Skel'var fought like a demon possessed by the ghosts of three hundred dead soldiers.

His blade work was precise, economical, each strike aimed at joints and gaps. No wasted movement. No excess. Just the cold mathematics of a commander who'd learned that every second of combat had a cost, and efficiency was survival.

A paladin raised holy fire, attempting to create light, to illuminate the chaos, to give his brothers fighting chance.

Zara's thrown knife took him through the eye.

The body fell. The holy fire died. The darkness rushed back in.

The camp had become an abattoir.

Paladins who'd been sleeping died in their bedrolls. Paladins who'd been eating died with food still in their hands. Paladins who'd been maintaining equipment died before they could draw weapons.

Not all of them. Not even most.

But enough that the camp's carefully maintained order collapsed into desperate, disorganized survival.

"RALLY!" the paladin commander screamed—a grizzled veteran whose armor bore the scars of a hundred battles. "RALLY TO ME! FORM SQUARE!"

He was trying. Trying to impose discipline, to create a defensive formation, to turn chaos back into something manageable.

But he was facing demons who'd spent three months drowning in slow death. Demons who'd watched their brothers die one by one. Demons who'd been given permission to finally, fucking finally, hurt the thing that had been hurting them.

And they didn't rally.

They hunted.

A paladin attempted to reach his commander, blessed sword blazing with holy fire. Three demons converged on him—no careful coordination, it was pack instinct of predators who'd scented blood.

He killed one. Wounded another.

The third took him from behind, a spear through the gap in his armor, driven with enough force to burst through the blessed steel on the other side.

Another paladin raised his holy symbol, attempting a prayer that would banish demon presence, that would give his brothers respite.

Liam was there before the second word left his lips.

[Blink Activated: -400 Essence]

The world stuttered. Liam materialized beside the praying paladin, inside his guard, too close for the blessed sword to be effective.

Igar's Shard took him through the ribs.

[Soul-Drinker Activated: +12 EP]

The prayer died. The holy symbol fell. The paladin collapsed.

And Liam was already moving, already finding the next threat, the next target, the next soul to harvest.

The Demon God fought, and the ravine ran red.

---

On the western approach, Varg heard the screams change.

Different from the screams of paladins dying to his assault - those had been professional, controlled, the sounds of trained soldiers taking casualties but holding position.

These were different. Panicked and desperate. The sounds of men who'd just realized they were surrounded, outnumbered, and fighting in the dark against an enemy that could see perfectly.

"RETREAT!" he roared to his nine remaining soldiers. "BACK TO THE OUTPOST!"

They turned and ran, and the paladins—confused, desperate, no longer certain what was demonstration and what was real threat—let them go.

Or tried to.

Three paladins pursued, blessed fire lighting their way, determined to at least kill these demons who'd had the audacity to assault their position.

Varg let them get close. Let them think they'd caught stragglers. Let them raise their blessed swords for the killing strikes.

Then he turned.

His blade—a gladiator's weapon from a life before the wars—caught the first paladin's strike and redirected it into the second paladin's shoulder. While they were tangled, confused, Varg's knee came up and shattered the first paladin's helm, driving bone fragments into brain.

The second, wounded and staggering, raised his sword.

Varg's blade took his hand at the wrist. Then his head at the neck.

The third paladin, seeing his brothers fall, hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough.

Varg's throw was perfect—a lifetime of arena combat compressed into one moment. His blade tumbled through the air and buried itself in the paladin's throat.

All three dead. All three in under ten seconds.

Varg retrieved his blade, looked back at the ravine where the sounds of slaughter continued, and smiled.

"Worth it," he muttered, then ran, his nine remaining soldiers beside him, leaving the chaos behind.

---

In the ravine, the paladin commander had finally managed to rally twelve soldiers into something resembling formation. They stood back-to-back in a circle, blessed weapons raised, holy fire creating a sphere of light that kept the demons at bay.

"HOLD!" the commander roared. "DAWN IS THREE HOURS AWAY! WE HOLD UNTIL THEN!"

It was sound tactics. In three hours, reinforcements might arrive. In three hours, the darkness that gave demons advantage would fade. In three hours, blessed fire could be used without worrying about blinding their own forces.

Three hours of holding against forty demons was impossible.

But it was less impossible than any other option.

Liam studied the formation from the darkness. Twelve paladins. All veterans. All capable. Their blessed steel creating a perimeter that would cost demon lives to breach.

He could wear them down. Could have his soldiers attack in waves, accepting casualties until the paladins were overwhelmed by attrition.

Or.

He reached into his pocket. Felt the Focusing Crystal's weight.

Not yet.

This wasn't the moment. These weren't the odds that required nuclear options.

Instead, he did something simpler.

He spoke.

"Commander," his voice carried across the camp, calm and clear. "Your camp is destroyed. Your soldiers are dead or dying. Your position is untenable."

"Show yourself, demon!" the commander snarled.

Liam stepped into the edge of their light. Not close enough to be immediately attacked, but close enough to be seen clearly.

A human face. Grey eyes. A black blade that reflected no light.

"I'm not just a demon," Liam said quietly. "I'm something far more unholy. Something your people would soon learn to fear."

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