Nearby, PFC Bella and Ivy sat beside a mobile camera station. A ranger slowly panned the camera across the refugee line, screening each group as they passed, while Ivy watched the monitor intently.
Bella handed her a cup.
"Here. Coffee. No sugar."
Ivy took it and sipped. "Thanks."
"Are you sure you don't want something sweet?" Bella asked. "Like Coke? Or hot chocolate?"
"No, thank you," Ivy replied. "I was raised not to have expensive things like sugar. I'm not used to it."
Bella nodded, sympathetic.
"Hmmm…" She sipped her chocolate. "I still don't understand why you humans enslave each other."
She tilted her head.
"They taught us in school that it's horribly inefficient to employ people who aren't motivated to work."
"Heheh," Ivy smiled faintly. "I suppose our education systems are very different."
"You're rare, though," Bella said. "A slave as educated as you. Very different from the others I saw back in the DMZ village."
"My mother taught me," Ivy said quietly. "She wasn't a slave… not until the Vandorians came."
Bella's expression softened.
"Do you think she's still alive?"
"…Not likely," Ivy replied, frowning.
"Oh!" Bella winced. "Did I make you sad? I'm sorry—sorry. I'm still learning human emotions. Empathy and all that."
"Heheh, it's fine," Ivy said. "It's actually kind of funny… seeing demons trying so hard to understand other races."
"Yeah…" Bella nodded. "Our government decided it's better if every Murican learns about other races after opening the borders."
She continued, words tumbling out.
"Not every demon is born with the ability to read emotions like succubi, you know. I mean, I'm a vampire—we're the second best at it—but I'm kind of different. That's why I failed the intelligence bureau test and ended up joining the rangers, and you know what—"
Ivy smiled faintly, letting Bella ramble. Her chatter had been oddly comforting these past few days.
Then Ivy froze.
Something on the monitor caught her eye.
"Uh—excuse me," Ivy said quickly, cutting Bella off. "Can you show me the carriage from earlier?"
The camera operator adjusted the feed.
The image zoomed in on a luxurious carriage, its door marked with a carved family crest.
"That crest…" Ivy whispered. "I'll never forget that crest."
Bella stood instantly, weapon ready.
"Is that the one?"
"Yes."
Bella let out a sharp whistle towards Irving.
Every patrol teams snapped to attention.
Target acquired.
---
The Ravendawn–Murica patrol quietly guided the luxurious caravan off the main refugee road and into a cordoned-off stretch of wilderness. The moment the last wagon wheel creaked to a halt in the clearing, tension settled over the entourage like something physical—thick, heavy, inescapable.
"E-excuse me, sir?" the butler asked, wringing his hands as he approached the patrol captain. "Is… is something wrong? The soldiers at Dawn said we were cleared to leave."
"Nothing wrong," the Ravendawn captain replied, voice perfectly flat. "Routine inspection."
He gestured casually.
"Please inform everyone inside the carriages to step out."
"Y-yes, sir. At once."
Moments later, the merchant family emerged.
Fine silks. Polished jewelry. Clean boots untouched by refugee mud. The unmistakable posture of people who had spent their entire lives believing money was a substitute for morality.
The rotund merchant stood front and center beside his jeweled wife. Two adult sons—both in their twenties—flanked them, shoulders stiff, eyes darting.
"H-how can I help you, sirs?" the merchant stammered. "I'm merely a merchant."
The captain didn't answer.
He simply stepped aside.
Behind him stood someone the merchant was certain had died.
Ivy.
Alive.
Escorted by Murican soldiers.
The entire family stiffened. Faces twisted—fear, disbelief, guilt, all colliding at once.
"I-Ivy?" the merchant choked. "Y-you're alive? O-oh, thank the goddess…"
His voice trembled as he forced a smile.
"I'm so happy to see you safe, child…"
"Hello… master," Ivy replied softly.
The word master rippled through the Ravendawn–Murica patrol like a pressure wave. Hands tightened on rifle grips. Fingers curled around sword hilts.
The merchant swallowed hard.
"A-are you… friends with these soldiers?" he asked, voice quivering.
"I guess so." Ivy's eyes moved slowly across the entourage. Her voice sharpened just a little.
"Master… where is my mother?"
The question landed like a blade.
The family froze.
The butler and the staffs turned pale, sweat breaking. Guilt passed through the group like a visible tremor.
"S-she… she was…" the merchant tried. The words collapsed in his mouth.
Ivy sighed.
"Never mind," she said calmly. "You don't need to answer. I already know."
Captain Irving stepped forward.
"Miss Ivy," he said evenly. "Are these the ones?"
Her eyes turned cold.
"…Yes, Captain. The family. The guards. The staff."
"And the slaves?" Irving asked.
Ivy's gaze drifted toward the rear wagons.
There, a cluster of terrified girls—no older than ten to fifteen—huddled together in chains, packed tight like livestock awaiting sale.
"No," Ivy said quietly. "They're new. They don't know me."
Irving nodded once at the Ravendawn captain.
The Ravendawn captain nodded back.
And then the world ended.
RATATATATA—RATATATA!
Murican rangers shoot down the armed guards with ruthless precision. No warnings. No speeches.
"KYAAA—!"
SLASH—SKRRK!
Ravendawn blades flashed. The butler and staff fell almost instantly, movements clean, efficient, practiced.
The merchant and his family collapsed to the ground, screaming.
Their wealth.
Their protection.
Their certainty.
All gone in seconds.
This was necessary.
Ivy had become a political symbol—a Murican miracle survivor, a poster girl for international diplomacy. Proof that Murica saved lives.
If foreign nations ever learned she had been a slave—worse, a prostitute—the narrative would shatter instantly.
Talvaris treated slaves as property, not people.
Loose ends could not be allowed to exist.
Now, only the merchant family remained alive, trembling in the dirt.
"I-Ivy! Please!" the fat merchant cried, crawling forward. "Tell them to stop! I'm… I'm your father!"
She stepped toward him.
"I know."
She raised a Murican 9mm.
Every Murican soldiers startled.
"How the hell—?" Irving muttered.
BANG.
BANG.
Two clean shots. The wife dropped without a sound.
BANG.
BANG.
One son fell.
BANG.
BANG.
Then the other.
They collapsed instantly. Lifeless. No suffering. No hesitation.
The merchant stared at their bodies, his mouth opening and closing as horror finally crushed the air from his lungs.
"That's why," Ivy whispered. "I'm killing you last."
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
CLICK.
She kept pulling the trigger long after the bullets were gone. Her hands shook violently. Her face remained empty, distant, disconnected.
Captain Irving lunged forward and forcibly seized the pistol from her grip.
"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THIS!?" he shouted, instinctively glaring at PFC Bella.
"Eh—?" Bella checked her holster.
It was empty.
"EEEHHHH!?"
Ivy lowered her head.
"…I'm sorry, Captain."
She turned and walked away, shoulders trembling, steps unsteady but determined.
Irving exhaled heavily.
"Show's over," he said to the others. "Release the slaves."
The squad moved immediately. Chains fell to the ground. Children scattered, crying, running—some freezing in place, unsure what freedom was supposed to look like.
Meanwhile Ivy kept walking until she reached an empty Humvee.
She crouched behind it, hugging herself, fingers digging into her arms as if trying to keep her body from splitting apart.
She clamped both hands over her mouth.
And screamed.
"MMMPHH… MMMMPHH… MMMMMMMPPPPPHHHH—!"
Every year.
Every night.
Every breath of terror.
Her entire life's worth of pain forced itself out in a single, silent, all-consuming cry.
Everyone heard it.
And everyone pretended not to.
---
Murica, Taxes
The barren red plains of Taxes rumbled beneath the roars of two furious beasts.
One was a giant animal with wyvern legs, reptilian wings, a monstrous tail, and the unmistakable head of a very pissed-off rooster radiating pure murderous poultry rage.
Yes.
A cockatrice.
"SCREEEEECH!"
Opposite it stood a battle-scarred minotaur gripping a massive axe, his physique sculpted like a gym god's fever dream. Muscles twitched beneath his hide, eager, disciplined, terrifyingly calm.
"RRROOOAAAAR!"
The minotaur charged first.
The cockatrice gathered crackling magic in its beak—an electric orb swelling, screaming—then fired it like a thunderbolt.
The minotaur dodged.
Not stumbled.
Not rolled.
He leapt aside with shocking agility, hooves barely touching the dirt before he leapt again, axe raised high.
SLAAASH.
The cockatrice's head separated cleanly from its body and hit the ground with a dull thud.
"ROOOOAAAAARRR!"
The minotaur raised the severed head and bellowed in victory.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer declared, "our final initiate—Billy!"
An audience of well-dressed demons applauded politely. In the front row sat Solo, Monny, and Governor Arnold Suasanasegar—the legendary, scarred minotaur now wearing a perfectly tailored suit.
"Now," the announcer continued, "please welcome Prime Minister Alex Solomon and Governor Suasanasegar for the graduation ceremony."
Solo and Arnold stepped onto the field, joining the new graduates: minotaurs, ogres, trolls, and cyclopses, all bearing scars earned the hard way.
Above them hung a banner:
KING RANCH COWBOYS GRADUATION
Solo presented each graduate with a cowboy hat.
Arnold handed out boots.
Becoming a cowboy in Murica was no joke.
King Ranch—the pride of Murica—spanned 324 square kilometres of electric-fence-fortified land, built like a demonic Jurassic Park to keep hell pigs, manticores, cockatrices, and other so-called "livestock" from escaping and eating passersby.
Hiring giant-type demons as ranchers had been the logical solution.
Unfortunately, today's event revealed a problem for Solo.
A big one.
---
"WHAT HAPPENED TO THEM?!" Solo screamed.
Dozens of imported Ravendawn cows, goats, and pigs—supposedly premium livestock—stood skinny, shaking, and traumatized, eyes wide and empty.
Arnold patted Solo's shoulder.
"Sigh… what do you expect, Solo?" he said calmly. "These animals are stressed. Every hours, there's a manticore or some other farm beast trying to break into the enclosure because they can smell easy prey."
"And not only that," Arnold added, pointing toward Billy. "Do you think seeing giant ranchers walking around doesn't scare them?"
Billy crouched and gently tried feeding the chickens with a smile.
The chickens took one look at the towering minotaur.
They panicked.
A full stampede erupted. Several dropped dead on the spot.
Billy looked down at them.
Billy was sad.
"And that's not even the main issue," Arnold continued. "Their feed. We can't grow corn or hay. Soil's still sour even after the bitch barrier's gone."
"So we have to keep buying feed from Ravendawn?" Solo asked weakly.
"Yep," Arnold confirmed. "And it's expensive as hell."
"NOOOO…!"
Monny adjusted his glasses. "Told you this would fail."
"My bacon… my burgers…" Solo wailed.
"Look, Solo," Arnold said, lowering his voice. "As a friend, I'm warning you. If you keep pushing this, you'll lose the farmers' vote."
Solo sagged.
"Sigh… I understand, Arnold."