Chapter 167 – Calculated Ruin

  Two Days Ago

  Demon King Army – Forward Line, Dusk

  No prophecy had named this meeting.

  No omen had warned of him.

  Yet the land knew the moment Silva the Slaughter stepped upon it.

  He stood atop the shattered remains of the outer defense, stone still warm beneath his clawed feet. Blood seeped into the cracks of the earth as if the ground itself had been fed.

  Silva towered nearly three meters tall—higher than most beastmen, broader than any orcish warrior.

  His once-silver fur was now darkened by soot and dried blood.

  Beneath the thick layered fur lay dense hide and muscle woven like iron fibers.

  Ordinary blades would snap before biting deep.

  Over his frame hung hardened wyvern leather armor—taken from a human forge seized weeks prior.

  A trophy.

  A convenience.

  He inhaled slowly.

  Smoke. Iron. Fear.

  “Primitive,” he rumbled, surveying the ruins. “But adequate.”

  Behind him, the Beast Army waited in disciplined silence—war-beasts crouched low, feral demons flexing talons, twisted creatures breathing in uneven rhythm. No celebration. No howling.

  They were hunting.

  This fort had been marked on his map.

  A junction meant to delay.

  It had delayed nothing.

  Silva raised one clawed hand.

  The night moved.

  Silva The slaughter.

  One of the Eight Generals of demon lords armies.

  The assault was not a siege.

  It was an erasure.

  Beasts surged from darkness in low waves, scaling fractured walls with claws that gripped stone like bark. Patrols vanished before alarms could finish ringing. Tents burned. Watchtowers collapsed inward.

  By the time horns sounded, blood already painted the pathways.

  Inside, the fort’s commanding general roared himself hoarse, rallying men to plug breaches with shields and bodies.

  Steel met claw. Magic flared in frantic bursts.

  For every gap sealed, two more opened.

  A lieutenant forced his way to Silva’s side during the outer clash, voice strained.

  “General! Human's reinforcements—”

  Silva did not turn.

  “They will not come.”

  The lieutenant stiffened.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Messenger routes?” he pressed.

  “Cut yesterday,” Silva replied calmly. “Their rear scouts were all routed.”

  A pause.

  “You’ve overextended, General.”

  Silva’s lips curved slightly.

  “They will know nothing, only the dark clouded their eyes.”

  Behind them, the defensive wall shuddered.

  It cracked.

  But it did not fall.

  Silva’s gaze narrowed.

  “Pressure the east quadrant,” he ordered. “Drive them inward. Collapse them toward the central keep.”

  He wanted to ensure that the margrave knew nothing.

  Through his thorough planning.

  By dawn, the fort was silent.

  No messenger escaped.

  No warning was carried.

  And Silva had already begun marching.

  Yesterday

  Supply Caravan – Approaching the Last Defense Fort

  The gold-ranked party [Meteor Fall] arrived at dusk with ten mixed occupation teams and supply wagons.

  No monsters attacked during the journey.

  No ambush occurred.

  The silence had been wrong.

  When the fort came into view, tension hung thick in the air. Soldiers ran along battlements. Officers barked overlapping commands.

  Garron seized a passing soldier by the collar.

  “We’re reinforcement from Baron Eldrien Valmor. Advance supply escort.”

  The soldier’s anger shifted instantly to disbelief.

  “Reinforcement…? Already?”

  Heads turned. Hope flickered.

  Garron continued evenly. “Ten parties. Food. Medical. Ammunition. Take us to whoever commands here.”

  The soldier swallowed. “The Margrave himself is present.”

  Garron’s expression tightened.

  “…Understood.”

  He turned to his party.

  “Elysha. Oversee the supplies. Support wherever needed.”

  She nodded once. “Don’t take long.”

  Garron, Borik, and Thorne ascended to the war chamber.

  Maps covered the table. Fifteen forts marked along the border.

  Ten had already been crossed out.

  “This morning,” the Margrave said quietly, “we lost contact with the last eastern fort.”

  Garron stepped forward.

  “I carry grave news. Is this room secure?”

  Half the officers were dismissed.

  Then Garron spoke.

  Infiltration.

  Information leaks.

  A demon named Venom orchestrating internal sabotage.

  Assassination attempts on key adventurers.

  Reinforcements deployed in haste.

  Silence followed.

  The Margrave’s fingers pressed against the map.

  “So that is why they fell so quickly,” he murmured.

  “Fell?” Borik asked.

  The Margrave pointed to the crossed forts.

  “They did not fall under siege. They were hunted.”

  A heavy understanding settled.

  Two-thirds of the defensive line—gone.

  Then—

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  The alarm bell screamed through the fortress.

  A soldier burst inside.

  “Enemy sighted! Beast army approaching!”

  The Margrave’s eyes widened slightly.

  “But the previous fort reported stable position two days ago—”

  Garron’s jaw tightened.

  Enemies force had already moved.

  “Seal the gates!” the Margrave ordered. “Dispatch messengers immediately! Reinforcements must be forced to march!”

  Soldiers rushed.

  They did not know.

  They were already surrounded.

  The messenger galloping their horse out.

  just to be slaughter by the force already deployed there.

  The Assault

  The wall did not fall.

  It suffered.

  Beasts climbed with claws biting into stone. Some lost fingers. Some fell. More replaced them instantly.

  If defenders looked away for a single breath, a demon would vault onto the battlement and tear through three men before being dragged down.

  Inside, smoke thickened. Orders devolved into screams.

  A horn sounded sharply.

  “Messenger!”

  Many young soldiers stepped forward.

  No fame.

  No rank.

  Only speed.

  The gate bar lifted.

  The hinges screamed.

  Just enough space for some of them to run.

  And then—

  “GO!”

  [Meteor Fall] surged outward with him.

  Many knight followed.

  Not retreat.

  Not escape.

  A charge.

  Steel crashed into claw in a frenzy meant to last seconds—bought with lives.

  Knights formed a wedge.

  Garron smashed through a beastman’s skull.

  Borik’s halberd Cleave whoever stood in front.

  Thorne’s Battle Axe flashed in tight arcs.

  They fought outside the wall to protect the one running from it.

  “RUN!”

  “DON’T LOOK BACK!”

  The runners sprinted.

  They did not think of survival.

  They thought only:

  If I fall, they die.

  A beast lunged.

  Three knights tackled it mid-air, disappearing beneath claws.

  Some of the runners broke through.

  “They made it!” someone shouted.

  A raw roar rose from the wall.

  Hope.

  Temporary.

  [Meteor Fall] retreated step by brutal step, dragging wounded inside.

  The gates slammed shut.

  Silva watched from the rear ridge.

  He had allowed this.

  He lifted one finger.

  Track him.

  Today

  The messenger ran until his horse collapsed beneath him.

  He kept running.

  Boots tore. Breath burned. Vision blurred.

  For full days he did not stop.

  When he finally stumbled, sanity unraveling, he saw shapes in the forest.

  Beasts.

  They had followed his scent.

  A shadow loomed behind him.

  He fell—

  —and a massive green hand caught him before he struck earth.

  “Message—” he gasped. “Fortress—under assault—Beast Army—reinforcements—now—”

  Gruthak did not ask questions.

  He smelled smoke on the boy’s armor.

  He smelled blood.

  He heard the distant howl.

  Two sworn brothers stepped forward beside him.

  The forest quieted.

  Three orcish warriors turned toward the approaching demons.

  The beasts burst from the trees.

  They expected prey.

  They found executioners.

  Steel was unnecessary.

  Claws met fists.

  Bones shattered.

  The forest ran red.

  Behind them, the messenger finally lost consciousness.

  Gruthak lifted him with one arm.

  “Move,” he said.

  And the three berserkers began marching backwards.

  To deliver a message covered in blood.