Forging Survivors
The reconstruction war had ended, and it was the morning of the third day. The stench of blood lingered, and the piles of corpses remained untouched. The only change was that we'd forcibly kept alive those who had wanted to die.
"...So, what do we do first?" El asked.
I scanned the crumbled fortress. The path Raphael's legion had carved through. Ruins so devastated they could scarcely be called hell anymore. And the living. Forty-three of them. Neither increasing nor decreasing.
We had to start somewhere.
"Keep them alive," I said. "Use them as much as we can."
First, I cleared out the inside of the fortress. The hall where half the ceiling had collapsed. Corpses were stacked layer upon layer, frozen in death. I swept aside arms and legs, severed wings, pushing them to one side. I rolled broken pillars against the wall and propped them up. The blood-crusted floor was revealed.
"Here." I tapped the floor with my toe. "This is El's spot."
El blinked. "...My spot?"
"Drag everyone on the brink of death here."
"This is the healing room."
No walls, no beds. Just a floor stained with blood. Still, anything brought inside would breathe at least one more time.
"What if they die?" El asked quietly.
"Then they're corpses," I replied curtly. "We can only hold on until the brink of death."
El clasped her hands together.
Recovery
A faint red glow gathered at her fingertips and seeped into the floor.
"...I'll make sure they don't die."
"That's enough." I nodded. "This isn't a place to get comfortable. It's a place to avoid dying."
In front of the healing room, a spot a little away from the fortress gate. I cleared out corpses and piles of stones to make a crude open field.
"This is the rehab zone," I said. "If legs are reattached, they have to walk. If arms are reattached, they have to endure."
I set up broken pillars as supports to grab onto while standing, stacked stones into makeshift stairs. Fall and roll down; stand and climb back up grabbing hold.
"What if they can't endure here?" El asked.
"Back to the healing room," I answered. "Only if there's still reason to save them again."
Next to the rehab zone. The wide open space in front of the fortress. Where the most corpses were scattered.
I said, "This is the training ground."
"......Training?" El echoed.
"If we're just keeping them breathing, there was no point in saving them to begin with."
"Here, everything alive gets used."
That afternoon, I lined up the forty-three on the training ground. Not a single one could stand properly. Still, they formed ranks.
"Front line." I called the one at the very front. "Gart."
The guy who'd been crushed under a pile of stones. The scar between his ribs was still deep.
"You're the ones who take hits." Big guys lined up behind Gart. "Block from the front, endure to the brink of death."
"So the back line can move."
Gart swallowed hard. "If we die...?"
"Block before you die." I cut him off. "If you die, you're just a failed shield."
"Back line." I pointed to the very rear. "Morkan."
The guy who'd begged to be saved. Lost one arm, but gained sharper senses in return.
"You're the biters." Guys who'd learned it's easier to survive by flanking sides and rear rather than head-on. "While the front takes hits, circle around from the sides."
"Listen for sounds, breaths, blood smells first, then move."
Morkan curled his lip. "So in the end, go for the throat first."
"If you can win head-on, do it head-on," I added. "If not, survive and win."
"Middle." I called the one sitting on the sand patch. "Nas."
Burned eyes. Barely able to make out shapes thanks to El's recovery.
"You don't fight."
Nas flinched. "...Then what do I do?"
"Watch." I drew on the sandy ground with my foot. "Fortress, alleys, sewers. Every path you fled through."
"Map in your head first where the front holds, where the back flanks."
Nas's fingers groped the sand. "If I map it wrong?"
"Watch and correct it."
No body is completely useless. Just a guy fighting with a head that remembers paths instead of a blade.
El went back and forth between the healing room and training ground. Placed hands on those on the brink, poured in recovery. Flesh knit, organs retracted, bleeding stopped. Arms didn't regrow. But legs attached enough to walk.
"......This far." When El said it, "Good work," was how I ended it.
Those pushed out of the healing room went to rehab; those enduring rehab went to the training ground. Fall and get dragged back; stand and get thrown in again.
One day, El watched from the edge of the training ground for a long time and said, "Rak."
"What."
"......I don't think I can just keep watching from behind."
"If I want to stay with Rak, I need to know how to fight too."
It wasn't wrong. "Fix it so you don't die," I said. "And hit only enough not to kill."
El's eyes widened round. "Start with the not-killing part."
After a moment's thought, El nodded quietly.
From that day, El practiced shallow cuts on arms and legs with a short blade—sending off to live, holding back, sending again. Attack and recovery emerging from one body.
The training was simple. "Gart, three steps forward."
Gart stepped out and bared his back. I set up spear wielders.
"Thrust."
After hesitation, spear tips sank in. Blood sprayed. Gart staggered badly.
"Endure." El poured recovery from behind. "Now."
As my word fell, Morkan slipped to the side. Burst from shadow, bit the open spot first.
I just watched the movement. "Too slow."
"Again."
Thrust again, endure again, flank again. On one side, Nas drew lines on the sand. "Like this, the back two will get caught."
"Then adjust." I erased one line with my toe. "Widen here, Gart takes it a step back."
"Morkan circles wider."
"What about Rak?"
"I fill the gaps."
Wherever a block formed, that's where I'd stand.
Days, months. Just hit, endure, flank and bite, fill gaps—repeating endlessly. Then one moment, movements gained 'patterns.' Familiarity creates openings.
I scanned the training ground. Gart's feet always stopped in the same spot, Morkan's angle always traced the same curve. Nas's lines resembled yesterday's closely.
"......Stop." I raised my hand.
They halted, panting. "That's it for today?" Gart asked.
He clenched and unclenched his fist once. Finger joints cracked softly.
"No." I spoke slowly. "This time, include me."
Quiet tension settled over the training ground.
"All of you." I pointed toward the fortress gate. "Come at me with intent to kill."
Morkan narrowed his eyes. "......For real?"
"Angels don't come playing."
"Everyone you'll face ahead is either weaker than me or far stronger."
El grabbed my sleeve then let go. "Rak, if you really get hurt..."
"They won't kill." I cut short. "Just to the brink."
Muscles tightened, red air sharpened vividly.
My current power was just a leak from what I'd pulled up against Raphael's legion—still excessive for these guys.
"Gart. Front line."
Gart gritted his teeth and advanced. Morkan to the left, two others to the right, Nas scraping the sand.
"Left's open...!"
Before his words finished, I stepped forward. Gart charged with shield up, spears flying from behind.
Spear tips, footsteps, breaths overlapped incoming. Slow.
I yanked Gart's shoulder with one hand. His massive body lurched toward me. One spear sliced air, the rest only empty space.
"Wh—" Before curses escaped, I dove toward Morkan.
As Morkan's gaze followed my upper body, I swept his ankle. He tumbled over stone piles.
"When rolling, hide your feet first."
Another swung a blade at my back. The instant metal touched, I twisted reinforcement. Before the tip dug in, I drove my elbow into his jaw.
Jawbone shattered. He sprawled limp.
"Not dead." I nudged his side with my foot. Faint breath in and out. "Next."
Moments later, the training ground reeked of blood and dust. Arms twisted, ribs caved, knocked out and stirring. No deaths.
El gritted her teeth, pouring recovery. "Rak......" She looked up at me weakly. "This seems too harsh."
"If they crumble at this," I surveyed the blood-soaked ground, "they won't even stand before angels."
Demons slowly regained their senses. Eyes turned to me. Fear, anger, curses. And something slightly different.
Gart asked, "......You used everything just now?"
"No." I answered honestly. "Just a taste."
Morkan swallowed dryly. "How much... percent?"
"Doesn't matter." I wiped bloodied hands on my hem. "What matters is this."
"Think you can beat angels charging like that?"
No one answered.
"Good." I said. "Rebuild from that baseline."
"Today is the day you remember how weak you are."
El moved among the fallen. Red glows flickered on and off one by one.
I thought, watching those lights. These forty-three remnants must one day endure thousands, tens of thousands.
But at minimum, everything breathing now was my responsibility.
Front line: endure hits. Back line: circle and throat-bite. Middle: map paths and gaps. El: hands bridging brink-of-death to brink-of-death.
Atop it all, me.
Days piled up. The red sky was always the same, yet its red had different textures each day. Dust pillars rose and fell in the distance; unlucky days, something crashed near our zone. I called those lucky. We could save them.
—Ten years passed.
The fortress was still half-collapsed, the tower broken at the waist. But now, it could be called a base without error.
Healing room. Rehab zone. Training ground. Corpse disposal. Workshop. Warehouse. Watchtower. Command room.
Started with forty-three; now thousands of breaths overlapped.
Many couldn't walk, most couldn't handle two opponents—but they were demons who knew how to fight again.
A few more steps beyond the walls, and the ground was still bones and ash. We'd cleared just one corner of the battlefield. Barely stepped back from the brink of extinction.
Bell's words resurfaced.
——Live.
That was all then, and all now.
"...Live." I murmured atop the tower, gazing at the red sky.
Betrayal, hesitation, death wishes—luxuries here. Rebuilding hell meant first making everything that should die live.
Then it happened.
The sky changed slightly. Not the battlefield-rending light of Raphael's legion. A single split. Thread-thin light flickered on like a bulb, then off.
"......Rak." El's voice from behind.
I didn't look away.
Muscles tightened, vision narrowed.
The light was gone. Instead, something was falling from somewhere.
"Stay in the fortress," I said without looking at El. "Could be someone on the brink dropping."
"And you?"
"I'll check."
I leaped from the tower. Sliced between training ground, corpse disposal, warehouse.
Around where the light had struck, dust had resettled on cleared debris. High above, through the imperfect rift, a small dot plummeted straight down.
A demon, fire and horns and wings would show first. An angel, light and metal scent.
This time, neither.
I leaped beneath it.
Ground studded with stones, metal, broken pillars. Timed my jump.
A cold, light weight slammed into my arms. Back hit stone, breath cut then returned.
Dispersed the impact.
Quiet. I looked down at what I held.
No wings, no horns. Blood scent, but not demon-hot. Not angelic sanctity.
The smell I'd breathed endlessly in my previous life. Living, human scent.
Small, gaunt body. Fingers clenched like iron. Face neither angel-smooth nor demon-angular. The weary faces I'd seen so much on earth.
I drew breath.
"...A human."
First in ten years. The first human to fall into hell.