It was time for war.

No, it was time for something that was, on a surface level, similar to war.

In a sense, it could be called playing at war.

On one hand, there was an army of blood-thirsty monsters, who had had to satisfy themselves with nothing but spars, spars, endless spars for the past several years.

On the other hand, there was an army of Dwarves who had already lost their country and were only participating to honour a promise made by their king.

Really, the conclusion was foregone.

But the demon king found foregone conclusions trite.

Thus, he decided, he would not participate in the battle himself—instead, he would dance, alone, after the fighting was over, a dance dedicated to his beloved goddess, a merciless, cruel dance, a dance that would shock anyone.

Thus, with the strongest piece not even on the gameboard, the game began.

***

Metal clashed against metal as the soldiers spewed forth from either side.

On one hand, there were the orderly formations of the dwarves, with standardised equipment and conventional tactics.

Yet they were accustomed to fighting in their caves, for the most part—in an open field like this one, many of their tactics held no water.

On the other hand, there was a disorderly mob of monsters, whose only standardised part was the weapons they held—and even then, there was a great variety, ranging from swords to spears to even clubs and scythes.

They barely had any group tactics to begin with, which, in and of itself, meant that there were no battlefields they were more or less used to—no matter where they fought, each monster would simply slaughter the best it could.

Of course, there were vestiges of tactics. Monsters with access to healing magic healed their allies, and in general, mage-types and archers hung back, behind the frontlines. But that was the extent of it.

Indeed, to use the word ‘war’ would be entirely inappropriate, for war implied a fight between two armies.

And the army, here, was no mere army—it was a calamity.

***

As though to exemplify that, the fourth of the Demon Generals, Davna, was having the time of her life. Her high-pitched, childish laughter resounded throughout the battlefield.

“Ahahahaha! It’s been sooooo long since I’ve been able to fight properly♪”

With every little movement of her scaled claws, flames danced across the battlefield. A multitude of magic circles raged behind her, waves of heat distorting the air, her grinning visage hidden by the haze. She walked the scorched earth beneath her feet, not bothering to flap her wings.

Around her, there was no one.

No ally was stupid enough to get caught up in her absolute, all-burning heat. And any dwarf that got near…

Well.

The mountains of corpses behind her should tell that tale.

Her tail wagging merrily from side to side, Davna spun and spun on one foot, raining fire, death and bloodied gore all around.

“Ahahahaha♪”

***

In another place on the battlefield, the third of the Demon Generals, Lilith Bral’goch, was feeling rather bored.

With an expression as if she’d rather be sleeping, she floated in the air, well out of range of the dwarves’ melee fighters and protected by her allies’ strong defensive spells from their ranged attacks.

It would be most apt to compare her to an unassailable fortress.

With minimal effort, she rained spell after spell upon the dwarves, murdering more than she cared to count.

Indeed, to call it killing, as one would in wartime, would be inaccurate—after all, this was a one-sided slaughter.

“Come one, come all, to your deaths, c’mon, hurry it up…”

Cracking dumb jokes not even she herself found funny, Lilith continued her slaughter.

“C’mon, let’s finish this already…”

***

A maddened grin adorned the face of the second of the Demon Generals, Tempest Maleficum.

Yet those positive emotions were obviously not directed at the dwarven corpses below her feet. No, no, not at all.

She kicked them out of the way like they were pebbles on the side of the road.

Indeed, now that they were dead, they had lost all their value.

Just like the fourth General, there was not a single ally around her, and for the exact same reason, too. But unlike the fourth, Tempest was surrounded by dwarves.

Attacks rained on her from all sides, but she was covered in a multitude of coloured Magic Guards, so nothing could reach her.

“Next, I suppose I will try… This one?”

Without so much as raising a blood-covered arm to block the incoming attacks, she started chanting, and—

“[Original Magic: Watery Grave].”

The dwarf she gestured towards quickly found his lungs filled with water. Clutching at his throat, he started coughing up water, then blood, and finally, he dropped to the floor.

“Works just as expected. Perfect.”

Yes, in her mind, Tempest Maleficum was not surrounded by a battlefield filled with allies and enemies, but by a laboratory full of test subjects.

“Now, then, what shall I test out next? ♪”

***

In yet another place, there was once more a Demon General, with not an ally in sight.

The fifth Demon General, Navillus.

And once more, the reason there were no allies around her was the exact same.

All the ground within a radius of a good ten metres was coated with sticky, bluish goop, and all the dwarves who were unlucky enough to have stepped on it found they could no longer move their legs.

With a giddy, guileless smile on her face, the slime spread her arms.

“L… Let us go, you slimy bitch!”

“I’ll give you food, so…!”

Navillus just tilted her head at the dwarves’ words.

“Huh? Talking food? Navillus thinks, weird… But, oh well.”

Yes, without even the awareness that she had captured enemies, Navillus spread all over, seeping into even the bones.

“Navillus, digging in♪”

***

Kesthis of the lieutenant-generals had the habit of praying for his foes’ souls inbetween every spell.

Yet right now, he wasn’t doing any such thing.

He simply, enjoyed himself.

After all, his Lord had ensured the dwarven king that he would resurrect the dwarves. Thus, no one would die.

And thus, Kesthis simply gave the battle his all.

After setting up a few Magic Guards to protect himself, he picked out spells based on the criterion of what would kill his enemies the fastest.

After all, he could well understand their pride-bound hearts. He admired warriors, and did not want to sully their determination.

There was no need to cause unnecessary suffering.

So, while giving it his all for the first time in a long time, he ended life after life.

***

Grink of the lieutenant-generals found he had inadvertently let go of his sword.

It had not been knocked out of his hand, or any such thing—no, he had let it slip from his hand because he had swung it too hard.

“Oops, ‘scuse me…”

He thoughtlessly kicked a few dwarves aside as he went to retrieve it.

Really, it was a miracle they were still standing up to him to begin with.

With a grunt, he picked up his sword and swung it once more, turning another dozen dwarves into a pile of mincemeat.

Whether it was the dwarves’ flesh, their bones, or the metal armour they wore—

In front of Grink’s brute strength, it was all pulverised.

He smashed and broke and crushed until nothing was left.

***

Selaia of the lieutenant-generals was, unlike the rest of the unruly bunch, not surrounded by enemies, but by allies, instead.

From the safety of the rear lines, she cast curse after curse after curse, leaving her foes weakened, crippled, poisoned and half-dead.

With a dark smile on her face, she raised her arms to the sky in praise of the Goddess that had granted her such an opportunity.

“Lady Selaia…!”

A monster approached, carrying another.

“Another… injury? Here…”

She waved the pair closer, and they approached.

“Broken arm… Missing leg… Concussion…? Internal bleeding…”

The non-talkative Selaia rattled off injury after injury as she inspected the patient.

And then she started chanting.

And when it was complete—

“[The Goddess Heals All].”

Within seconds, the monster had not an injury left.

It was said that sometimes, great magical power could be born of faith.

Magic power that could fell even the greatest of giants, or heal the worst of injuries.

Magic power that could even bring back the dead.

Selaia was, to the core, a healer of great faith.

***

In the midst of battle, having long abandoned her trusty steed, was a knight without a head.

Well, to say she had no head would be incorrect—it just wasn’t on her neck.

Under her left arm, she carried her head. In the other, she carried a blade more than half her height.

“Wow, this is amazing!”

With a wide grin on her face, she swung her sword left and right. She had never done such a thing, but her recent transformation to a Dullahan had taught her all she needed. With every swing, she decapitated several dwarves.

“How’re you holding up over there, Evyna?”

Together with the ex-Saint, in the midst of the enemy lines, there was a living shadow who had also once been a human.

“Well… I, uh, definitely have gotten stronger, uhm, Miss Saniel!”

She fired spell after spell, much faster and more powerful than she had ever been able to as a human.

In addition, due to her nature, there was no need to worry about regular attacks—the only dwarves worth worrying about were the ones with Mythril swords, and since Mythril carried mana inside it, she could simply dodge those attacks by instinct.

If these had been the attacks of Heroes, it would’ve been one thing, but…

“This is actually, uh, kind of fun, isn’t it?”

“Right?”

With heartwarming smiles on their faces, the demon army’s former humans slaughtered and slaughtered.

***

There was a pair of children who were, officially, supposed to be the demon king’s bodyguards.

But with the demon king not participating in this battle, he had sent them out onto the frontlines.

To give them experience, he had said.

The boy carried a sword, larger than himself. Yet despite its size, he wielded it with absurd, practised ease.

With every step, he dodged an attack, and with every swing, he hit an enemy. If there was a need to blind an enemy, he would kick up sand, and if there was a chance to hit one from behind, he would take it.

In addition, he implored the local earth spirits for their help, and thus raised barriers of earth and shot out projectiles as though using magic, without drawing a single magic circle.

The girl carried a pair of swords of a much more reasonable size, but she, too, was defying reality.

Not an enemy could hit her.

Although a moment of thought made clear she was dodging, all those who looked at her could not think it so—it looked more like the enemy attacks were avoiding her. With every spin, she slashed another five wounds into some unfortunate dwarf, and her movements, graceful as could be, captured the attention of everyone present, enemy and ally alike.

This was his offering to the Goddess and her husband—a slaughter of great proportions.

This was her offering to the Goddess and her husband—a dance of grace and elegance.

Without a word, they communicated with each other, and without hesitation, they killed.

***

Elsewhere, there was another pair. This pairing was significantly more unusual.

A Kobold, fur white as snow, and a little girl with the wings of a butterfly.

Although the Kobold was far weaker than the rest of the noteworthy individuals, the winged girl more than made up for it. Since she had the ability to manipulate darkness without the restriction of spellcraft, assuming she was acting under orders, it was possible for her to, to an extent, work independently.

And thus, the duo collaborated.

The Kobold was small, but the spirit was smaller. Thus, it was easy to fool the enemy into thinking that only a Kobold had wandered up, on its own, by hiding the spirit behind her back.

And then, they would be dead before they processed what happened. Whether overwhelmed by claw techniques one would never expect from the likes of a Kobold or caught off-guard by a sudden chill, either way, it was the perfect chance to give the spirit an opening to attack.

Even they participated in the one-sided slaughter.

***

At perhaps the same time, in another nation entirely—that is, the Citadel of Stars, Folis.

The first of the Demon Generals, Charlotte Wright.

Without so much as stating her name, she had confronted a random group of thugs she had found in an alleyway. With her speed that surpassed human limits severalfold, she had beaten them into the dirt without even drawing her blade, and now she was grabbing one by the collar of his clothes.

“Take me t’ thy lead’r, or thou shalt perish.”

He nodded meekly.

***

The slaughter was over, and the demon king took centre stage.

His subordinates made place, and thus he stood amidst the thousands of dwarven corpses, if there weren’t more of them.

Was it good or bad fortune that the dwarven king happened to be watching? No one would know.

Regardless. Perhaps the dwarven king saw something in the demon king’s wicked grin, or perhaps he recognised what sort of mana the demon king was gathering, or perhaps he even recognised the melody of the spell’s chant.

Regardless of how he knew, panicked, he reached out—

***

The leader of the band of thugs of one of Folis’s districts found himself with his face pushed down into the floor. The little girl who had done such to him looked down at him as though looking at a piece of dirt.

Without a word, she lifted him by the collar of his shirt and brought his neck to her mouth—

The demon king, his face warped with maddened glee, opened his mouth and, with a voice as though praying to the heavens, started singing.

His hands spread to the side as he danced to and fro, a cursed requiem left his mouth.

“Ah, warriors. Oh, brave warriors.

You are beautiful. Beautiful beyond compare.

That beauty is surely entrancing to all who see it.

Ah, warriors. Oh, brave warriors.”

The dwarven king scrambled forth, but a suit of living armour forged of accursed metal blocked his path.

“The corpses! Get the corpses out of there!” he shouted, and his subjects attempted to obey.

Yet they, too, were stopped by an army of black, metallic soldiers, unending—

With a collection of bitten men and women, now wearing suspicious masks, before her, the first Demon General made a satisfied smirk.

As though brushing the hair of someone she was fond of, she traced the areas around their necks, licking her lips as she thought back to the feast she had just had.

And then, fixing up her determination, she spoke.

“Thralls. My new thralls. I give to ye my first order—”

Her satisfied smirk, at once, gave way to an expression of rapture as she clutched her hands in front of her chest and cast her gaze skyward.

“Thy Lord, thy new Lord, hallowed be his name, is the demon king, he who ought t’ rule this world—”

“Ah, warriors. Oh, brave warriors.”

Without the slightest hint of respect for the dead, the demon king grabbed corpse after corpse. He took them by the hands, as though they were partners in a dance.

“Your spirit resonates with me, it resonates with all.”

He took a corpse, danced a few steps, dropped it. Took a corpse, danced a few steps, dropped it. Took a corpse, danced a few steps, dropped it.

“I shall bestow upon you my blessing, an eternal field of glory and honour.”

With a fondness one would reserve only for their beloved, he gazed into the eyes of the dead. Was he seeing admirable, brave warriors? Or was he seeing her in their eyes—?

“By my name, you shall be given eternal strife, a beautiful Valhalla—”

“Thou shalt be the first o’ humanity t’ worship the world’s one true Lord, demon king Astaroth!”

“[Original Magic: Call of the Valkyrie]! Arise, now, as my eternal Einherjar!”