"Gorath asked me to pursue and destroy," Liam said softly. "To take the war to the Radiant Empire. To slaughter heroes before they become too numerous to handle. To break the prophecy through violence and sacrifice and almost certain death."

Lilith's breath caught. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing yet. I wanted to hear it from you first." His expression was unreadable. "Tell me, Your Majesty. If I refuse—if I say the suicide mission is beyond what you purchased when you summoned me—what happens?"

She was silent for a long moment. Calculating. Running through political scenarios and strategic necessities.

"I find another way," she said finally. "I always find another way. Even when there isn't one."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have." Lilith's voice carried exhaustion older than her years. "I've spent ten years performing impossible calculations. Finding solutions that shouldn't exist. Surviving situations that should have killed me. If you refuse, I'll find another path. Another gambit. Another desperate performance."

"And if there is no other path?"

Her golden eyes met his grey ones with absolute certainty.

"Then I die trying to find one. Because that's what sovereigns do when they inherit empires purchased with humiliation and held together through exhaustion. We die trying. We die fighting. We die refusing to accept that the odds say we're doomed."

The honesty was devastating.

Liam studied her face. Saw the young woman who'd inherited an impossible situation.

Who'd spent too long refusing to break under weight that should have crushed her. Who'd made terrible choices because all her options were terrible.

Who'd summoned a dying human because she'd exhausted every other possibility.

"I'll do it," he said quietly.

Lilith's eyes widened. "What?"

"I'll pursue and destroy. I'll lead the assault on the Radiant Empire. I'll slaughter heroes and break the prophecy and probably die in the process." His voice was that wrong, ancient thing. "I'll do what you didn't ask because you knew asking would guarantee refusal."

"Why?"

The question was barely audible.

Liam thought about Gorath's challenge.

About the decision he'd made watching the sun rise over Ashard. About what he'd become and what remained of what he'd been.

"Because two percent of my humanity remembers what it feels like to matter. And ninety-eight percent of whatever I've become needs to believe the performance is real." He gestured to himself. "Because Lord Azra, the Primordial Demon, doesn't exist unless he acts like he exists. Doesn't become real unless he does things gods would do."

He stepped closer.

"And gods don't hide behind their followers. Don't wait for death to arrive. Don't calculate odds and choose safety over salvation."

His grey eyes, flickering fully crimson now, held hers.

"Gods lead suicide missions because that's what makes them gods instead of just powerful demons playing pretend."

Lilith stared at him. At what her desperate gambit had created. At the human who'd stopped being human to become what she needed.

Her intentions was to mold a weapon she could control, but right here, right now - just what the hell was she looking at?

"You've gone mad," she whispered.

"Maybe." His smile was terrible. Beautiful. The expression of something that had transcended sanity into purpose. "But madness doesn't always mean wrong."

The throne room felt smaller suddenly.

"When?" Lilith asked.

"Soon. We need to prepare. Rally. Plan the assault properly instead of just marching at them and hoping violence solves everything." His voice was calculating now. Strategic. "But not long from now, the Demon Empire stops defending and starts destroying."

"That's insane. We're not ready. Our forces are depleted. The Nine Houses will object—"

"The Nine Houses will obey or be replaced." The command in his voice wasn't suggestion. It was absolute authority. "I secured Ashard. I made the Radiant Empire retreat. They will question me when their contribution to stopping this Empire's annihilation transcends mine."

He looked at her directly.

"I've earned the right to lead this attempt at salvation. Whether they like it or not. Whether you like it or not."

Lilith should have objected. Should have reminded him that she was queen, that he was weapon, that the hierarchy mattered.

But looking at what stood before her—the thing that wore Liam Cross's face and Lord Azra's name—she recognized something fundamental.

He wasn't wrong.

"Very well." Her voice carried resignation and relief in equal measure. "Lord Azra will lead the demon empire's assault on the Radiant Empire. The Nine Houses will be informed. Resources will be allocated. The Primordial's War begins."

She smiled, and it was sad and sharp.

"Try not to get yourself killed in the first week. I've invested too much in you to lose you quickly."

"No promises."

He turned to leave. Made it three steps before her voice stopped him.

"Liam."

He paused. Didn't turn.

"For what it's worth," Lilith said softly, "I'm sorry that survival required you to become this. That becoming what i needed cost you everything that made you you."

Silence stretched.

"So am I," he said finally. "But not sorry enough to go back."

Then he left, and Lilith was alone in her throne room with the weight of what she'd created.

A weapon that had chosen to become real.

A performance that had consumed the actor.

A demon god who'd forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.

And somewhere in the depths of his transformed consciousness, in that two percent that still remembered being human,

Liam Cross whispered a question that no one could answer.

What happens when the role ends and he can't remember who he was before?

The answer was simple, terrifying, and absolutely certain.

The role becomes real.

And the actor becomes the part.

Forever.

[New Directive: The Radiant Empire Campaign]

[Objective: Break the Prophecy of Twenty-One Heroes]

[Status: Preparation Phase]

[Estimated Survival Probability: 7%]

[Warning: Point of No Return Approaching]

[Secondary Warning: Humanity Index at critical threshold]

Seven percent chance of survival.

Two percent humanity remaining.

One demon god preparing for war.

The mathematics were clear.

The ending was approaching.

And for the first time in both his lives, Liam didn't care about the odds.

Because mattering was worth dying for.

Despite if only enough to remember that once, long ago, in another world, there had been a man named Liam Cross who'd needed a reason to live.

And found one by learning how to die properly.

The war was coming.

The heroes would arrive.

The prophecy would unfold.

And Lord Azra—the Originator of Sin, the Primordial Demon—would meet them all.

With fire.

With fury.

With the absolute certainty that damnation looked a lot like salvation. When seen from the right angle.

In the right light.

By the right eyes.

Grey, flickering crimson.

Belonging to something that had stopped asking who it was.

And started asking what it could become.

Before the end.

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