Malthus had done it.
He'd actually used his little demonic walkie-talkie to order my family's death.
Because of course, when a warlord loses in combat, the only logical next step is "murder someone's parents for emotional balance."
He pressed that button faster than a teenager hiding browser history.
By the time I smashed the device to pieces, it was too late — the order had already been given.
The bastard had beaten me by one syllable.
So yeah. I was angry.
Like, biblical flood but with swear words angry.
I started cursing him so hard even demons in hell were taking notes.
But then… someone had the balls, the celestial-grade audacity, to interrupt me.
"Is that a way to talk, young man?"
Excuse me?
Someone just tried to teach me manners during a live war broadcast.
I paused mid-rage.
Even Malthus blinked.
The soldiers who were half-dead looked confused — like "wait, is there moral policing in apocalyptic battles now?"
"Who the hell said that?!" I roared.
