Nova
Beneath the crimson sky of hell over Nova, the demons atop the walls exchanged slow glances. This place was no longer just a battlefield. It was the first line of defense.
Balrag gazed down from the rampart's edge. Below him, the crudely heaped earth was gradually taking shape: low outer walls, shallow trenches ahead, ankle-trapping piles of stones, iron spikes driven into the ground. Makeshift watchtowers and markers dotted the terrain—spots that once overflowed with corpses. Now, they tested how far the enemy could advance.
Balrag leaned against his spear shaft. From a short distance away, a demon guarding the perimeter muttered, "...The air feels different from before."
Balrag glanced sideways. "Back then, this was just a place to come die."
The demon nodded. "Now... the first thought with incoming foes is where we can use them."
Balrag chuckled dryly. "That's a base for you."
Right then, a short scream erupted from below the wall. A new demon had strayed too far beyond the markers and was being dragged back inside by the scruff of his neck by one of Balrag's subordinates.
Balrag added flatly, "Tell them to drop any ideas of dying outside the line."
The subordinate bellowed downward. "I said don't cross the markers, idiot!"
The minor commotion settled quickly. Balrag's lips quirked up for just a moment. Then his gaze drifted far off again.
The old battlefield. Where Raphael's legion had clashed with Bell, plague and corpses rotting together. Now, in the center, the faint silhouette of a gray-skinned upper demon stood.
Astamar. The rotting field was being decomposed. From a place devoured to a place cleared away.
Balrag let out a small breath. "...Just like Rak."
Inside the base, the middle zone. Harsh commands cut across the training ground.
"Front line, step in sync!"
"Kill 'em, or die and crawl back—fine!"
"Just—don't die standing still!"
It was Gart's voice. Thick-armed demons charged in two lines, slamming together. Armor scraped, breaths mingled, the ground shook. Bodies flew but halted within the marked bounds. The fallen only rose after the next line trampled past.
It was training to ingrain survival moves into their bodies.
The moment one thrust too far beyond the line—
Gart's spear butt struck his shin dead-on.
Crack!
The demon tumbled, spitting curses. "Cross the line, and your legs get hacked off first!"
"Rak swings like that up front!"
"You lot won't even reach there!"
Laughter and curses mixed among the charging demons. Gart drove the final nail home. "So—survive from your spot!"
On the other side, in a dimmer sector. Morkan crouched low and still. Before him lined leaner demons—those scarred by arrows in their eyes, those with light footsteps.
Morkan's voice wasn't loud. But it drilled straight into ears. "Leave the front to Gart."
"We spot who they are before killing, hear where they're from first."
He scratched a rough line into the dirt. "Anyone reaching here—live or die—gets reported to Rak first."
One beside him jotted it down. Nas. In his hand, a crudely made slate. Who fought where. Who broke where. Who to save, who to process.
Nas muttered, "Combat-incapable to treatment zone."
"Full deaths to plague disposal."
He drew another line. "Salvageable in between—up to El and Astamar..."
"And—gather intel first."
Lines kept extending in Nas's mind. Incoming: battlefield fodder. Outgoing: resources. That was Rak's rule.
Deep inside the base, temporary treatment zone. Blood and ash. Red glows and groans mingled.
El rolled her shoulders. "Next."
A demon with a half-twisted leg dragged himself beside the cot. From the mangled flesh and bone, a dull red light flashed. Bones clicked into place from within. Pain hit a beat late; the demon ground his teeth and exhaled. "Ngh... shit, I'm alive."
El snorted. "Wanna die? Go outside."
"This is for keeping you breathing."
After patching a few more, El quietly turned. A bit away, Jan sat. On his palm, a small hemisphere. Red fragments spread thin inside and out, pulsing like breath—expanding, contracting.
Jan muttered low to himself. "...Wider, a bit longer."
"Filter descending lines once more..."
His words trailed faintly. Bags under his eyes were dry, no sign of last time's collapse.
El plopped down beside him. "How's it going."
"Head about to split?"
Jan looked up startled. "N-no, this much is—"
"Liar."
El cut him off. Her gaze brushed his hand. Scars from the old explosion lingered, not fully faded.
El sighed softly. "Still, you're doing good."
"Thanks to you, they haven't spotted us proper from above."
Jan drew a quiet breath. "......I'll make it wider, tougher."
"Don't overreach and bleed out again."
El grumbled. "How many survived to build a base like this..."
She trailed off, eyed the barrier once more, and stood. "Keep at it."
Jan watched her back, thinking briefly. ...Acknowledged.
Inside the tower, command room. A crude but now map-like board sprawled on the table. Red lines. Black dots. Pale gray zones.
Navriel reported before it. "Outer defenses under Balrag, organizing."
"First line filters—per day—"
He tapped a zone. "One side: training and reorganization."
"Gart and Morkan splitting offense and scouting."
Rak stared only at the map. No surprise, no pride in his eyes. Just reading lines and dots.
Navriel continued. "Plague disposal: Astamar adapting."
"A third of corpse mountain reprocessed,"
"Inward rot mostly caught by Jan's barrier."
He added briefly. "Flow's stabilized from start... but Jan's load keeps building."
Tapped another spot. "Treatment and force maintenance: El at center."
"Not full recovery—just enough to redeploy."
Navriel smiled faintly. "In short, the whole base runs like a battlefield recycler."
Rak said curtly. "Hell's supposed to."
And this time, he added inwardly, it won't crumble easy.
Rak folded the map. "Balrag keeps trimming first line, preserve forms on the dead—no total wrecks."
Navriel noted it verbatim.
"Gart and Morkan: no slowing training. Tell Nas intel gets priority."
Orders dropped one by one.
"El: expand treatment."
"Gotta recycle one-timers two, three times to hold."
Rak paused, choosing words. "Jan: hold width, push up bit by bit."
"Shrinking their overhead view—that's our breather."
Navriel nodded. "Understood."
Silence flowed briefly. Navriel asked carefully. "And Bell... your plans?"
Rak's gaze left the map. Red-marked old Bell zone. Plague testbed. Prayer-line cutoff. Raphael's vanished legion.
"He won't wait."
"They'll sense oddities from above."
Navriel's breath hitched faintly. "If heaven descends again..."
Rak stated matter-of-factly. "That's why we clean up."
Rak shoved back his chair and stood. "I'm heading to Bell."
Navriel asked right away. "Now?"
"Yeah."
Navriel shut his mouth briefly, then hesitantly again. "Uh... one more thing?"
Rak halted mid-turn. "Speak."
Navriel glanced at the map. Red lines, gray-clumped zones. Flow from outer trenches to command room.
"What do we call this place now..."
"Too big for just 'Rak's base' anymore."
Rak eyed out the window briefly. Ramparts. Outer decay gathered and cleared. Treatment keeping alive. Barrier holding back. Spots crumbled countless times, barely reignited.
Rak said quietly. "Got a name."
Navriel looked up. "The base's... name?"
"Yeah."
Rak's eyes brushed beyond the red sky. "The moment a star explodes once, sweeps its surroundings, dies—and shines again."
He added shortly. "Nova."
Navriel echoed it. "...Nova."
After rolling it in his mouth, he smiled faintly. "For a flame relit atop a dead battlefield... no better name."
Rak replied without fanfare. "Documents, reports—from now on, use it."
"Yes, Nova Base it is."
Navriel bowed deeply.
Rak asked no more, explained no more. Just turned to the door, dropping one last line. "Make Nova endure."
The command room door opened slow, then shut.
Beneath the red sky, the base with its new name quietly caught its breath.
Waiting for the next battlefield.