Ancient Ruins Somewhere Outside Vans City
Night smothered the forgotten ruins like a velvet cloak. The broken stone pillars—gnarled by roots and half-swallowed by forest—stood as the only witnesses to the secret rendezvous. Several Vandorian soldiers patrolled the perimeter while their officer waited impatiently beneath the moonlight.
Far above them, hidden beneath overlapping branches and thick shadows, two silhouettes observed the gathering.
Megan adjusted her scope. Beside her, young Mo sat on a branch, looking far too comfortable for a demon on an infiltration mission.
"This Marco is a paranoid bastard," Megan muttered. "Even though he's in his client's territory, he still insists on meeting in the middle of the night so none of the Third Prince's spies get a look at his face."
She flicked the focus ring, scanning the ruins again. "Then again, paranoia is usually how idiots like him end up dead. He doesn't trust anyone and insists on personally overseeing every major transaction."
Beside her, young Mo was simply staring at her with wide, entertained eyes.
"That," he said, "was the longest topic-change sentence I've ever heard. You really don't want to tell me why you're still a virgin, do you?"
"Ask me again," Megan hissed, "and I'll file a complaint with HR… boss."
"Well, you know," young Mo replied with a shit-eating grin, "this version of me isn't officially registered in the employee roster."
"Tch."
"Oh well. I'll dig more during our next round of truth-or-dare."
Mid-sentence his head snapped to the right. "Uh oh. My demony sense is tingling. Some groups approaching."
"Where?"
"Two o'clock. Twelve people. Wagons."
Megan followed his indication through the trees. Sure enough, torchlight flickered between branches — a procession of wagons escorted by armored bodyguards. The cargo was obvious even from afar: crates of swords, cannons, muskets, armor pieces. A walking arsenal.
The Vandorian officer at the ruins stepped forward in greeting.
Megan switched to a camera fitted with a ridiculous long telephoto lens.
"Now… Marco, which one is you?"
She scanned the entourage. Her attention caught a well-dressed man stepping forward, flanked by attendants, shaking hands with the Vandorian officer.
"There you are," Megan whispered as she fired off a burst of photos.
"Fufufu…" young Mo chuckled, peering through binoculars.
"What's so funny, boss?" Megan asked without lowering the camera.
"This Marco is cautious to the point of lunacy," he said. "I bet Marco is not even his real name."
"What makes you say that?"
Young Mo raised an eyebrow. "Because that guy in the fancy suit is most likely 'not' Marco. He's too chatty, drawing attention onto himself. It feels like he 'wants' everyone to think he's Marco."
Megan zoomed in again. The well-dressed man was laughing loudly now, shaking hands like a proud politician.
She sighed. "Yeah… you're right. Doesn't fit his profile. You think our agent gave us bad intel?"
"No," young Mo scoffed. "Call it pride, but I don't believe any agent trained by my older selves would hand over false intel. Marco is here. Somewhere."
"Fine…" Megan switched settings. "Then I'll take pictures of everyone. Let the analysts sort out who he is."
"Kukuku. Don't bother," young Mo said. "They're already doing that."
"Huh? How?"
Young Mo tapped his eye. "Did you forget you have an 'online presence' sitting right next to you?"
---
Langley, BICH Headquarters
The analyst room was a controlled storm. Officers darted back and forth between desks, passing reports, sketches, and data tablets.
Janet slapped a some papers into an officer's hand. "Cross-check these. Next batch incoming."
At a desk in the back, old man Mo worked like a demonic printer. His hand moved with impossible speed, sketching one face after another — the exact faces young Mo was seeing from afar.
Megan's voice crackled through the comms: "Start cross-checking them on our database. More faces coming. And someone bring a teardrops here for the old man."
---
Ancient Ruins
"Then why did I bother bringing this big-ass camera…" Megan groaned.
"Chill," young Mo said. "Just put it back into the subspace bag."
Below them, the arms dealers finished handing the wagons. After exchanging papers and bag of golds with the Vandorians, the group mounted their horses and departed into the forest.
"They're on the move. Let's go."
The two demons packed up and soared into the night.
---
After hours of covert flying through the canopy, the group of arms dealers suddenly split into two separate directions.
"What the? Why did they split?" Megan asked. "That's… overkill, even for escaping the Third Prince's spies."
"Unless," young Mo said with a grin, "it's not the Third Prince's spies they're worried about."
"Ours, then."
"Yep. I'm actually impressed."
Megan pressed her finger against her earcomm. "Overlord, you seeing this?"
"Yeah," Janet's voice replied. "And the analysts report just came in. It's the attendant."
Young Mo smirked and pointed at the smaller group — specifically at the quiet attendant riding near the rear.
He and Megan angled downward, silently tailing them from above.
Janet continued, "His real name is Dillian Walric. A respected Meridinian philantropist and slave merchant. Alias Marco. Public image: saintly donor, church builder, orphanage sponsor. Privately, he sells weapons with questionables origin.
"No wonder he personally visits Vandoria." Megan comments.
"Yep. Delivering weapons and picking up war orphans," Janet said. "Efficient business trip."
---
Forest Hut
After another hour, the attendant's group arrived at a small hut nestled deep in the woods. Another man emerged to greet them. A crude campsite formed outside, complete with a campfire and a half-hearted perimeter patrol.
Megan and young Mo hovered silently above.
"I don't think that's their base," Megan whispered. "Probably a transit point."
"Agreed."
They descended quietly into the brush.
They descended silently, landing just beyond the ring of trees. They watched the disguised merchant enter the hut while the others settled down.
"Let's wait until they're asleep," young Mo said. "They must be exhausted. You rest, I'll keep watch."
Megan noticed something— young Mo's demeanor had shifted. He was calmer. Focused. Maybe because their prey was close.
She didn't comment.
---
When silence fell over the camp, they slipped past the guttering fire and bypassed a half-asleep patrol. Before entering the hut, young Mo cast a sound barrier, a shimmering veil sealing all noise inside.
Inside, the hut was deceptively plain: simple furniture, a fireplace, modest walls. Only the expensive wine bottles and a fancy dinner tray revealed its inhabitant's status.
Dillian Walric — alias Marco — slept on the bed, snoring gently.
No words were exchanged. They both knew their roles.
Megan began quietly rummaging through bags, cabinets, pockets — anything that could hide intel. Young Mo walked straight to the bed, placing his glowing hand near the merchant's forehead as he channeled his mana.
Then young Mo abruptly withdrew and cast a secondary sound barrier around the sleeping merchant.
"What happened?" Megan whispered.
"Kukuku… someone installed a firewall on this guy's mind."
"Seriously? What kind?"
"A holy one."
Megan winced. "Damn. No normal succubus can get through that…"
"Yeah. At least we know the church is involved." He stretched his neck. "But lucky for us… I'm not normal."
He placed his hand back on Dillian's head.
"Well then, Marco — or should I say Dillian — let's see how you enjoy having the King of Incubi and Succubi pry open your firewall."
Dark light swirled around his hands. The merchant began to tremble, his face contorting in silent nightmare.
---
Bashington DC, The Black House
Solo, Lilith, and Bub gathered around the table in Solo's office, the screen displaying Luke's face from Hellicon Valley.
Luke laughed. "Solo, my dude, you were right again. By not censoring the goddess or the church online, we can track exactly how strong their influence is in Ravendawn."
"So?" Solo leaned forward. "How's the data look?"
Luke flashed a devilish grin. "Our beta test is a success."
Charts filled the screen — steep curves, shifting interests, behavioral trends.
"If we analyze the trend on the non-demon Boogle users," Luke explained, "people in Ravendawn are getting less and less interested in the goddess, the church, and heaven. Instead they're Goog— uh, Boogling how to get rich fast, how to get famous, what their sexy demon idols are wearing… all their wicked desires."
Bub added, reading from his own charts, "And according to Lich's study, the humans in Ravendawn are now less afraid of demons. That makes the goddess virus inside them more dormant."
"Good," Solo said proudly. "Same as my old world. Give people something tangible to worship — money, fame, entertainment — and they forget about their god."
He clapped his hands. "Okay! Time to start spreading this to other countries!"
"Nope," Lilith and Bub said simultaneously.
"Whyyy?" Solo whimpered.
"Even countries with trade agreements still forbid any obvious demon presence," Lilith said. "They fear church backlash. And now? They fear Dwargonia too."
"And!" Bub added loudly, "Do you know how much raw materials we need to fill a country with smartphones, internet, and electricity? A LOT! We can barely supply Murica and Ravendawn! Now you want ANOTHER country!?"
He grabbed his almost bald head in frustration. "The factories are screaming! The distributors are screaming! The markets are screaming! I'M SCREAMING!"
TING
Bub checked his phone.
"…YES LUKE, I KNOW YOU NEED TO RELEASE A NEW yPHONE IN THREE MONTHS! STOP TEXTING ME EVERY DAY AT THE SAME EXACT TIME!"
Luke cackled, putting down his phone. "Demons get irritated if they can't buy the newest model."
"And I… get irritated if I can't harvest jealousy from demons who can't afford a new one," Luke added, dark aura rising.
"They wouldn't need new ones so often if YOU DIDN'T ASK ME TO MAKE THEM EASY TO BREAK!" Bub countered, aura matching. "YOU RUIN MY DIGNITY AS AN INVENTOR!"
"Guys, calm down!" Lilith tried to intervene. "We're still in a meet—"
"Oh shut up, you fat bitch," Luke shot back casually.
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING FAT!?" Lilith roared, joining the aura party.
Within seconds, all three were in a full dark-aura battle of insults.
Solo ignored them with a sigh, gazing out his window.
"This wouldn't be happening if things with Dwargonia hadn't collapsed…"
His plan was simple: turn Talvaris into a Murica-style culture — democratic, consumerist, hedonistic — drowning out the goddess's influence through cultural dominance. But military technology remained tightly guarded. The demons wanted other races to stop fearing them, so future conflicts wouldn't feed the goddess too much.
Unfortunately before cultural diplomacy could take effect…
A war arrived at their doorstep..
---
Pentagon
"Sir! Dwargonia is moving!" A military aide burst into Stan's office.
"Where?" Stan growled.
"Their fleets and airships just departed. Most likely, Ravendawn."
"Kukuku… good. "Set up a conference call with Generals Fujin, Hanz, and Admiral Rusalka. We'll strategize en route — prepare my plane."
"Uh… sir,— you can't." The aide said nervously. "You are not allowed to leave Bashington during conflict. Prime Minister's orders."
"GAAAAH!"
Stan wailed in despair.
The rule was clear: No demon duke is allowed on the battlefield during wartime.
Too scary for the enemy. Morale-shattering. Adding too much sauce to goddess dinner.
---
Dwargonia Coast
The ocean thundered as the Dwargonian fleet sailed forth — a massive formation of brass-colored dreadnoughts, destroyers, and cruisers. Above them, countless steam-propelled airships blotted out the sky in a golden haze of metal and gears. Black smoke poured from chimneys, staining the horizon like an industrial sunrise.
Their objective was simple:
Destroy the Ravendawn and Murican navies.
On the flagship's deck, Admiral Durnick Axebreaker watched the armada stretch into the distance — an awe-inspiring sight even for a dwarf.
But Durnick felt no awe. Only grief… and rage.
"Sir," the ship captain reported, "the Titan Fleet and Black Coast Fleet will join us within the hour."
"Very well." Durnick said quietly
"With four fleets combined, the demons and Ravendawn don't stand a chance," the captain said proudly.
"Confidence is good, captain," Durnick replied coldly. "Do not let it make you underestimate the enemy."
"O course, admiral."
When the captain left, Durnick exhaled slowly. Hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.
"Dwordoug… I swear, on our clan name… I will make the demons and their allies pay." He whispered
His eyes burned with the fire of a dwarf ready for war.
After the Grand Council released everything—the Atlas sinking, Ravendawn's attack on a merchant ship, and the assassination of Grand Marshal Dwordoug by Murica's Foreign Minister—the dwarven nation erupted.
Every dwarf in Dwargonia wanted Murican blood.
And their golden fleets were moving to collect it.