Vandoria Army, Center
"Nightmare… this is a nightmare…" Duke Pierre trembled as he stared at the devastation spreading across his army formations beyond him. "Our heavy magic… gone…"
Then a roar thundered from afar.
"W-what… what was that?!" Pierre cried.
"SATAN! SATAN IS HERE!" an Avian lookout screamed.
Panic rippled through the center ranks, fear spreading faster than orders ever could.
"N-Not Leviathan… Satan himself?! Is this the end?!"
Pierre's legs nearly gave out as terror crushed his thoughts, his mind spiraling—
"GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, DUKE!"
Archbishop Antonio rode up sharply, eyes blazing as he glared down at him.
"Yes, we lost the heavy division," Antonio snarled. "But that is the Demon God of War—the ancient enemy of humanity! It is our holy duty to destroy it!"
He wheeled his horse around.
"My holy knights and I will march to the right flank," the archbishop declared. "And you—you will do your duty as a general! Retreat now, and even the church will refuse to protect you and your family from Vandorian persecution. I've warned you!"
With that, Antonio spurred his mount forward. Holy knights closed ranks around him as they galloped away.
Pierre stared after them.
CURSES. He knows!
Then Pierre noticed the Murican tanks moving westward. He misunderstood the movement entirely.
"They're leaving the valley…" he whispered to himself. "They're giving us an opening…"
Fear twisted into desperation.
"Sir?" an officer asked nervously. "Shall we assist the archbishop? Or continue toward the gate?"
"The gate!" Pierre snapped.
"We proceed with Plan B. Push through the Demon Gate and head east to rendezvous with our navy." His thoughts jumped to Admiral Lorenzo. "If we're lucky… we might find some demon villages along the way and capture demon slaves."
He clenched his fists.
"Relay my command—WE MARCH FOR THE VALLEY!"
If I pass through the gate and round up some demon slaves…
It won't be a complete loss…
I can still make excuses…
Pierre's mind screamed as the army began to move.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
"Knock! Draw! Loose!" the archers' captain shouted.
Hundreds of arrows leapt into the air at once, darkening the sky as they arced downward—
and rained directly onto Stan.
He raised one arm to shield his head.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
The arrows bounced off his skin harmlessly, clattering to the ground like discarded twigs.
"Ugh—hold on, hold on," Stan grumbled. "Not ready yet."
Another wave of arrows struck him.
Tink. Clack. Snap.
He sighed, clearly annoyed rather than threatened.
Stan turned and reached the massive crate that had landed nearby. He gripped the edge and ripped it open with a sharp yank.
He smiled dearly.
"Oh," he said fondly. "I missed you."
Inside rested a customized GAU-8 Avenger, grotesquely scaled to match his true form. The barrel gleamed under the battlefield light. Massive ammo drums lay coiled beside it like obedient beasts.
Stan hoisted the drums onto his back and lifted the autocannon with practiced ease, resting it comfortably with his two giant hands.
"Now I'm ready."
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT
The autocannon drowned out the battlefield.
Hundreds of high-explosive incendiary rounds tore through the right flank in a screaming torrent of fire and metal. Shields shattered. Armor vaporized. Magic collapsed mid-cast. Nothing lasted more than a heartbeat.
BRRRRRRRRTTT
Stan threw his head back, laughing.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"WELCOME TO THE BATTLEFIELD, HUMANS!"
"WELCOME TO MY HOME!"
---
FOB Doors, Command Center
Inside the command center, officers rushed between consoles, voices overlapping in tightly controlled chaos. Radio chatter stacked over radio chatter. Digital maps flickered with shifting symbols. The spy plane's live-feed screens painted the entire battlefield in ghostly green and white.
An officer stiffened at his station.
"Sir. Enemy center formation is advancing toward the Gate. They're entering the valley now."
General Hanz leaned forward slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the console. A faint smirk tugged at his lips—not amusement, but recognition.
"The enemy commander," he said calmly, "was given every opportunity to retreat and save his men."
His eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on the live feed.
"And yet, he chose to walk straight into the most obvious trap imaginable."
A brief pause.
"I pity the souls who serve under him."
Another pause, colder.
"But I am also deeply grateful for the greatest gift an enemy can offer."
He straightened.
"Stupidity."
The room went silent.
"Tell Mother," Hanz said evenly, "to come out and play."
"Yes, sir."
---
Murica "Bison" Tank Company
The armored column thundered westward at sixty-five kilometers per hour, steel hulls grinding over dirt and stone, engines roaring loud enough to drown out prayer.
Vandorian soldiers along the flanks could only stare as the metal beasts tore past them.
The ground wasn't the problem.
The sky was.
Avian Warriors descended in relentless waves, wings cutting through the air as they dove toward the tanks.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTT
Four M163 Vulcans roared to life, streams of hot metal carving violent lines through the sky.
"I swear I've killed hundreds of them!" the Vulcan gunner shouted, sweat pouring down his face. "They just keep coming!"
"Because there are thousands of them, you idiot!" the driver snapped. "Do your fucking math!"
"Less chatter, more bullets!" the commander barked, then grabbed the comm. "Bison Leader, this is Noble Leader. These swarmers are getting smart—they're skimming low, using your column as cover. We can't fire without hitting you."
"Copy, Noble Leader," came the reply, calm to the point of being insulting.
Ahead of the column, Avian Warriors dipped even lower, feathers brushing the dirt as they used the Abrams tanks as moving shields.
Eight of them latched onto a tank mid-motion.
Steel rang as swords, spears, and claws hammered against armor plating.
"Bison 2-3 to Bison 2-2! You've got swarmers on top of you!"
"YEAH, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK!" came the frantic reply. "THEY'RE POUNDING SO LOUD IN HE—AAAAGHHH! FUCK! THEY BROKE MY MACHINE GUN!"
The commander's scream cut across the channel as an Avian warrior smashed the top-mounted gun clean off.
"BISON 2-3, SPRAY YOUR COAX ON ME!"
"Are you sure, Bison 2-2? It's gonna—"
"JUST FUCKING DO IT!"
"…Whatever! Fine! And for the record, I am not splitting the bill!"
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The 7.62mm coaxial machine gun raked the tank ahead, shredding Avian bodies mid-screech. Feathers, blood, and armor fragments burst apart, coating the Abrams in red streaks.
What was left of the attackers slid off in wet, broken chunks as the tank kept moving.
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTT
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT'S THE SPIRIT! KEEP COMING AT ME!"
Stan laughed like a lunatic god as his custom GAU-8 Avenger carved glowing lines through the Vandorian ranks. Soldiers vanished by the dozens. Arrows slammed into his hide and bounced off harmlessly, clattering to the ground in useless showers.
The regular army wasn't a problem for him.
Occasionally, though, the adventurer parties mixed into Vandoria's ranks could be… annoying.
"Protect me while I chant!" shouted Karen, an A-rank adventurer mage.
"On it! Do your thing, Karen!"
Her party snapped into formation instantly—shield bearer front and center, thief peeling off to flank, healer anchoring the rear, damage dealer glued to her side. Textbook. Clean. Professional.
This was their moment.
Defeating the Demon God of War would skyrocket their reputation.
Karen's chant rose, syllables sharp and ritualistic, twisting into something heavy and oppressive. A glowing magic circle bloomed beneath her feet. Flames sparked above her hands—small at first—then merged, spiraled, and expanded, swelling into a massive, blinding, overdecorated fireball.
It was flashy. Loud.
Which made it impossible to miss.
Stan casually corrected his aim and sent a burst of 30mm high-explosive incendiary rounds straight through the performance.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
The party ceased to exist.
No scream. No explosion.
Just vapor and drifting red mist.
Stan exhaled.
"Seriously," he sighed, "what part of active battlefield makes people think I'll wait for them to finish the light show?"
Then—
He froze.
A sharp warning crawled up his spine.
Stan lunged sideways.
Something screamed past where his head had been a moment earlier and detonated behind him.
BOOOOM
Electrical arcs crackled violently inside the fresh crater.
"Oh?" Stan blinked. "A fancy bomb."
He turned.
The Holy Knights of the Celes Church had formed a wide semicircle around him. Each position was braced behind a massive white cannon carved with glowing runes—holy artillery styled like early 19th-century 68-pounders. Priests moved among them, chanting in unison, forcing compressed holy energy into the ammunition.
Stan's grin widened.
"Wow," he said, genuinely impressed. "Not only artillery mages, now they also have artillery priests?"
He rolled his shoulders, delighted.
"These humans are way more fun than they were a millennium ago."
BOOOOM
Another cannon fired—its holy shell detonating with at least five times the destructive force of any Earth-made counterpart. The blast forced Stan to leap backward, hooves gouging trenches into the dirt.
He returned fire.
BRRRRRRRTTT
The cannon disintegrated in a spray of splintered wood, shattered runes, and flying bodies.
But the line didn't break.
More cannons were already being re-aimed.
More priests were already chanting.
Holy shells screamed toward him—
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
Stan sprinted to his right, explosions snapping at his heels, forcing him into constant motion without a single opening to counterattack.
"NOW!" someone shouted.
HUUUUMMM
A massive magic circle erupted beneath Stan's feet.
He skidded to a halt.
Both legs locked in place.
"A holy constraining spell?" he muttered, looking down. "Strange. These usually can't hold me."
He tried lifting his leg.
Nothing. Not an inch.
He swung the autocannon toward the chanting priests.
SPIIIINNN—
Nothing.
Not a single round fired. It's dry.
Stan exhaled slowly. "What a terrible timing…"