The Black House
A green orc hunched over his computer, reading glasses perched precariously on his wide nose.
On the screen was the blueprint of an MQ-9 Reaper drone.
Half-finished.
One problem with his unique skill was that there was no download feature. None. Zero. If he wanted something from Earth's internet, he had to redraw it manually—line by line, component by component.
Down to the smallest screw.
The bigger problem was that he absolutely sucked at drawing.
Before computers had been invented, his most infamous failure had been an oil refinery that exploded three months after completion due to what the report politely called a "faulty design." Hundreds of demon workers died.
The surrounding city, however, had declared it a beautiful fireworks event and turned the explosion into an annual celebration.
Solo squinted at the screen, trying to get the wing proportions right.
Then suddenly Lilith and Mo burst into the office.
"Solo, we have a problem," Lilith said flatly.
"What is it?" Solo folded his glasses and set them aside.
"I just got an angry call from Belphy," she continued. "He says he needs another month to finish production due to—quote unquote—'fucking wrong wardrobes.'"
Mo sighed. "Apparently the Vandorian references we gave him before are a couple hundred years outdated."
"And?" Solo said. "We just need to wait, right?"
"Unfortunately," Mo said, handing him several aerial photographs, "we don't have time for that, sir."
Solo looked down at the images.
"Our spy plane caught Vandorian fleets being amassed at the port of Dawn," Mo continued. "Meanwhile, Ravendawn Castle shows heavy movement. Every day, a battalion marches in. We predict more will follow."
Lilith crossed her arms.
"We can't wait for Belphy anymore."
Solo leaned back.
"Damn… but what about our PR?"
Murica had recently managed to make contact with other kingdoms. The problem with being a Demon Kingdom was meant everyone already assumed you were the bloodthirsty villain. Murican diplomats barely got their foot in the door before it slammed shut.
That was why Levi and Mo had pushed the idea of using the upcoming conflict with the Vandorians as public relations material.
If the world could see demons as the victims, opinions might soften.
Hence, Belphy had been commissioned to make a promotional video about it.
Lilith tapped the table thoughtfully.
"Maybe… instead of making fiction," she said, "we just record a real one?"
Solo blinked.
"I mean," she added, "Belphy's storyline isn't exactly far off from reality."
"You're suggesting a false flag operation," Solo said slowly.
"Well…" He scratched his chin. "It's kind of hard to make demons look like victims without… actual demon victims."
He waved vaguely.
"I can't just let our soldiers or diplomats get killed and take pictures of it. They're expensive."
Mo shrugged.
"Hmm. What about demons that nobody will miss?"
Solo looked up.
"Who?"
Mo hesitated for just a moment.
"Maybe… the Jehovah's Accusess?"
"..."
Even demon nations had annoying religious cults scattered everywhere, preaching the teachings of some random demon god. Most of them weren't dangerous.
Just loud.
Persistent.
And extremely good at knocking on doors.
"Yeah," Solo said instantly. "That works."
"Yep," Lilith nodded. "Totally. No one will miss those door knockers."
Later that night, Belphy reportedly reverted to his true demon form and went on a rampage across the film set after being informed that the production had to be redone—changing it from a war drama into documentary.
---
Ravendawn Kingdom, Raven Castle
Duke Pierre and Archbishop Antonio stood on the balcony, watching fresh troops pour into Raven Castle. Most were mercenaries—men who carried unrest like a profession.
Ravendawn citizens and even the castle's own soldiers suffered under them, but numbers drowned every protest before it could grow teeth.
"…Are you sure this will be the last one?"
Duke Pierre turned back to answer King Luxtor's question, patience wearing thin.
"How many times do I have to repeat myself? Yes. The king promised to give your sovereignty back after this. Vandoria won't need this backwoods territory anymore once the war ends."
King Luxtor exhaled, the weight on his shoulders only shifting, not lifting.
"…Thank you, Duke Pierre."
He gave a stiff nod, then turned and walked away. The Duke smirked, quiet but sharp.
"Are you truly prepared to let go of this castle?" Antonio asked, arms folded inside his ceremonial robes.
"Let go? No," Pierre replied. "This place is perfect for rounding up the slaves before they're shipped to Vandoria."
Antonio frowned. "And you believe the owner will agree to such use?"
"Which owner?" Pierre chuckled softly. "None of them will be alive after this war to argue otherwise."
His eyes returned to the courtyard below, where the line of mercenaries seemed endless—marching in like iron-gray ants through the castle gate.
He smiled as they passed, already imagining a wealthy future built for him.
---
DMZ
The DMZ had slowly turned into a village.
Yurt-shaped tents formed loose rings around the conference building, spreading outward like a stubborn organism that refused to die just because it was planted in the middle of a wasteland. And no, no humans and beastmen mingled freely. No children ran along the road and playing without a care in the world.
No parent in their right mind would bring their children to live next to the literal gate of hell.
The DMZ had become a safe haven for people with nowhere else to go: fugitives, runaway convicts, slavers, and prostitutes. Order existed, but only because chaos had already been priced in.
Sure, there are still children at the DMZ, but they are slaves brought by the merchants.
At first, the merchants are eager to sell the child slaves at inflated price compared to the adult version, believing that demons love to eat childrens. The demons found this insulting. Why pay more for something less?
Unfortunately, by the time the merchants lower their price, the demons have had enough time to observe their level of hygiene, which they found questionable.
Thus, all the demons politely refuse, fearing it will upset their stomach.
"Nope… nope… nope… nope… nope… nope… nope… nope…"
Sitting at a sideroad bench, Belphy and Hannya patiently watch the passersby. Every time someone passes by, Belphy makes a comment.
Hannya stared blankly. "Sir, Is this how you do it every time?"
"No, I got a fucking casting director for this shit. I'm doing this myself because of your office's ridiculous deadline. Are you sure Luke's not working there?"
"No sir, His Highness is not a member of personnel at our department. Please blame this on the Vandorians who are marching here."
"Tch, someone needs to tell those savages that you can't rush art."
"But aren't you being told to do a documentary? I'm not from the movie industry, but I sure know there's nothing natural about those."
Hannya pointed to a group of Jehovah's Accusess taking off from a bus, all wearing white shirts with short sleeves, backpacks, and a dark Bible visible in their chest pockets. They are looking around the DMZ full of wonder.
Hannya continues. "Or those."
Hannya then pointed to the other side, where many DMZ populations are lining up to an empty field being surrounded by a barrier. There's a big banner outside the barrier that reads:
"4 Gold Coins for Playing House—see reception for details."
Small print: "We're sorry, Ravendawn soldiers are not eligible."
Inside the barrier, Belphy's production teams worked like madmen.
DMZ men were being aggressively de-intimidated—makeup artists covered scars, softened expressions, and reduced visible menace wherever possible.
Children's rags were upgraded to "less tragic."
Prostitutes' outfits were adjusted to "less naked."
Ravendawn soldiers had reported the entire event multiple times.
No one could explain what the demons were doing.
"Well," Belphy said casually, "do you feel sad when a killer or a rapist gets slaughtered?"
"…Why should I feel sad watching a human being killed?" Hannya replied. "I'm a demon."
"Fair enough," Belphy sighed. "But you're missing the theatrical point."
He stood up.
"Ugh. This is hopeless. Fly with me."
---
Behind a big rock at the outskirts of the DMZ, a 16-year-old human girl is being cornered by 3 thugs, which is a pretty rare event for today's DMZ.
Back then, the lowlives at DMZ weren't scared to create troubles, but the demon soldiers always quickly put it to a stop by killing both the perpetrators and the victims, sending a clear message to the whole village that the demon soldiers really hate to write a report.
"Oh, come on, Ivy, stop running," Thug A taunted. "You know we can always find you."
"You fuckers, stop chasing me! You already have my gold." She snapped, pointing at the pouch in Thug A's hand—the one the demons had given her.
"Hehehe, I know, but look at you. You're so pretty now after the demons pampered you."
Thug A forcefully grabs her face, while Thugs B and C hold both her hands.
"My dick misses you, you know." He said. "I know that you miss it too."
Thug A starts kissing Ivy forcefully with his wet mouth, making it hard for her to breathe. But then she bit him. Hard.
"AAAAAAGH!!"
Ivy spat out a chunk of Thug A's lips from her mouth. She then grinned, brandishing Thug A's blood in her mouth. Thug A is screaming in pain.
"YOU BITCH"
He punched her to the ground and kicked her over and over.
"You slutty pig! You dare to do that to me!?"
Above the scene, Hannya and Belphy float while watching the whole ordeal quietly.
"This is such a cliché." Hannya comments
Tired of kicking, Thug A then decides to strip his pants.
"A lowly bitch like you doesn't deserve my dick! You deserve this instead."
Thug A starts peeing on the weak and bloodied Ivy on the ground.
"Dude, gross!" Thug C complained. "How can I fuck her like this? Disgusting!"
After a few minutes, all the thugs then leave Ivy's motionless and dirty body.
"Boring," scoffs Hannya. "Let's continue looking somewhere—"
"Not yet," Belphy interrupted.
On the ground, Ivy began to laugh—painfully, hysterically. She pulled out not one but two gold pouches: her own and the thugs'.
"Keehehe… idiots…"
Belphy made a rectangle frame with his fingers, framing her.
"Oh yeah," he said, smiling.
"I found my Little Timmy."