"Ugly squadron," the leader said calmly, "rip 'em apart with chain guns. Keep your distance."
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The Apaches opened fire, chain guns roaring as they flew backward, maintaining space while chewing into the swarm.
Feathers and blood filled the sky. Avians fell by the dozens—yet the mass kept coming. These were sky-warriors bred for madness, trained to overwhelm wyverns through sheer numbers. Wings beat harder as they surged forward, trying to envelop the helicopters.
CLANK CLANK CLANK
Arrows pinged uselessly off the Apache armor.
"EY! STOP SCRATCHING MY PAINT JOB!" a pilot shouted.
Two Apaches drifted dangerously close.
"Ugly 4! Ugly 7!" the leader barked. "Pull back! You get tangled in the rotors and you're done!"
The two helicopters veered away immediately.
"Ugly 5 to Ugly leader—I'm running low on ammo! These bastards are everywhere!"
"Ugly 2, assist Ugly 5!"
"Negative, Ugly leader," the reply came. "I'm dry too…"
The squadron leader glanced at his own readouts.
Red.
They were nearly overwhelmed—
Then suddenly—
BRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
Dozens of avian warriors around Ugly 5 disintegrated mid-air, shredded by streams of fire rising from below.
"This is Bison 1-1 to Ugly leader," a gravelly voice came over the comms. "You guys having enough fun?"
Below, twelve Abrams tanks and four M163 VADS rolled into view, barrels glowing hot as they advanced like steel gods across the battlefield.
"Heheh," Ugly leader grinned. "Ugly leader to Bison 1-1. You guys are late."
"Heheh," the reply came. "Go home, Ugly leader. Let the big boys handle it from here."
"Yeah, yeah. We're RTB."
The Apaches peeled away as the fresh Murican armor column surged forward.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
Meanwhile, in the skies over the right flank, a lone Chinook drifted in, rotors beating slow and heavy.
On the open ramp stood Stan, cigar clenched between his teeth, coat snapping in the wind as he looked out over the burning valley.
"Hello, boys," he called—to no one and everyone.
"Daddy's home."
---
FOB Doors, Base Hospital
Ivy lay on the softest bed she had ever touched.
She stared at the ceiling, still unsure whether the last day of her life had been real or some kind of twisted joke. Yesterday, she had been running for her life in the DMZ. Now she was in a clean, brightly lit room, while a goblin doctor poked and prodded her with unfamiliar medical equipment made of metal, glass, and plastic.
The goblin pressed a cold metal disk against her chest, then lifted a small device and shined a thin beam of light into her eyes. It didn't hurt. It was just uncomfortable.
"Surprisingly, she's not in any state of shock," the goblin said, glancing at a screen beside him. "Pretty weird, considering I heard humans break easily."
Ivy recognized the demon woman standing next to him. She had seen her many times walking through the DMZ. One of the demon officials.
"So," the goblin continued, "what's the Foreign Office going to do with her, Miss Hannya?"
"Hm. Don't know," Hannya replied calmly. "Mr. Belphegor said he doesn't need her anymore. Maybe I'll send her to Ravendawn or somewhere."
The word cut into Ivy's chest.
Ravendawn.
Her thoughts spiraled as memories forced their way back, memories she had spent years trying to bury.
---
Her mother had once been the bright daughter of a respected merchant in the city of Dawn.
That life ended when Duke Pierre arrived.
Under the banner of forced "economic reform," Ravendawn merchants replaced local ones. Vandorian businesses took over the city. Assets were seized. Families were destroyed.
Her mother's family was killed.
She survived only because the Vandorian merchant who ruined her family decided to keep her as a personal slave.
Four years later, Ivy was born from him.
She grew up in a house that despised her existence. Still, her mother taught her everything she knew—how to read, how to trade, and most importantly, how to read people. How to say what they wanted to hear. Some days, that was the only thing that kept them from being beaten.
When Ivy turned fifteen, the Vandorian merchant started calling her to his room at night.
Eventually, his sons did the same.
Even knowing she was blood.
Her mother finally tried to save her. She begged an old merchant friend for help.
He betrayed them.
He dragged Ivy into the DMZ to sell her to demons. When the demons refused to buy slaves, he turned her into a prostitute instead, determined to recover his "investment."
Last night, he died with Ivy's blade in his throat.
---
"M-Miss… please," Ivy whispered. "Don't send me back. There are bad people looking for me. I… I was—"
"What makes you think I want to hear your story?" Hannya cut in, her voice cold and sharp.
Ivy flinched.
Humans usually softened when she played the helpless girl. Demons didn't. They had no reason to care.
She swallowed.
Then she chose a different approach.
"…You can't send me back," Ivy said quietly. "Because you need me."
"Oh?" Hannya raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"You need an example."
"Do elaborate."
"You demons are trying to change your reputation. That's why you let humans live in the DMZ. But it isn't enough. So you need a fairy tale." Ivy took a breath. "A damsel in distress. And a knight in shining armor."
She lifted her chin toward the security camera on the ceiling.
"That box with the round glass—same as the ones in the village. It was always pointed at me during the raid. And when I got here, the demons you call 'reporters' pointed another one at me."
Hannya's expression didn't change.
"They record things," Ivy continued. "And combined with the strange 'miracles' that saved me last night… there's only one conclusion."
She met Hannya's eyes.
"You wanted me to be the only survivor."
Hannya smirked.
"Mr. Belphegor does have an eye for talent," she said. "Yes. You figured it out. But we already have the footage we needed. The damsel is saved. The knight is heroic." She turned away. "So it's time for the damsel to go home."
Hannya casually step towards the exit.
"…But what if the damsel talks?" Ivy said.
Hannya stopped.
Slowly, she looked back over her shoulder.
"Are you threatening us?" she asked, her voice turning icy.
"Not against you," Ivy said softly. "For you. When villains say they aren't villains, everyone assumes it's a lie. But what if those words come from the damsel instead?"
"A human," Hannya said, "speaking on behalf of demons?"
"And you already know," Ivy said, confidence returning to her eyes, "that the damsel has a way with words."
Hannya studied her in silence.
"…An interesting proposal," she said at last. "I'll think about it."
Then she left the room.
---
Vandoria Army, Heavy Magic Division
The fighting continued.
Dozens of magic ballista were still standing after the Apache assault. As the helicopters pulled back, the remaining ballistas shifted their aim, abandoning the skies and locking onto new targets.
Murican ground forces.
"Avian Warriors! Don't chase the hell-dragonflies!" Archmage Durac shouted. "Swarm the demon elephants! Magic Ballista—target those elephants!"
Mages rushed into position, rapidly imbuing bolts with explosive enchantments. Ballista crews adjusted elevation and range. Shooters aligned their sights on the advancing M1 Abrams.
"Fire while they're still in range!" Durac roared. "NOW!"
WHIIIIZZZ—
BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM!
Explosions erupted around the advancing tanks, flames and debris washing over their formation.
---
Murica, M1 Abrams "Bison" Company
Inside the lead Abrams, everything shook violently.
On the dashboard, a bird-skull bobblehead bounced and rattled as if possessed.
"OH WHAT A DAY! WHAT A LOVELY DAY!" the driver, Morsov, shouted with glee.
"Cut the chatter, Morsov," the tank commander snapped.
He opened the comms.
"This is Bison One-One to all Bison Company," he said calmly. "Let's show them what real firepower looks like."
Across the battlefield, every tank in Bison Company rotated its turret seventy-five degrees to the left—without slowing—continuing forward at full speed straight through the bombardment.
---
Vandoria Army, Heavy Magic Division
"They can… turn their head…" an artillery mage whispered.
Every Murican turret was now aimed directly at them.
BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM!
The tanks fired in perfect unison.
Shells tore across the battlefield in straight, merciless lines. Magic ballista shattered like toys. Crews disappeared in bursts of fire and shrapnel.
"RETURN FIRE! RETURN FIRE!" Durac screamed.
Another wave of enchanted bolts streaked into the sky.
WHIIIZZ—
BOOM! BOOOM! BOOM!
The impacts shook the ground.
The tanks kept advancing.
"WHY ARE THEY NOT FALLING?!" a mage cried.
More bolts struck the armor. Again. And again.
Useless.
Their 250-millimeter side armor absorbed everything without slowing.
Durac felt a cold realization settle into his chest as he watched bolt after bolt bounce harmlessly away.
Volley followed volley.
Only one side was dying.
They were outgunned.
Outranged.
Outclassed.
"CURSES!!" Durac roared, his face twisted with rage and fear.
---
"Eight enemy artillery remain," the tank commander said calmly. "Bison Company, finish the first objective."
He then leaned toward the gunner and pointed at the display.
"You see the angry human with the big pointy hat near the ballista? Nine o'clock."
"Identified," the gunner replied.
"Shoot him."
"On the way!"
BOOOM.
The explosion swallowed Archmage Durac's position completely.
"Direct hit," the gunner confirmed.
"All tanks—first objective completed," the commander said. "Continue west for the second objective. Eliminate the left flank."
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
Stan watched from above as the Murican tanks pushed westward, Avian warriors swarming after them in pursuit.
"Hoho," he chuckled. "Looks like our boys have finished their first objective."
An arrow whistled upward, flying straight toward his head.
Without even turning, Stan reached out and caught it.
"Oh?"
"Sir! For the third time—PLEASE GET OFF THE CHOPPER!" the pilot begged. Several arrows were already embedded in the helicopter's hull.
"Alright, alright," Stan waved dismissively. "Kids these days. Release the cargo."
A button clicked.
A massive crate detached from the transport's underside and dropped, free-falling until a parachute snapped open. The crate slowed, drifting away toward the battlefield below.
"Right, I'm off," Stan said casually. "Bring my whiskey when you pick me up."
He stepped off the ramp.
And fell.
"War Daddy is entering the playground," the pilot reported as he turned the Chinook away. "Repeat, War Daddy entering the playground."
---
Stan's body twisted midair as he descended.
Veins bulged black beneath his skin. Cracks spread across his flesh like molten spiderwebs as demonic light leaked out from within.
THUMP.
He hit the ground, throwing up a towering column of dust. The impact carved out a deep crater.
Soldiers stared in horror as a massive silhouette rose from the dust.
Something enormous moved inside.
Bull-like legs stepped forward first.
A humanoid torso wider than a carriage followed.
A goat-like head crowned with two colossal horns emerged last.
Blood-red skin.
Muscles like boulders.
Two stories tall.
"RRROOOOOOAAAAAAARR!"
The formation broke.
Murmurs of fear rippled through the soldiers.
"I-I've seen that… in the picture book…"
"S-Satan…!"
"It's real… the demon god of war…"
"Oh goddess, save us…"