Jersin went slack-jawed as did many of Cerlius's classmates. They all looked at Pince, who had spoken out in favor of the outcast - the muscle-brained idiot. Dark clouds formed high above the Reach, as if the very heavens had been thrown into disarray. Slowly, the unstable spells dissipated as all attention turned Cerlius's way.

"Questions are never stupid, and should always be spoken aloud." Another student spoke up in Cerlius's defense, Ronlo, then another student, then another, until the Reach's quiet was shattered by chaotic arguments.

'Larque, you're right about the students,' Cerlius thought. 'And the teachers. What's going on? I don't sense a spell being cast.'

'That's because this isn't magic,' Larque said. 'It's a result of a demonic trait. That's why I haven't been found out yet. I haven't felt a presence this strong since...no.'

The other instructors curiously turned their heads towards the source of the noise. "This is ridiculous," Jersin said. "The rules are the rules." He glared at Cerlius, the origin of the outburst, and raised his cane for another strike.

Lance stepped in front of Cerlius. "And no one knows the rules better than me. I know the punishments. I know the things you do to the Demis, and how you like to stretch the truth. Section eight paragraph four of the academy's rules: if any instructor were to wrongfully raise their hand against another, they will be expelled and in some cases executed."

"You're bluffing," Jersin chuckled. "You really remember all of that?"

"I'm the one who wrote it," Lance spat. He suddenly grabbed Jersin's cane. "Now maybe it's time for a practical demonstration of Compound magic." Mana crackled in his hand. "It may not be right, but you don't care about those sorts of things, do you Jersin?"

Jersin spat in Lance's face: "That's instructor Jersin to you." He tried to yank his cane away yet Lance held firm. Mana gushed out like a geyser around them, pushing the students back. Howling wind gathered around Lance. The ground quaked under Jersin's feet. "Are you finally going to grow a spine today?" The dark clouds above cast the Reach in layers of shadow.

"I've always had a spine," Lance said. "I've just been holding back until this point. I've dealt with all of your shit, all of your back talking and bitching, and now you've broken my patience." Lance's grip tightened as the wind wrapped around his body, forming a sort of armor. "So now, I'm going to break you."

"You'll try," Jersin's cane slipped out of Lance's grip and pierced into the dirt. The quaking ground rose up into a humanoid form with two glowing eyes, a sentient golem.

'Are you going to stop them?' Larque asked.

'And say what?' Cerlius responded. 'There is an order to Humans, and interrupting would disrupt that, no matter if I'm in the right or the wrong.'

'Then how will you prepare?'

'Prepare?' Cerlius scanned the Reach. 'For what? A single strong demon can't threaten us. The war is eleven months away.'

….

Zolgon sat at the edge of a cloud and let his legs dangle in the air without a care in the world. His tail ended with a barb as pointed and jagged as his ears and teeth. Instead of the typical two horned demon, he had four twisting horns crudely embedded with various jewels. Despite the appearance of his horns, he liked to wear simple leather made from the many dragons he had slain.

He breathed in the clean air of the Human realm and took in the beautiful sight of the magic academy below him. The Acrin mages ran amuck like ants, so desperate to fulfill their duties and obey their superiors that they became blind to anything else. A slight breeze infused with mana swept past him and flew down to the roof. He chuckled to himself, realizing the mages had already fallen victim to the effects of the demonic presence.

Zolgon's pointed ears twitched as the silent flap of an owl's wings came to a stop a dozen paces behind him. "Your highness," the owl said after it morphed into a simple demon servant. Feathered wings became membranous, bat-like. Zolgon didn't look but he knew the servant was kneeling. After all, every demon knelt before him.

Some refused to do so in the past; they had become food for the crows and maggots back in the demonic realm. Even enemies had their purpose, whether that be as future slaves or decoys for the arrogant Human army. "I permit you to speak," Zolgon waved his clawed hand.

"The Resistance leader..." the servant said as he raised his head. "has successfully lured Alexander Finlish to the very west of the Kingdom as per the terms of the agreement. He has only requested for you to be cautious of one individual." A quiet, collective chuckle echoed from behind the servant and Zolgon.

With a simple snap of Zolgon's fingers, the army at his back went silent. "The God of Evil gave me a similar warning." Upon a closer look the servant could see a geometric pattern of scar tissue, the Grand Shaman's marking. He didn't dare to linger on them, especially since Zolgon held a rare scowl.

"I see no threat from him, and that's what scares me. He hasn't ousted himself like I and the hero. He has been lying low as if he was an average person. He's terrifying." He smiled. "I just can't get my mind around it, like I'm staring at a wolf in sheep's clothing."

Zolgon rubbed his chin, and smiled a sharp, pointed grin as his servant went quiet. Most demons hold oddities, mutations that brought about an extra ability or physical enhancement.

It didn't matter where you came from in his eyes, just what you could do. That was why the servant was a servant, since he was one of the weaker, unmutated broods. Why the servant shook on the other hand, was because of the being in front of him, the demon king's unique presence. All demons had a presence which twisted and altered the minds around them. The king was the exception, the only exception, simply because of his power.

Only one could withstand it, the Grand Shaman, his mentor and guardian. She walked up to Zolgon and patted him on the shoulder. War was a place for agony: she preached the God of Evil's teachings through her extreme fasting. Various charms and poultices covered her unusually pale skin. If the servant didn't know better, he would have thought the woman to be the young Zolgon's mother.

Branath brushed her blood-red hair onto her implanted antlers and spoke: "It's such a good day. The God of Evil is carrying out Maker's will, or he had been until this point. This attack was prophesied to take place in eleven months. This time, this reincarnation, is different. It is random and unpredictable.

The cards that each side had been hiding for centuries are finally being played. We stand here breaking every prophecy, every past, every history, that has ever occurred. Fear is only natural."

"Fear?" Zolgon chuckled. "No, I was thinking of alternatives to killing Maker's champion." With a simple flap of his only wing, he was on his feet. "The traitor down there informed us about a room called The Dimmer. I think that will do." He walked around Branath and faced the awaiting army. "The scroll."

Branath bowed and took a scroll from within the thick furs around her body. The sounds of hundreds of weapons was bone chilling. Each weapon was made from the hardest black stone, and the blades were of Amthissle (pronounced am-thistle), a purple crystal hard as steel.

Demons took to the air, flapping their bat-like wings. Demons mounted on enormous lava boars and any other monstrous creature they had tamed. The army snarled and laughed. Humans' life essence came in the form of external mist but demonic life essence came in the form of exoskeletal segments under the skin. Not too bulky, not too small, segmented and even.

Branath scanned through the scroll and a magic circle formed so large that the servant had to take a step back. The intricacy of each and every characteristic was only expected for a spell stolen from the Head Mage. The designs lit up with a blue glow and a beam of destruction descended. "Begin."