CHAPTER 45: THE ARCHES OF BLOOD

Four days. Not one more.

That was the time I had given myself to crush the East. No endless siege, no war of attrition. A blitzkrieg, struck with the speed of a black lightning bolt. I knew the South and the West were watching us. If we lingered, they would have time to move, to weave their alliances, to tighten the noose. So there would be no slowness. No rest.

From the very first day, I had given the order: get rid of the useless. The armor too heavy was stowed away, the baggage divided, the convoys reduced to the bare minimum. My soldiers marched light, black armor only on shoulders and torsos, bare legs in the snow, but their eyes burned with animal haste. Human prisoners were put to use, dragging supplies and weapons, but even they quickly understood: whoever slowed the march died in the snow, a dagger in the nape.

The first day, we crossed a hamlet. No resistance, just frightened eyes behind closed doors. I ordered a hard strike: the men gathered in the center, forced to choose. Serve under my command, or fall. Half accepted the black armor, the other were cut down on the spot. Their heads already adorned the pikes when the column resumed its march.

The second day, we reached a small fort. Solid from afar, but empty of courage. The assault was brief, sharp, a breakthrough in less than an hour. The officers hanged on the ramparts, the soldiers folded into my lines. By noon, we were already back on the road. No halt, no rest. Each step tore a breath, but I wanted each breath to turn into victory.

The third day, we crossed the plains. The cold bit into flesh, but the pace did not falter. Ten thousand demons, ten thousand steps, a black tide swallowing snow like sand. The rallied survivors were already mixing into my ranks, men and women clothed in white or red, now drowned under our dark banners. The bells of villages tolled at our passage, not in faith — in warning. The East understood, too late, that war was not a border, but a tidal wave.

The fourth day, in the morning, we reached the hills. I had lightened the column, abandoned even the most precious baggage, for one reason only: to see that city before nightfall. The wind cleared, the snow turned powdery.

And there, on the horizon... it appeared.

The capital.

White, immense, bristling with walls tall as cliffs. Towers shot toward the sky, stone silhouettes cut into the cold light. On the crenellations, banners cracked, and I already imagined the thousands of eyes holed up behind them, petrified.

I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword. Behind me, ten thousand demons were still panting, but none had slowed. Their breath was no longer fatigue, it was a contained roar.

I smiled.

— Four days, I murmured. And here is the heart of the East.

The descent of the cliff was a rumble of iron and steps. Ten thousand silhouettes spilled from the heights, a black and red tide, their banners snapping in the wind. The sun was slowly extinguishing behind the white walls of the capital, but each step of my men rang like a promise: tomorrow, the heart of the East would be on its knees.

I advanced first, dark armor open on my chest, the icy air biting into my skin. The snow crunched beneath my boots, and my eyes stayed fixed on the ramparts. Human silhouettes could already be seen, tiny, stiff behind their battlements. I didn’t need to hear them to guess their fear: they knew an army like mine did not camp before their walls to turn its back.

— Here, I finally ordered, raising my hand.

The drums stopped in an instant. As one body, the entire column planted their pikes and lances in the snow. The first lines immediately began setting up the tents. Leather snapped in the wind, ropes stretched with mechanical speed. The field kitchens opened in an instant, fire caught on frozen wood, and soon greasy smoke rose in thick columns. The smell of grilled meat spread across the camp like a promise of life after the forced march.

I summoned my officers. Nyss, Sae, Kaelira, Syra, Varkash. Their silhouettes contrasted as much as their characters: Nyss cold as ice, Sae calculating, Kaelira proud like a she-wolf, Syra always ready to defy, Varkash massive as a wall of stone. All bowed slightly when I took my place at the center of the encampment, on a crude stool before a taut leather table.

— Let them eat, I simply said. Let them drink. No alcohol tonight. Not a drop. The celebration is after victory. Not before.

A murmur ran through the circle, repeated by the quartermasters, then by the captains. The order spread like a wave. The barrels of beer remained sealed, but cauldrons of soup and smoked quarters of meat circulated through every rank. Ten thousand men sat in the snow, helmets laid beside them, eating in silence at first, then in a clamor that swelled like a tide.

The mood changed. The camp came alive with a racket of voices, laughter, coarse songs. Firelight reflected on cuirasses and sweaty skin. The human prisoners, now integrated, ate alongside the demons. Some still bore wrists marked by chains, but they already laughed like brothers-in-arms. The women, proud and upright, ate without lowering their eyes, their heavy breasts swelling beneath the ill-fitting armor they had been thrown. Sweat clung to their skin, and I saw burning gazes turn toward me, a mix of hate and desire.

I broke the silence among my generals.

— Tomorrow, I said, we strike. No waiting, no siege. We’re here to take quickly, not to get bogged down.

Nyss nodded, her golden gaze gleaming in the firelight.

— Their walls are high, but their hearts are low. Discipline has eroded. They won’t last a full day.

Sae crossed her arms, her chest taut beneath her light tunic, her gray eyes fixed on me.

— But what if they call reinforcements from the South or the West? We risk encirclement if we delay.

— That’s why I want a blitz, I replied. No mercy. No slowness.

Kaelira chuckled, her fangs brushing her lower lip.

— Then tomorrow... I’ll climb their walls myself, and I’ll plant my axe in their banner.

Varkash grunted her approval, a guttural sound that made the table vibrate.

— Leave me the vanguard. I’ll smash their gate like I smash a weak body.

Syra leaned forward, her dark tattoos pulsing in the light.

— And me, I want their mages. I want them alive. Their secrets will be mine.

I let them speak, their thirst for war heating the air around us. Then I placed both hands flat on the table. The leather groaned under the pressure.

— Tomorrow, the capital will fall. And every throat will scream my name before dying.

A heavy silence fell. My generals fixed their eyes on me, and in their gaze burned the same certainty: there would be no turning back.

Around us, the camp still roared. Songs rose, heavy, bestial. Flames cast enormous shadows on the snow. Ten thousand men, ten thousand women, ten thousand bodies heated by meat, sweat, and the promise of carnage. Some still trained with swords in the trembling light, their bare torsos glistening. Others laughed, fingers still greasy. Couples already formed in the shadow of the tents, panting mixing with coarse songs, as if even the night wanted to join the orgy of life before the bloodbath.

I raised my eyes toward the capital. Behind its walls, the humans cowered, starved by fear. In front, my army gorged itself on strength and desire. The contrast made me smile.

Tomorrow, there would be no capital. Only another stone in my Empire.

Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky was already opening in a red scar above the plain. Torches planted in the ground made the black armor shine, and steam rose from the beasts like the breath of a forge. When the horn sounded, I knew before they even came to tell me: the capital had spilled its guts.

They didn’t want to fight in their streets. They didn’t want their people to see their children slaughtered before the temples. So the demons of the East had come out. All they had left. Ten thousand, maybe a little less. A blood-drained army, but still standing.

I smiled. That suited me. Here, no walls, no alleys. Just a plain. And on a plain, there is no hiding. No fleeing. Just two lines that break, and one that dies.

My only problem, I knew it: the Demonic Saint. The one who raised the dead. A cold smile brushed my lips. Let her raise them, I’d kill them twice.

I raised my hand. Behind me, orders spread like a wave. Varkash arrived first, her leather armor half open, her heavy breasts vibrating with sweat and contained rage. She inclined her head, her fangs gleaming in the shadow.

— Is it time?

I nodded.

The "arches" she had raised emerged from the dark. Not siege engines. Fucking arches, three men high, bristling with corpses. Male bodies, torn-off limbs, heads still grimacing, nailed, hung, entangled. The stench was unbearable. The torches made the flesh seem almost alive, the empty sockets gleamed like embers.

When the first enemy ranks saw them, a wave coursed through their lines like a disease. Howls, moans, horns smashed against helmets. Some stumbled upon recognizing a sister, a brother, nailed there, offered as trophies.

I raised two fingers.

— Show them what they’ve lost.

The arches advanced, creaking, dragged by howling demons. Each step shook the rotting limbs, dropped a hand, a foot, a spurt of dried blood. The plain turned into an erected charnel ground.

A brief silence. Then, instead of striking their shields like disciplined soldiers would have... the demons of the East broke. They dropped rhythm, cadence. They ran. A disordered charge, pure hate, raw madness.

I smiled.

Behind me, my troops didn’t move a millimeter. Then my buff triggered. I felt it: the heat in my neck, the shiver that coursed through ten thousand bodies.

— [Battlefield Tactician] activated.

— [Iron Hand] activated.

And as one demon, my ranks roared. Not an indistinct cry. A single name. My name.

— SORA!

Then again, louder.

— SORA! SORA! SORA!

The ground shook. My demons, their eyes blazing, their breath short, no longer saw themselves as an army. They were a tide. A single body, a single rage, a single voice.

And I, at the center, already knew that this war was won.