Lokus searched the fortress high and low for a place away from prying eyes, but for the longest time, his efforts yielded no results besides the settling of his flesh clay into normal flesh.

The fortress was constructed to maximize the space available to it. If it wasn’t a street, it was a drab stone building, and if it wasn’t that, it was a training yard filled with soldiers swinging their weapons in the dark.

There were few women and zero children, at least on the streets he walked, and everyone from the armed and armored soldiers to those in civilian clothes had a certain air to them, something Lokus hadn’t paid much attention to when he first arrived.

They weren’t grim, per se, nor dour or depressed. It was more like they were used to hardship, and the stony faces and flinty gazes everyone wore spoke of a weathered experience and an acclimation to hard times.

Even with Lokus’ hair color hidden in the dark, he stuck out like a sore thumb thanks to his mask, lack of a shirt, and the blood and vomit covering him.

Everywhere he went, people would turn their noses up at the smell and give him a reproachful glance before returning to their own business, put off by the mask he wore. That unnerving facsimile of human life was enough to send shivers down their spines.

No one bothered Lokus as he explored, but no one would give him the time of day either. Whenever he tried to approach someone to ask them a question, they would hurry away to flee from both the smell and the stranger who bore it, leaving him directionless and lost.

But it wasn’t all bad. His full stomach was enough to ease the worst of his mood, and his wonder at the fortress people’s way of life assuaged what little sourness was left.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had wondered how anyone could survive under the surface for so long, and now his questions were being answered one at a time.

He came to learn through the gossip of the townsfolk that most everything came entirely from demons. Their blood was fermented into alcohol; their hides cured and fashioned into boots, jackets, pants, and the like; their meat devoured; and their bones were used for weapons much like Lokus had done with his femur axe.

Nothing was wasted, which on its own was enough to earn Lokus' admiration, but when he came to learn that the fortress farmed the demons, he could only swallow his shock.

Tanners, bone workers, demon breeders, cooks, if you lived here and weren’t a soldier, you definitely had something to do with making the most of the fortress’ most important resource.

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Indeed, Lokus found no signs of pubs, stores, brothels, or anything else that could be used for entertainment. There were still people entertaining themselves, of course, usually with dice or game pieces carved of demon bone or stone, but these people were few in number.

Free time appeared to be a luxury in the fortress, but the people did their duties without complaint, knowing that everyone was integral to the self-sustaining efficiency of the fortress.

During his search, he also heard the fortress’ name: Saddoton.

An idea came to Lokus when he heard of the fortress’ demon farming, and a short time spent searching later, he stumbled upon a rather long building with two wide doors of solid stone.

Lokus entered the barn, the doors swinging open with remarkable ease at his touch, and closed the door behind him as he looked around. Ibmund slithered through behind him.

Cooped up in individual stalls along either wall were hundreds of demons of varying sizes, some as large as chickens and others slightly bigger around than a particularly fat cow.

Some walked, some slithered, some floated, and yet others just sat there on enormous stomachs, but all were distinctly unique in some way, having more individuality in their forms than even humans.

They were all surprisingly calm, hardly making noise and making no attempts to attack the human in their midst. Not they could anyway, seeing as they were locked in their stalls.

Buckets lined three of the stalls, and heaps of baskets lined ten more, and as Lokus curiously looked into those stalls, he found lactating demons and small, egg-laying demons within, respectively.

The unpleasant stench one would expect from a barn lingered in the air, but after walking around with vomit on himself for so long, Lokus hardly even noticed it.

‘This should be a good enough spot,’ Lokus thought.

He gestured at Ibmund, who slithered over and turned tangible, before lifting its limp arm up with its good hand and proffering it to its master.

Lokus began to carefully wind the bandages around the demon’s arm, and as he did, he hummed thoughtfully.

‘It isn’t bleeding at all.’

Looking closer, Lokus found that where he had attacked the demon with his axe, what should have been gaping wounds pouring with blood were covered by thin, fleshy scabs. Not a drop of blood escaped their barriers, which was probably why Ibmund was so nonchalant despite the injury.

‘Interesting. I don’t suppose this means your arm can be fixed?’ he asked the demon.

The demon, of course, couldn’t speak, and simply gurgled in response.

‘Oh, right. Uh, send one pulse through the mask for no, two pulses for yes.’

A pulse tugged at his Sovereign Gateway, followed soon after by a second, and Lokus nodded.

‘That’s good. I assume you’ll need something more than just time? Like that Demonic Grass stuff?’

Ibmund gurgled quietly, its eyeless face turning to one of the demons in its stall, which shuffled back against the wall with a fearful expression as it did its best to make itself small.

‘Those aren’t mine to give away, but I’ll see what I can do to buy one for you,’ Lokus promised the demon. ‘There, all done.’

He stepped away, checking his handiwork.

Ibmund’s left arm now resembled that of a mummy’s, Lokus having used every inch of bandages he was given to secure the two parts of its arm and prevent it from moving. Not that it mattered; in the arm’s current state, Ibmund wouldn’t be able to move it even without the bandages.