a brawl fest. Our numbers small vs. others, but mobile—makes sense for the order. I led 'em to the Demon King's marked spot.

Closer we got, more barren: rocks everywhere, no trees—like massive black stones, hence Black Rock Mountains. Terrain a shithole—path even here?

Yep. Tiny as fuck—barely cart-width. Our holdout? This narrow-ass mountain trail.

Staring at the rugged peaks, treeless hellscape—something clicked. "Huh? Seen this before?"

Familiar. Like that Three Kingdoms tale: Zhuge Liang tasks Ma Su or whoever to defend Street Pavilion on a home visit. Idiot fucks it up straight, ruins the northern expedition.

This setup? Perfect to wipe the unit and take the L...

"Alright! Eyes front!"

Unit fuming—no humans waiting, murder eyes on me. But they've all eaten my knuckle sandwiches; nerds don't scare me. "I know! No humans. But whatcha gonna do? Demon. King. Him. Self. Ordered. It."

*Eb-e-be-be—what now?* I sneered it out; faces soured like they chewed shit.

Whip alone? Rebellion. Carrot time. "But!"

*?*

Pinecone grenade bullshit works best. "Demon King pierced their guts with his far-sight, whispered to me via starlight! Filthy humans ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inbound soon!"

*Waaaaaaah!! Demon King rules—specs on point!*