Nightfall
The camp had fallen into uneasy silence. The once-bright fire had burned low, leaving only weak embers glowing in the center. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of burnt wood and sweat. Two knights stood outside the captain's tent, their armor dull under the dim torchlight, shifting restlessly in the quiet.
Inside, the captain sat at a worn wooden table, his fingers pressing against his temples as his tired green eyes scanned the parchment before him. Opposite him, the vice-captain watched, his thick beard shadowing his sharp blue eyes. The room flickered with the faint glow of a single lantern.
The captain let out a deep sigh, setting the letter down. "When did these letters arrive?" His voice was heavy, his exhaustion bleeding through every word.
"During the time we were setting up camp for the night, sir," the vice-captain replied.
The captain rubbed his forehead. "What is that foolish king thinking?"
The vice-captain straightened. "Captain… what's the matter? Is there anything you need me to do?"
The captain lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Have I ever been a bad captain?"
The vice-captain didn't hesitate. "No, sir. Never."
A silence stretched between them before the captain spoke again, his voice quiet but firm. "The king has ordered us to kill all the slaves we are escorting."
The vice-captain blinked. For a moment, he thought he had misheard. "The king, sir? But… he would never order something like that."
"That's what I can't comprehend," the captain murmured.
The vice-captain suddenly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. His eyes flashed with anger. "We can't do that! These people have suffered enough already. We've destroyed their homes, killed their kin—"
"I know. I know." The captain sighed, cutting him off. "Sit down."
The vice-captain hesitated before reluctantly lowering himself back into his chair, his fists clenched.
The captain shook his head. "The king wouldn't order this. He's indifferent to all this political nonsense. Killing the slaves serves no purpose for him."
His voice dropped into a whisper. "But we're in checkmate."
The vice-captain's voice was tight. "Damn it, Captain. If not the king, then who? His signature is on the letter."
The captain exhaled sharply. "Who else but the High Chancellor? The timing is too perfect. But if he truly wanted to dispose of us… why now? Why not sooner?"
The vice-captain's brow furrowed. "Captain?"
The captain tapped his fingers against the table, his mind racing. "The king's signature… it could be a forgery. The king might not even be in the kingdom. He could be off with his friend."
The vice-captain's voice was hopeful, desperate. "What about the queen? She wouldn't allow this."
The captain's expression darkened. "The queen? She has bigger problems. She's focused on keeping the kingdom safe, not us. We're too far from the capital. The High Chancellor has us exactly where he wants us."
The vice-captain clenched his jaw. "Captain, I did overhear some nobles talking. They said that since the Demon King has been vanquished and the Hero has returned to his world, they need to strengthen their forces against possible attacks from other kingdoms."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "And how does that explain why we're being thrown away?"
Then, it clicked. His lips curled into a bitter smirk. "It's not about strengthening the kingdom's forces. It's about eliminating any threats to their power. We're in the way. And with the king gone, this was their perfect chance."
The vice-captain's face hardened, but before he could respond, a piercing scream shattered the night.
Both men tensed. Then came shouting.
They exchanged a single look before a knight stumbled into the tent, his face drained of all color. "Sir, we're under attack! Demons!"
The captain and vice-captain shot to their feet.
"Vice-captain, protect the slaves."
"Yes, sir!" The vice-captain bolted out of the tent without hesitation.
The captain turned to the trembling knight before him. He grabbed the man's shoulder, steadying him.
"Get yourself together. We're knights. We survive this, and I'll be proud of you."
The knight swallowed hard, nodding. "Y-yes, sir."
The captain released him, his voice sharp and commanding. "Now go. Deliver a message to the king. Tell him we've been breached—by demons we thought were dead."
The knight didn't hesitate this time. He ran.
The captain took a deep breath, gripping the hilt of his sword. He could already hear the clash of steel, the screams of men.
"My knights must survive this."
With that, he stepped into the night.
The slave tent was dark, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fear. Huddled bodies lay curled on the dirt floor—beastmen, humans, children—drifting in restless sleep. Raphael sat apart, silent, staring at nothing. His mind was empty, his heart heavy. The world outside was quiet, save for the distant crackle of torches.
Then, a scream tore through the night.
Raphael's head snapped up. His body tensed. He stood, moving towards the entrance—
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the ground, shaking the tent violently. The force sent bodies tumbling. Cries of panic erupted as people scrambled, wide-eyed and trembling. The children screamed. Women clung to each other. Chaos.
Raphael pushed through them and stepped outside.
The world was burning.
The camp was in ruins—tents ablaze, knights locked in battle, the ground littered with the broken and the dying. A towering ogre grabbed a knight mid-swing and crushed him like a fruit. Blood spattered, the sickening crack of bones lost in the hellish noise. Another knight plunged his sword into the beast's back, but the blade stuck. He yanked, desperate, but the ogre spun and grabbed him by the throat.
He screamed. He begged. His head exploded in the beast's grip.
Raphael stood frozen. His breath was stuck in his throat. He had never seen death so close, so merciless.
Then the ogre turned—toward the slave tent.
The beast's eyes gleamed with hunger. It charged.
Raphael couldn't move. His body wouldn't listen.
A rough shove sent him sprawling. He gasped, rolling onto his side, looking up—
The old man who had watched over him stood in his place.
A faint smile on his lips.
Then, the ogre's foot came down.
CRUNCH.
The ground shook with the impact. The smile was gone. The old man was gone.
Raphael's scream never left his throat. He lunged forward—
A hand grabbed him.
The young knight from before. The one who gave him bread. He pulled Raphael back, just as a wave of fire roared past. The old man's body was engulfed.
Raphael fought, struggled, his voice breaking. "NO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!"
The knight didn't let go. He dragged him toward the vice-captain, who stood like a wall against the slaughter.
"Vice-Captain! What do we do?!"
The vice-captain's face was set like stone. He took one look at Raphael, then at the slaves huddled in terror. "Get them to safety."
Another knight ran up, breathless. "Sir, we've gathered the remaining slaves!"
"Take them and RUN."
The knights obeyed. Raphael was dragged along, still thrashing. He turned, desperate, but the vice-captain's fist cracked against his skull—
Darkness
The young knight stared at his superior, stunned, but there was no time to question it - he hurriedly left, holding Raphael.
"Hello there."
The vice-captain turned.
A woman stood amidst the carnage, untouched by fear, untouched by blood. Silver hair cascaded like a slow-moving river, her yellow eyes gleaming like a predator watching prey struggle in vain. A smirk played on her lips—mocking, confident.
Behind her, fifteen ogres loomed. Hulking, monstrous figures, their grotesque muscles rippling beneath green skin that shimmered unnaturally in the torchlight.
The vice-captain exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on his sword.
Lilith's smirk deepened. "Going somewhere?"
He didn't answer. His body ached, his ribs screamed from earlier blows, but he wasn't dead yet. And if he was to die, he'd take some of them with him.
His sword ignited—a brilliant, raging flame.
"Knights don't retreat," he growled. "And I don't plan on dying easy."
Lilith sighed, tilting her head. "Tch. I can't have that."
She snapped her fingers.
The ogres charged.
The vice-captain moved.
His sword blurred as he struck—fast, hard, deadly. He severed an ogre's leg at the knee; it collapsed, howling. Another lunged, but he sidestepped, ramming his flaming sword through its skull, splitting it open.
The air was filled with roars, screams, the sickening scent of burning flesh.
An ogre swung—a massive club aiming for his ribs. He dodged, rolling beneath the blow, slicing clean through its wrist. The severed hand hit the ground with a wet thud. The ogre bellowed in agony, blood gushing.
Another rushed forward. He pivoted—driving his blade through its chest.
Three dead.
But they were too many.
One caught him from behind—massive hands wrapping around his torso. He gasped as his ribs screamed in protest.
The grip tightened.
CRACK.
Pain.
He roared in agony, swinging his sword wildly. The blade met flesh—cutting deep. The ogre howled, loosening its grip just enough.
He broke free.
He twisted, slashing its throat open. A torrent of dark blood sprayed over him as the beast collapsed.
Four dead.
But he was slower now. The pain was dragging him down.
He turned—too late.
A fist slammed into his side—a hammer of force.
He flew. His back crashed into the dirt. The taste of blood filled his mouth. His limbs screamed. His chest heaved.
He struggled to stand, but a massive foot came down—
CRUNCH.
His ribs—shattered.
He screamed.
Lilith sighed. "Tch. You were doing so well."
The ogres stepped back as she approached.
The vice-captain gritted his teeth. He couldn't move. His body refused.
She knelt beside him, her golden eyes studying him like a child observing a broken toy.
"You're strong," she murmured. "But all strong men die the same way—begging."
He spat blood at her.
She wiped it away, chuckling. "So predictable."
Then—
As she slowly lifted his head, his chest was exposed, and in a shocking move, her hand plunged into his chest.
AGONY.
His body arched violently, his veins igniting as if fire coursed through them.
A terrible pull—like something was being ripped from his soul.
Lilith's nails pierced deeper.
The vice-captain howled, thrashing.
His heartbeat pounded against her grip, frantic, desperate. His vision blurred, the world dimming.
Lilith leaned in, whispering.
"I love this part."
His veins blackened. His skin shriveled. His lungs burned.
His body fought. It clung to life.
Lilith's breath hitched in pleasure.
"Ahhh… that's it. Struggle."
The vice-captain screamed, voice breaking into raw sobs.
Lilith shivered. "More."
His body convulsed—jerking, spasming. His limbs twitched uncontrollably as his life force unraveled.
His heartbeat slowed.
His breaths—shallow, faint.
Lilith smiled.
Then—
POP.
His heart burst.
Blood erupted from his chest, splattering onto Lilith's face.
The air reeked of death.
Lilith sighed, running her bloodied fingers through her hair.
She stood, licking the blood from her fingertips.
Her yellow eyes flickered toward were the retreating slaves went .
"Now then," she purred. "Let's fetch the rest."
The ogres charged after them.
Lilith remained behind, watching the night unfold.
The screams were beautiful.