Day three of the march dawned with rain.

Not the gentle spring showers of Liam's memories, but cold, driving sheets that turned the roads to mud and made every step a battle against the earth itself.

The army pressed forward regardless, because stopping meant falling behind schedule, and falling behind schedule meant death.

Liam rode near the center of the column now, his cloak heavy with water, watching supply wagons sink axle-deep into muck that required teams of soldiers to drag them free. Each delay was calculated, measured, added to the growing tally of hours lost.

They were four hours behind schedule.

Four hours closer to the Cathedral completing its ritual.

Four hours closer to twenty-one divine champions manifesting to purge demonkind from existence.

"We need to abandon the heavy wagons," Commander Torven said, his voice rough from shouting orders through the rain. Water streamed from his armor, turning him into a moving statue of exhaustion. "They're slowing us too much. At this rate, we'll lose another six hours before nightfall."

Liam stared at the wagons in question. Medical supplies. Replacement weapons. The last reserves of preserved food that might be the difference between an army that could fight and an army that could only die.

"Lieutenant Zara," he said quietly. "Supply assessment."

Zara materialized from the rain like a specter, her usual precision dampened but not destroyed by the weather. "If we abandon the heavy wagons, we lose approximately thirty percent of our medical capacity and twenty percent of our food reserves. That reduces our operational window from twelve days to approximately nine."

"Nine days," Liam repeated. "We need eight to reach Sanctum Lux, which leaves us one day to breach and destroy the Cathedral."

"Optimistically," Zara said dryly. "That assumes no further delays, no significant resistance, and perfect execution of an assault against fortifications that have never been breached."

"Hmm," Liam said flatly. "Commander Torven, abandon the heavy wagons. Redistribute critical supplies to the troops themselves. Everyone carries more weight. Everyone moves faster."

Torven hesitated. "Lord Azra, the troops are already exhausted. Adding more weight—"

"Is necessary," Liam interrupted. "Give the order, Commander."

The Legion One commander's jaw tightened, but he saluted and rode off to implement the decision. Within minutes, the column was reorganizing, soldiers grumbling as they took on additional packs and supplies while the heavy wagons were pushed off the road and abandoned.

[Synchronization Index: + 1%]

Another decision. Another sacrifice. Another percentage point of Liam Cross dissolving into Lord Azra's certainty.

"You're going to break them," Lilith said, keeping her voice low as her horse moved alongside his. The rain plastered her dark hair to her face, making her look younger somehow. Vulnerable. "Not metaphorically. Literally. Their bodies have limits, Azra."

She didn't call him Liam.

"I know."

"Do you?" She leaned closer, golden eyes intense. "Because from where I'm standing, you're making decisions like they're abstract numbers instead of living beings who are already operating past their endurance."

"They're both," Liam said simply. "They're living beings and abstract numbers. That's what command means, Lilith. Seeing people as individuals and resources simultaneously. Caring about their survival while being willing to spend their lives."

"Days ago I had to convince you the sacrifices were necessary, now its almost like you enjoy it. Like you—"

"What you would do," Liam interrupted, meeting her gaze. "Don't pretend you wouldn't make the same choices. You started a war against an empire that outmatched you because the alternative was slow extinction. You gambled an entire civilization on a desperate offensive. The only difference between us is that you had decades to get comfortable with the calculus, and I had weeks."

Lilith's expression flickered with something complicated—recognition, maybe, or uncomfortable truth. "The difference," she said carefully, "is that I still remember it's supposed to hurt. You've started treating casualties like arithmetic."

"Because they are arithmetic," Liam said. "Eighteen Fourth Order dead at Silvervein Ford. Three thousand four hundred and fifty-three total casualties since we began this march. Every single one of them a number that brings us closer to success or confirms our failure. If I stop to mourn each individual loss, I'll drown in grief before we reach the capital."

"So you feel nothing?"

The question was sharp, probing, and Liam recognized it for what it was—not an accusation, but genuine concern. Maybe even fear. Fear that the human she'd summoned and partnered with was being consumed entirely by the role he played.

"I feel everything," Liam admitted quietly. "Every death. Every sacrifice. Every moment of suffering I'm inflicting on troops who trust me absolutely. I feel it like a weight that never lifts. But I don't show it, because showing weakness means losing the faith that holds this army together. So I compress it. Compartmentalize it. Turn it into fuel for the certainty they need to see."

He paused, watching a group of soldiers struggle with a supply pack that had come loose. They were exhausted, soaked, miserable—and still moving forward because Lord Azra commanded it.

"That's what the Synchronization measures," he continued. "Not whether I'm becoming a monster. Whether I'm becoming good enough at being the monster that it stops feeling like pretending."

Lilith was quiet for a long moment. The rain continued to fall, turning the world into shades of gray and green and the dark iron of demon armor.

"I'm sorry," she said finally.

"For what?"

"For summoning you into this. For putting you in a position where becoming a monster was the only way to survive." Her voice carried genuine regret. "You should have had a choice."

Liam considered that. The old him—Liam Cross, failed actor, desperate and drowning—would have agreed. Would have raged against being forced into this nightmare without consent.

But Lord Azra, synthesized from human memory and demon necessity, just shook his head.

"I did have a choice," he said. "The moment I accepted the role. Every day since then has been me choosing this path. Choosing to become what this empire needed instead of dying as what I was."

"And you don't regret it?"

Liam thought about his studio apartment. The pills. The auditions that led nowhere. The crushing awareness of insignificance that had defined his existence.

"No," he said honestly. "I don't. Because for the first time in my life, I matter. My choices have weight. My actions change outcomes. I'd rather be a monster who saves thousands than a nobody who saves no one."

[Essence +1800]

[Nameless Litany: 851 → 863 members]

Twelve more faithful. Twelve more demons who had heard something—probably his execution of the battle-priest, or his willingness to lead from the front—and decided he was worth absolute devotion.

The numbers kept climbing.

The synthesis kept deepening.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Liam Cross's last fragments whispered that this was exactly how monsters justified themselves.

By being useful.

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