Stan is still stuck on the enemy spell
"It is not merely an ordinary holy constraining spell—" a voice declared, "—O Demon God of War."
Archbishop Antonio stepped forward, posture immaculate, as if he were walking onto a stage instead of a battlefield.
"It is the latest restraining spell developed by the Celes Church Magical Research Division," he proclaimed. "Designed specifically for powerful demons such as yourself, O Demon God of War."
Stan tested the hold again.
Still nothing.
"Huh," he admitted. "I see you humans have done your research."
"Of course," Antonio said, chest puffing with pride. "Our civilization has reached the pinnacle of magical development. Even normal individuals can now wield advanced spellwork—though I did not expect demons to rely on… technology."
Behind him, a priest suddenly convulsed.
Blood sprayed from every orifice before he collapsed, twitching.
Then another priest dropped.
Then another.
"Uh… excuse me," Stan said casually, nodding past Antonio. "I think your normal individuals are dying back there."
Antonio didn't turn. "…Progress cannot be attained without sacrifices."
Stan sighed, released the now-useless autocannon, and let it crash to the ground. He raised both hands lazily.
"I guess you got me now."
Antonio's smile stretched wider.
"Prepare for your doom, O Satan, Demon of Wrath."
Before he could continue, Stan crossed his raised hands into an X.
"Before you take the kill," Stan said calmly, "tell me the name of the human who managed to defeat me."
"HAHAHAHAHA! Very well!" Antonio roared. "I am honored that you care! I am the future leader of the Church! The one who will exorcise Satan! Archbishop An—"
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
Multiple explosions tore through the priest formations with surgical precision. Chanting collapsed into screams. The magic circle beneath Stan flickered violently, its glow weakening.
"Well," Stan remarked mildly, "that was fast."
"W-WHAT!? WHO ATTACKED US?!" Antonio screamed.
Stan tilted his head upward and pointed a finger at the sky.
"Oh," he said pleasantly, "that's my sweet guardian angel."
---
Murica AC-130 Spectre, callsign "Angel"
Two thousand meters above the battlefield, an AC-130 gunship banked into a slow, deliberate circle. Its three guns remained fixed downward, calmly tracking the chaos below.
Inside the aircraft, the gun crew worked with methodical focus.
"GUNS LOADED!"
"40mm BOFORS ready!"
The gunner adjusted his aim through the monitor, settling the crosshairs over a clustered formation of chanting priests.
"FIRING 40."
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
Explosions tore through the remaining priest formations. Magic circles shattered mid-chant. Bodies flew. Holy light collapsed into nothing.
The restraining spell beneath Stan flickered—then died instantly.
Antonio stared around him, eyes wide, disbelief written across his face.
"Well," Stan said casually, rolling his shoulders, "that's that then. I'm guessing you don't have any fancy tricks up your sleeve anymore."
He grabbed the edge of his fallen autocannon and hoisted it up like a club.
"So," Stan added, "I'm going old school now."
"FIRE THE CANNONS!" Archbishop Antonio shrieked.
A few cannons managed to fire—
Only to be shredded mid-action by precise explosive fire from above.
Stan crouched.
Then leapt.
THUUUMPP
He came down four stories away like a falling meteor, smashing through a cannon crew in a spray of metal and bodies. He swung the GAU-8 like a blunt instrument, sending holy knights flying through the air like bowling pins.
Then—
He turned.
Antonio froze as the towering demon god advanced toward him, each step deliberate.
"No… no…" the archbishop stammered, trembling. "I'm the future pope… the church needs me… I am Archbishop Anto—"
CRUNCH
Stan bit down.
Like a tyrannosaur catching prey, his jaws closed around Antonio. The top half of the archbishop vanished instantly.
"Oh," Stan said, chewing thoughtfully. "This tastes divine."
---
Vandoria Army, Right Flank
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
More Avian Warriors were torn apart mid-air.
From three thousand, only a few hundred remained—wings shredded, formations broken, will completely gone. At last, they turned and fled the battlefield.
"OOOOHH FINALLY—huuufft," the gunner gasped, slumping back into his seat.
After firing at thousands of targets nonstop, he could finally breathe.
"Bison Leader to all Nobles," came the call over comms. "Thanks for the cover. Form up."
The entire column pivoted left in unison and rolled to a halt, locking into a clean file formation. With no Avian Warriors left to harass them, twelve Abrams tanks and four Vulcans now stood before their primary objective.
The Vandoria Cavalry Division.
Two thousand centaurs.
Three thousand horsemen.
Fully armored.
All waiting to smash through demon infantry—
Only there was no demon infantry.
Instead, sixteen massive shapes stared back at them in silence.
Sixteen "demon elephants," some with long noses, some with short, all made of metal.
"They're fast and deadly," one cavalry officer muttered. "Do you think we can do better than the Avian Warriors, sir?"
The commander adjusted his full-face helmet.
"…We have to," he replied. "If we don't stop the demons here, they'll invade the Solis continent next."
A pause.
"Where our families live."
He raised his arm.
"Lancers take point! We charge the demon elephants!"
The knight cavalry shifted into assault formation. Before the charge, every rider bowed their heads, whispering prayers to the goddess.
On the Murican side, tank crews cracked open water bottles and passed around chocolate bars.
The battlefield fell completely still.
"Alright," the tank commander said over comms, "break time's over. Get ready, boys."
Both sides locked eyes in a silent staring contest.
Then—
The Vandorians made the first move.
VOOOOOOOOOOMMM
The horn blast ripped through the silence.
"ATTAAAAAACK!!"
Centaurs and horsemen surged forward, hooves pounding the earth as thousands charged as one, their war cries blending into a single roar.
"Bison Leader to all units!" the command snapped. "REVERSE NOW!"
Sixteen armored beasts rolled backward in perfect coordination, guns still trained forward.
"FIRE AT WILL!"
Spiiinn—
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTT
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
BOOOM
RATATATATATATATATATATATATA
Every cannon and machine gun the tanks carried unleashed its full load into the mass of cavalry ahead. Gun stabilizers hummed as turrets tracked targets with unnatural smoothness. With this many bodies packed together, missing was almost impossible.
"THEY—THEY CAN RUN BACKWARDS?!" a knight shrieked.
Shells erased entire squads in single impacts.
20mm Vulcan fire chewed through flesh, armor, and bone alike.
Blood and dust erupted with every strike.
Hundreds were shredded and pulverized every second.
At forty kilometers per hour in reverse, it was going to be a very long run before the Vandorian cavalry could even get close.
"Oh goddess," the cavalry commander whispered, "please don't let my soul be sent to hell…"
A 120mm shell answered his prayer.
BOOOOM
---
Vandoria Army, Center
The valley leading to the Great Demon Gate stretched seven kilometers wide. Jagged, spiked mountains rose on both sides like monstrous fangs, sending shivers through the thousands of Vandorian soldiers marching toward the gate.
"HURRY UP!" Duke Pierre shouted, safely positioned toward the rear. "KEEP RUNNING BEFORE MORE DEMONS COME!"
"Sir," an officer reported, "Satan and the demon elephants are still engaged. None of them are pursuing us."
"Good!" Pierre snapped. "We continue south and seize the gate! If we can block Satan and the demon elephants from using it, we buy enough time to raid eastward and rendezvous with the fleet!"
He knew it was a trap.
But the valley felt safer than the open field.
More protection from demon fliers.
More protection from demon artillery.
The only risk—
If another group of demon elephants waiting ahead.
But Pierre wanted something. Desperately.
"Please, goddess," he muttered, "let me find a demon village… anything. If I can seize a few hundred slaves, I can still salvage my reputation."
His prayer came easily now, thoughts drifting closer to a raider's greed than a noble's duty.
"I CAN SEE THE GATE!!" someone shouted from the front.
"RRAAAAAAHHH!!"
The entire force roared.
Humiliation burned in their chests after the terror they had endured earlier. They wanted revenge. They needed it.
The Demon Gate loomed ahead.
And they charged toward it.
---
3,000 Meters Above
A C-130 Hercules cut cleanly through the pristine blue sky. Sunlight glinted along its wings as slow, lazy clouds drifted past the windows, unbothered by geopolitics or impending war crimes.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot each held a steaming cup of tea freshly brewed by the crew.
"Thanks," the pilot muttered, eyes half-closed as she inhaled. "Damn… that smells good."
"Man," the co-pilot sighed after a sip, staring out the windshield, "I still can't believe the sky can look this damn beautiful."
"I know, right?" the pilot replied. "No wonder our ancestors were obsessed with human territory. If I had to stare at the same eternal thunderclouds every day, I'd have blown my brains out too."
"Yeah," a crewman behind them chimed in, leaning forward with his own cup. "That bitch goddess locking us under a permanent storm blanket for centuries? Absolute mental health catastrophe. Now I don't even argue with my shrink when she tells me to 'go outside and enjoy the sky.'"
"Before this," the co-pilot added thoughtfully, "my coping mechanisms were basically 'bar' or 'brothel' every damn weekend."
"Or," a voice crackled through the intercom, "you could try finding hobbies that don't bankrupt you."
All three demons glanced toward the cargo bay.
Back there, half a dozen crewmen were hunched over a massive sheet of metal, paintbrushes moving in frantic but practiced rhythm.
The co-pilot raised an eyebrow. "…Not all of us are 'artsy' like you guys."
"Are you done back there?" the pilot called out.
"Almost—almost—aaaand done!"
The co-pilot and the crewman unbuckled and headed into the cargo bay.
On the metal sheet lay their finished work.
A sexy demon girl, mid-wink, blowing a kiss while sitting atop a cartoonish bomb.
Below her, in bold letters:
WELCOME TO MURICA
The crewman let out a low whistle. "Damn. You guys really outdid yourselves."
"You think they'll like the present?" one of the painters asked, tilting his head.
"Oh, they'll love it," the co-pilot grinned. "This is something to die for."
The pilot's voice crackled through the comm.
"All hands, to stations. We're almost on target."
The painters stepped back, admiring their handiwork one last time, before securing it proudly onto the GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast.
A.k.a Mother of All Bombs.
The co-pilot returned to the cockpit. The rest of the crew strapped in at their stations. Above them, the sky remained peaceful—criminally so—while far below, something unfortunate was about to happen.
"Overlord, this is Soccer Van," the Combat Systems Officer reported. "Approaching target."
"Copy, Soccer Van," Overlord replied. "Proceed. Green light. I repeat: green light."
The cargo bay doors slowly yawned open. Wind screamed into the aircraft.
"We have visual," the CSO said calmly. "Releasing in five… four… three… two… one… release."
"Bombs away!" the gunners shouted.
"Overlord, Mother is on the way. Soccer Van is RTB."
Far below, death began whistling toward the ground.