DMZ
Dawn crept over the ruined DMZ village.
Most of the fires had already burned themselves out, leaving behind thin pillars of gray smoke drifting lazily into the morning air. Rangers moved through the wreckage, performing perimeter checks—slow, methodical, and thorough—just in case any raiders had missed the memo about being dead.
Inside a Humvee, Ivy sat wrapped tightly in a blanket, cradling a hot drink with both hands. A Murica medic hovered beside her, repeatedly checking her pulse.
"I'm fine," Ivy said again, tired but polite. "Really. Just… shaken."
The medic nodded and checked her pulse anyway.
A few meters away, Bella lay slumped against a rubble, utterly exhausted. She stared at Ivy from a distance.
"Here," Captain Irving said, handing Bella a cup of coffee while tearing open his MRE with his teeth.
Bella accepted it automatically.
"Captain…" she muttered, "…will I ever be promoted?"
Irving took a slow, exaggerated bite of his meal.
"He yelled at me for fifteen minutes," Bella continued. "Fifteen. Over the radio. That's a quarter of an hour."
Irving chewed thoughtfully.
"…this chili mac is good," he said.
"You're ignoring my question."
"I am."
Bella deflated instantly.
"Huff… maybe I should just go back to my parents' farm," she sighed. "They live in the South, so I think they didn't watch the broadcast."
"One of the film crew told me the broadcast is relayed by something called a satellite from space," Irving said calmly. "It reaches the whole country."
He took another bite.
"South included."
"Nooooo…" Bella covered her face with both hands, voice muffled by despair.
"Oh, cheer up," Irving said, patting her shoulder with the hand not holding his fork. "The war's just getting started. Plenty of chances to redeem yourself."
"Sigh… you're right."
Bella slapped both her cheeks hard.
"I can do this! There's plenty of enemy to kill to make Mom and Dad proud—"
"HEEEEY!! OVER HERE!"
The scream cut through the ruins.
Bella snapped upright, machine gun already aimed at the source before her brain fully caught up. Across the rubble, a group of survivors waved frantically.
A member of Jehovah's Accusess stood proudly at the front, arms raised. Thug A, Thug C, and several others trailed behind him, limping but alive.
"See?!" the zealot shouted. "I told you! My Demon God would deliver us salvation!"
"Ah, you're right," Thug A said eagerly. "After this, I promise I'll become one of your members!"
Captain Irving raised an eyebrow, still chewing. "Another survivor?"
"Looks like it," Bella said, waving back. "HEEEY! YOU GUUUYS!!"
They waved even harder.
"I'M SOOORRY—BUT ORDERS SAID ONLY ONE SURVIVOR IS ALLOWE~D!" Bella yelled, cocking her M240L.
"WHAAT?" The survivors cupped their ears.
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The group collapsed instantly, lifeless bodies dropping amid the rubble.
Captain Irving finished his MRE, folded the empty packaging neatly, and stood up.
"Well," he said, dusting off his hands, "I guess that's the last of it. We should bail before the party starts."
"What party?" Bella asked.
Irving pointed behind her.
Several kilometers away, silhouettes of a massive army crested the horizon—stretching from left to right, pouring across the land like a living tide.
Bella swallowed.
"Oh my…" she said quietly. "I don't have enough bullets for this."
---
The Black House
Solo and Lilith were having their morning meeting with the Minister of Finance and Trade, Monny, and the Minister of Defense, Stan.
Everyone was in an absurdly good mood.
"I still can't get over last night's show!" Lilith beamed, practically glowing. "Satellites are amazing!"
"Exactly," Stan said with a proud nod. "Even with a few hiccups, it was excellent for military recruitment."
"The ratings hit a record-breaking thirty-two million viewers," Monny grinned. "Highest pay-per-view in Murican history. HAHAHAHA."
"Wow," Solo said. "That's… nearly half the country."
Monny puffed out his chest. Originally, the feed had been intended for internal military use only. He had loudly argued—at length—that not monetizing it would be a criminal waste of satellite potential. After several hours and one whiteboard full of projected revenue graphs, Solo had eventually agreed, citing the added benefit of tech promotion for the upcoming public internet rollout.
"Belphy did great," Solo said. He paused. "Some scenes were… intense. But I guess I've seen worse."
Solo realized it was the first time in this world he had watched humans die.
Strangely, he felt nothing.
Maybe it was because he'd grown used to living among demons. Or maybe it was because, in his past life as a journalist, he'd already witnessed the same—or worse—atrocities committed by humans against other humans.
"And the marketing was excellent," Monny continued, tone entirely professional. "Luke's promotion numbers skyrocketed."
Stan leaned forward, grinning. "Well! Since you got your precious revenue spike, you won't complain about how I spend taxpayer money in the upcoming battle, right?"
"…"
Stan smiled wider. "Come on. A deal's a deal."
Monny clicked his tongue. "…Tch. Fine. Just don't go overboard with the expensive stuff."
Knock. Knock.
An aide stepped into the room.
"Excuse me, sirs, madam," he said carefully. "We just received a message from the Vandoria–Ravendawn coalition. They've agreed to hold negotiation talks by noon."
Stan stood immediately.
"Speak of the devil," he said. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got preparations to make."
And with that, he left the room.
---
DMZ
The center of the ruined DMZ had been cleared into a temporary meeting ground.
Hannya stood calmly at its heart, flanked by Murican Rangers standing at ease. Across from her were the Vandoria–Ravendawn representatives—Duke Pierre and his knights. Behind them stretched an army so vast it swallowed the horizon, ranks upon ranks standing ready for war.
"Hey, demon girl," Duke Pierre barked. "Where is Leviathan?"
"His Excellency is currently arranging diplomatic drafts for other kingdoms," Hannya replied evenly. "I am here to represent him and the Murica Foreign Office. We demand that you pull your army back from our border and issue a formal apology for the atrocities committed in this village—namely, the killing of innocent civilians, dozens of Murican citizens, and leaving behind only one poor survivor…"
Duke Pierre frowned.
One?
He had explicitly ordered the mercenaries to leave dozens alive to spread terror. Someone, somewhere, had just earned a very short career.
"So the Demon Duke is not here?" he pressed.
"…No. He is not," Hannya said. "We also demand reparations for this act of aggression. A detailed list will be delivered at a later date."
"Reparations?" Duke Pierre burst into laughter. "HUAHAHAHAHA! Ohhh—are you blind? Can't you see how utterly defeated you are? My army covers the horizon, ready to crush you, and not a single Demon Duke stands before me! Hahahaha!"
Hannya watched him without expression, patiently allowing the laughter to run its course.
"Ooohh… heh heh," Pierre finally said, wiping his eyes. "I was prepared for the worst, but the Goddess's blessing truly shines upon us today."
He unfurled a parchment with a flourish.
"Regardless, I stand here as a noble of my kingdom. Here are our demands—if you wish me to halt the invasion."
Hannya scanned the parchment.
"Two hundred thousand gold… eighty thousand skilled labor slaves… fifty thousand female slaves… and full submission to Vandoria as a vassal state…"
"Yes, yes," Pierre said smugly. "I see your attempt to present the Demon Kingdom as civilized, and I acknowledge it. But I also see that your kind has grown weaker than you were millennia ago!"
He jabbed a finger toward her.
"The world will soon learn of your weakness. Still, Vandoria is generous. We will civilize you—by taking you as our vassal and shielding you from other kingdoms that might prefer to erase you entirely."
"Unfortunately," Hannya said flatly, "slavery and vassalage go against our beliefs in democracy and freedom."
Pierre scoffed.
"I grow bored of watching witless beasts pretend they understand politics."
He snapped, voice booming across the DMZ.
"SUBMIT, OR MY ARMY WILL SWEEP YOUR BORDER! AND MARK MY WORDS—WE WILL BE MORE TERRIFYING THAN ANY DEMON COULD EVER DREAM OF BEING!"
He paused, turning red.
"AND WILL YOU STOP POINTING THAT DAMN THING AT ME!?"
He pointed at the cameraman—and Belphy—who had been filming the entire exchange.
"Oh—ah, please don't mind us," Belphy said, performing a theatrical chef's kiss. "Your character work is magnificent. Stay in it."
Pierre sputtered.
"...Whatever!" he barked. "I GIVE YOU UNTIL THE END OF THE DAY TO SUBMIT!"
"…And cut! That's a wrap," Belphy said, exhaling.
The camera crew and Rangers broke into applause. A few even cheered.
Duke Pierre and his knights stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
"For the international version, please submit the footage to our office before the weekend," Hannya reminded Belphy as she turned away.
"Tch. Your office and its deadlines," Belphy muttered, packing up his equipment.
They walked away together, continuing their conversation, completely ignoring the duke.
"W—WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?" Pierre roared. "ARE YOU IGNORING ME!? AND WHY DID YOU THROW THAT ON THE GROUND LIKE TRASH!?"
He pointed furiously at the discarded parchment.
"Ah, that?" Hannya said without stopping. "Like you said—it's trash. Why would I waste my time, or my boss's time, on something with no value?"
She paused, glancing back over her shoulder.
"You want to know why it has no value? Because by the end of today, the ones presenting it will be nothing but lumps of meat."
She sighed, then added calmly:
"Here's something unclassified. Yes, our demonic capabilities have weakened—but by choice. With our current technology, every soldier we field is ten times deadlier than ever before."
She gave him a polite bow, a faint smirk forming.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I hope you have a nice day."
She turned and walked away.
"H—HOW DARE YOU!?" Duke Pierre screamed. "I DECLARED WAR ON THE DEMON KINGDOM! WAR! I WILL RAZE EVERY INCH OF YOUR LAND!"
His threats echoed across the DMZ as the demon contingent departed—without a single demon glance back.