CHAPTER 35: WHAT REMAINS

The bodies burned for three days.

Not because there were so many—though two hundred and sixteen corpses made for a substantial pyre. But because blessed flesh resisted infernal fire, holy wards embedded in the very bones fighting against desecration even in death.

In the end, they had to use mundane wood and oil. Let the bodies burn the old way, the human way.

Liam watched from his quarters as smoke rose in a thick, greasy column toward the gray Ashard sky. He hadn’t slept since the battle. Couldn’t, really.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces.

Not the ones who’d died fighting. Those were expected. Necessary. The cost of war.

No, he saw the ones who’d surrendered. The young paladin who’d been first to drop his sword. The scout, Marcus, who’d survived the ridge trap only to die chained in the dirt. Thomas, whoever Thomas had been, with his eyes that looked at nothing.

He’d ordered them killed.

And felt nothing.

That was the part that should have terrified him. The numbness. The ease of it.

Instead, he just felt... tired.

[Humanity Index: 31%]

[Warning: Sustained decrease in Humanity Index may result in permanent psychological changes.]

[Current Status: Borderline Dissociative. Empathy Response: Severely Diminished.]

Since it happened these System warnings had become more frequent. More urgent. He dismissed them with the same cold efficiency he’d used to dismiss the prisoners’ pleas.

A knock at his door.

"Enter."

Koth stepped in, his massive frame filling the doorway. The Commander looked different now—not in appearance, but in bearing.

He stood before Liam and didn’t seem as a skeptical superior tolerating a political necessity, but as a subordinate awaiting orders.

The shift was total. Absolute.

"The pyres are nearly finished, my lord," Koth reported, his voice carefully neutral. "We’ve catalogued the weapons and armor. Seventeen blessed swords of officers’ grade. Forty-three sets of blessed plate. The forges can melt them down, reforge them into something useful."

"Good," Liam said, not turning from the window. "And our casualties?"

"Thirty-seven dead. Fifty-three wounded, twelve critically." Koth paused. "A favorable ratio, given the numbers we faced."

Favorable. Ninety demons dead or dying. But favorable, because the alternative had been total annihilation.

War math. The kind that turned people into numbers and deemed it strategy.

"The garrison?" Liam asked.

For the first time, something like emotion entered Koth’s voice. "Few are calling you names we haven’t spoken since we were children..." He trailed off, searching for words. "While most believe you’re a worthy leader."

[Collective Belief - Outpost Garrison: 68% → 80%]

"And you, Commander?" Liam turned finally, his grey eyes finding Koth’s molten gaze. "What do you believe?"

Koth didn’t hesitate. "I believe in results, and you’ve shown me exactly that. I am at your command, my Lord."

[Koth - Belief: 54% → 71%]

[Loyalty: 42% → 83%]

The numbers should have felt like victory. Instead, they felt like chains—not on Koth, but on himself. Each point of belief was another person who expected him to be the monster. Who needed him to be the monster.

Who would be disappointed if they discovered he was just a man playing dress-up in hell.

"There’s something else, my lord," Koth continued, pulling a sealed letter from his armor. The wax seal bore a mark Liam didn’t recognize—a stylized crown of horns above a clenched fist.

"A courier arrived from Gorath’s fortress. The Arch-Demon wishes to meet you."

Liam took the letter, broke the seal, and read. The script was elegant, almost artistic, at odds with the blunt military tone of its contents:

*To the one called Azrakul,*

*Your... performance... at Krazax has not gone unnoticed. The Radiant Empire’s forces across the Ashard Perimeter grow cautious. Uncertain. This presents opportunities.*

*I ask you present yourself at my fortress within three days. We have matters to discuss regarding the seven remaining outposts and the future of this war.*

*Do not keep me waiting.*

*— Gorath the Unyielding, Arch-Demon of Ashard, Master of the Burning Peaks*

There was no greeting or pleasantries. Just a summons from a demon lord who clearly wasn’t impressed by Liam’s newfound reputation.

Or was testing to see if the reputation was deserved.

"Gorath," Liam said, handing the letter back. "What do I need to know?"

Koth’s expression darkened. "Old. Powerful. Pragmatic to the point of cruelty. He’s held Ashard for three centuries, survived six assassination attempts from rival houses, and personally killed two Radiant Empire Heroes in single combat." He paused. "He was also one of Queen Lilith’s loudest critics during the Absolute Summons. Recently he called her ’a child playing at war’ and you ’a desperate fiction.’"

"And now he wants to meet the fiction," Liam mused. "To see if I’m real or just smoke and mirrors."

"He’ll test you," Zara said from the doorway. Neither man had heard her approach, but her presence had become a constant shadow since the battle. "Not necessarily in combat. Gorath is... subtle. He’ll want to know what you are, what you want, and whether you’re a threat to his authority."

"His authority?" Liam raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn’t the Primordial Demon be above Arch-Demons in the hierarchy?"

"In theory," Varg said, appearing beside Zara. The three of them had become a unit, Liam realized. His commanders. His inner circle.

"In practice, Gorath has held real power for real centuries. You’re an unknown variable who’s won one battle. He’ll want to see if you can win seven more."

Liam looked at the three of them—the Commander, the Analyst, the Lieutenant. All watching him with varying degrees of belief and expectation.

"The seven outposts," he said. "Explain."