The Kabuki-Ordo Theatre had seen better days. Currently, it served as a makeshift command center for Royals and several battalions of the Ordoian Army. The theatre had been placed square in the busiest part of Windvent, having access to several roads and avenues that led to key locations and critical infrastructure within the borough.

Civilians naturally gathered here knowing supplies were plentiful. Near the theatre was Heroic Park about fifty meters straight from the entrance, once known for the Verdant Gardens in the south, where Lady Verdant—a famous botanist from the early days—had founded and cultivated a wondrous plain of exotic flowers. So exotic that alchemy departments and institutions from all over often visited this place to pluck ingredients due to the soil being naturally enhanced by her work.

The aesthetic had been wonderful. High vermillion roses whose blooms sung, multi-colored flowers that shifted colors according to the weather, and living plants that moved as they sensed your presence (admittedly sort of terrifying but intriguing at the same time). Sometimes Damien liked to visit the gardens by himself whenever he was in the area. He liked the aesthetic. Made him feel poetic. Ready to sling limericks and write sonnets.

The aesthetic had been wonderful.

In Heroic Park, today, the Verdant Gardens burned down, the soil having its drink of blood and warfare. Beauty was the first casualty of war. The truth of the world gone. Refugees abjectly lived in wrinkled, plastic tents and dirty sheets on where it had once stood. Sweet petals were in the ash while the smell of smoke never left, a constant fragrance like a looming grief over a recent death. Lush ash had rolled over the park, the hills were now occupied by the weary when children liked to roll down them. Hardly any space here. Relief centers clogged with the needy, arguments over shortages with the service workers, soldiers tense and alert for rogues and monsters, heightened over a possibility of a protest.

It was one of the many miserable hubs of today, from barrier to barrier. From the theatre, soft classical music was playing on the speakers, though the music did little.

Damien stared at Heroic Park and frowned softly, disappointed that it was in this state. What could he do? He’d waste mental energy if he fixated on this any more.

“How long do you think Ordo can last in this state?” he asked Problem, levitating, wearing his heavy, obscuring black cloak that concealed his cursed form (a child).

Problem’s head swiveled side-to-side; his hood casted an undefeatable darkness that effectively acted as a mask. “Two weeks at most, I’d wager.”

“So we have a week until the end of the world.”

“At most. The Sungrazers, given how they evaded our methods, could be executing a scheme as we speak that results in the spectacular obliteration of Ordo by tomorrow morning.”

“And Ordo’s currently summoning a fallen god to wipe the Sungrazers off the face of the earth.”

“I wish. It’s been years since I last spoken to anyone remotely resembling divinity.”

Damien rolled his eyes as they entered Kabuki-Ordo through the front entrance. Given from its name, the building had architectural inspirations from Japan, both taking references from various Kabuki theatres across the country and traditional Japanese roots. Like the tiled rooftops, the colorful walls once splattered with sharp shades of red and blue and gold—and the walls today were peeling as though a massive cat scratched them.

Despite the Kabuki-Ordo Theatre’s Japanese origins, the theatre was open to shows from all cultural corners. Damien visited once or twice to have a solid taste of “culture”—compared to his friends, he was rather dull in that area. Now, well, hardly any culture was left.

The pair entered and a booming audience of voices banged against their ears as it took a few seconds for their hearing to adjust. Before, walls were lined with posters of plays and shows like Les Miserables and the classics or modern works, dances and concerts, and every May, there’d be the Show of Wind where students from the Ordo Art Institute could broadcast their opus.

Hardly anyone here was artistic. The lobby contained gray soldiers and depressed workers stacking themselves at the far wall, tasked with taking care of the civilians’ needs in a special Hell where torture was endless retail work fighting against crappy customers. Hundreds swarmed the open area, no order, no lines. Red velvet ropes were stepped over, poles too.

The System dinged.

> Fusil:

>

> Right hallway

Damien stood on his toes and found a familiar silver-haired Slayer standing between a couple soldiers on guard, an ethersand rifle magnetically (or magically, he didn’t know) strapped to his back.

“Want me to carry you?” Damien asked Problem as a joke, seeing the crowd ahead of them.

Earning a scowl from his partner, the two squeezed through the rambunctious refugees and pushed forward like a couple of eels moving against the current, slipping their way to sweet comfortable freedom and hitting the steady, powering glare of Ordo’s No.15, a Head Officer belonging to Royals.

Mark Hugo, Fusil, and Damien once again met him.

They never got along for obvious reasons. Demons and humans did not mix well.

“Finally,” said the Slayer, eyes resting on Damien a second longer than the child. He cocked his head deeper into the hallway, a gesture for them to follow, and they had.

The lobby became more insignificant with every step and the only noise here were the unsettling echoes of boots clacking against the floor. Slayers and soldiers in fatigues passed them, some glancing over in curiosity, some Slayers lingering on Damien the longest.

Damien ignored them as he always had. “I’m hazarding a guess, but considering the subjugation calls for us and your king’s involvement, it must be a grave danger to Ordo.”

Mark nodded sternly, animosity in his little revealing movements. “I’d rather not discuss anything now as everything will be explained by Monarch and High Dominion.”

“But it concerns the Sungrazers to an extent,” Problem followed.

“Something like that, yeah. How’s Montana doing?”

“Horrible, to put it bluntly.” Although Problem’s expression was hidden by his magically-enhanced hood, he was surely scowling. “He’s doing his best to advise our Acting Guild Master but Mystic is not making it easy. The command structure is fractured, miscommunication everywhere, and he’s not doing Ordo any favors by blaming Silverhonor every step of the way.”

“I find it hard to imagine Glory repairing itself after this. It might be the Big Three once the outbreak’s done and dusted.”

“Less competition for you,” Damien commented with a curl of his lips.

“It means we got a structural pillar knocked over,” snapped Mark.

“Until another guild claims Glory’s spot if it does collapse. It’s nothing but the survival of the fittest here, literally and metaphorically. The Big Four—Three—is doing well but I can’t say the same for the smaller guilds and their claims. After the Disaster, Ordo's landscape will be ripe for the pickings."

“How about you stick to your own lane and us high-rankers stick to ours, yeah?” bit the gracious high-ranker, appreciating Damien’s statement.

“Do you have to irritate everyone you speak with?” Problem whispered to him.

“Of course not, just like I’m able to turn off my demonic aura at will,” Damien snarked back before looking ahead at Mark. “Hey—”

“We’re here,” he interrupted, slowing down as they approached two open, heavy wooden doors with cinderblocks propped against the bottom. Leading directly into the main theatre room where all the shows took place.

Before they entered, Mark stopped them. “You can go ahead first, Problem. I need to speak with Damien.”

The look that the two Baptists exchanged said everything.

Problem sighed and floated past Mark.

The Head Officer was glowering, pink in the face, staring at Damien like a Christian to a demon. As far as he knew, Mark didn't go to church.

There were a few things that immediately came to Damien’s mind: one, demon; two, Vernon and the Baptists; three, High Dominion—well, you could fit that into the first point. So it really was between demon and Baptist. Flipping a coin…

“Is this about your brother?” Damien concluded.

Mark’s lips tensed together until they disappeared into his mouth. “I—”

“Alex already told me.” Damien crossed his arms. “That you pestered your brother without his knowledge, probably demoralizing him, and scolded you for it. Apparently he was ruthless but considering the look on your face…” Where his skin turned from pink to red, “...I think he was correct.”

“I just don’t fucking understand.” Mark put his hands on his hips, baffled. “It’s one thing that we’re getting attacked by cosmic shit-for-brains from who-fucking-knows-where, but it’s completely another thing that Seraph created strike force dealing with them.”

“Which includes your brother.”

“Which includes my brother, yeah!”

The reason why is this: apparently the rest of Alba has otherselves that had a connection to Helodrake Aethfell and this is one convoluted revenge plot. I’m their pet demon who's coming along for the ride. “Well, what do you want me to say? Or did you pull me aside to complain about it?”

Mark couldn’t answer him immediately, which gave Damien exactly it.

“I don’t know what to tell you that Alex hasn’t covered already—”

“I don’t care what Alex says—”

“You should care.” Because that man will be an EX-Rank Slayer. “To remind you, he’s a TL and you messed with a member of his team regardless if he’s your brother or not. And I know enough about your culture that it’s unprofessional at best and catastrophic at worst. And you are fully aware of that. And if we're in a more stable place, I might even advise Alex to lodge an official complaint against you and he'd have all the standing."

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Mark bit his lip, unable to fight back.

“If you’re done here, I need to reintroduce myself to the others.”

As Damien walked by him, Mark whispered, “Don’t cause any trouble.”

Trouble is the only thing I cause. He entered the stageroom. Normally there’d be seats from wall-to-wall but they had been folded into the ground, evident by the mechanical dark lines running across the floor. The space, thus, was converted into a command center where extension cords acted like tripwire and everyone was darted between the aisles and columns to their stations and superiors.

Another day, another base.

On the stage itself, a large raised platform overlooking the main floor, metal partitions were established to provide privacy for the most important personnel inside. That must be where Monarch was, the king of the Royals, and the generals and colonels and whatever.

Damien inhaled for peace, hoping that no Slayer would randomly pop in and stop him, and quickly he paced up the stairs as he ignored everything around him. Taking the stairs on the side, he discovered what laid behind the curtains: just a boring work area with tables, computers, and devices hooked up to more extension cords.

Immediately Levin spotted him.

Levin, the Vice Guild Master and Ordo’s No.8, who had been present in Scorcher. The Empress of Lightning and looked like a war-maiden, with short blonde hair and a scar cutting across her face. Damien remembered seeing her prized signature, the [Beryl-Blitz], a golden greatsword birthed from the Heavensforge, in combat. A terrifying thing that could tear you apart from wind pressure alone.

She greeted him warmly in the form of sheer disgust. Though he was convinced it was due to her infamous personality and not the intrusion from the week prior. Or his demon blood. Levin wasn't prejudiced, she hated everyone equally. The sort of leader that'd criticize you in front of your peers in the harshest manner in no uncertain terms.

And she had.

As controversial as she was, Levin was good at her job.

“The demon’s here,” Levin alerted the rest of the group.

Which contained Problem, a couple Slayers that Damien didn’t recognize (though one had holy magick), same for a few service members, and Monarch herself.

The Guild Master who had hair like golden silk and whose handsomeness could trick the ignorant into thinking she was a man. Like a proper king, she dressed in ivory armor and a flapping regal cape as she turned to witness him. Damien was always surprised at how tall she was—six-foot-five, that sounded impossible.

The inspiration for her aesthetic was obvious. There could only be one timeless king known across the world.

Damien bit his tongue. Like Seraph and Rector, Monarch had faith woven into her equipment. He wasn't sure which one was worse: the angel or the pious king.

But regardless of his uneasiness, he stepped forward and bowed his head in respect for the Magnanimous King. “It looks like I was right: we met again.”

“Duskfire’s eldest,” Monarch began, her voice going without imperfections. “You’ve arrived.”

She stood and spoke like a wall. She was guarding herself from him, sensing the danger.

How ironic was that, considering only one of them here had an [Honor] that was inherently mind-altering. Thanks to [Demon Cognition], Damien was naturally more resistant to such magick but it didn't mean much against an SS-Rank Slayer.

The [Great King's Charisma], what an enviable skill.

He cleared his throat, looked past her and saw Problem, who no doubt wanted him to take this conversation professionally. Damien said, “I’m honored to be here.” Everyone's staring at me. If I had social anxiety, I’d melt on the spot. “Would you mind filling me in on the details?”

Mark brushed by him, standing beside Levin. They whispered to each other about something.

One of the unrecognized Slayers stepped forward.

Damien’s heart thumped against his chest. He recognized him now. He had been hiding his magick. Concealing it perfectly.

The Slayer looked harmless. The kind of man who would sit on a park bench and toss bread crumbs to the local birds, somehow finding joy in the mundane act of feeding these sky-rats. He was middle-aged, hair more gray than black, and wore rectangular glasses that a dull middle-aged corporate worker would have. The perfect picture of a boring uncle, one that Damien never had but saw in TV shows and movies.

Here, the uncle dressed as a Slayer in pure white robes wielding a staff of Byzantine aesthetics. A simple cross necklace shimmered above his collarbone.

White Herald, Team Leader of High Dominion, a Head Officer in Angels. He was one of the best miracle users in the guild, being Vatican-trained. From the mere fact that his presence was concealed from Damien indicated his abilities. And that drove fear through Damien's heart, incomparable to the likes of Jin Tiehan, whose reputation preceded him.

This fear, in great contrast, was drawn from the unknown.

This man was the perfect wolf dressed as a sheep.

Fearlessly he stepped towards the demon, a man of faith against an agent of evil, and shook his hand. “White Herald, but I’m sure you already know who I am. There’s no need for a long introduction.”

Damien did his best to ease his beating heart. The calm demeanor could be a mask. A ploy to get the heartless and apocalyptic demon to trust the Ordoians. But he couldn’t make his distrust obvious. So playing along to this game of manners, a darling smile was given and an enthusiastic response was said: “Of course. Who’s accompanying you?”

White Herald turned and gestured to the woman to approach.

She was a pretty young woman, somewhere in her mid-twenties. Her movements were elegant and graceful like wind fluting through grass. The skirt her black and white battledress fluttered. Around her shoulder was a grimy peach-colored braid, and her pale skin was spotty with mud and dirt. But her transparent blue eyes signaled strength and experience beyond what Damien knew. And contempt, of course, as she was facing a demon she’d normally slay.

The opposite of her leader, whose presence was deceptively small. She naturally drew attention. You had to be larger than life to join High Dominion after all.

Damien guessed she had a more supportive role in the team but he could be wrong. He suspected this was…

“I’m Votary,” she introduced herself, though pleasureless, not bothering to hide her prejudice. “I’m youngest member in High Dominion. We will be working together for this subjugation.”

“High Dominion is composed of specialists within the general field of faith magick. I am a practitioner of miracles while Ivory Knight is unrivaled when it comes to wards; for Votary, she specializes in faith-based weaponry,” explained White Herald proudly.

Damien instinctively wanted to mutter “Weaponry? Her?” but bit his lip from making an unprovoked comment, taking a second look at the young woman only to see her turn away and scoff.

He had the charm.

Among tabloids and journalism outlets (more like gossip outlets but still), Votary had little-to-none spotlight in the public eye but was rumored to be quite “unique” amongst her peers. This must be the reason behind them. No one would imagine such a pure-looking girl to wield “faith-based weaponry”. Good God, that sounded terrifying.

The last of the members introduced themselves. They were officers and staff officers belonging to the detachment stationed here in Kabuki-Ordo. They'll provide foundational support for Monarch and the Royals participating in the operation. The rifles won’t be fighting the main threat but they will maintain security and whatnot.

Damien stood next to Problem in what probably was a false sense of security, but it was better than being next to two exorcists and the holy king plus two of her roundtable knights. “If you don’t mind me initiating this conversation, I take it that we’re dealing with an unholy threat.”

“That we are,” Monarch answered, the supreme voice in this meeting in authority and tone. “Because there aren’t any relevant ESOC teams in Ordo, I’ve asked Rector to lend High Dominion here. But they’re a secondary measure. A back-up, because I’ve also asked Seraph if I can borrow the Problem Children.”

Which means me. Damien had silence for his response.

“We’ve found a Void Demon within Darkrealm’s Hold. While we would subjugate it like any other, sometimes a problem can be exactly the solution we need. So…”

“You want me to form a contract with a Void Demon.” Damien stopped himself from laughing like a maniac and waited for a response. Their expressions had his answer. It was a resolute affirmative. A ‘Yes!’ in the greatest sense of it.

Damien chomped the inside of his cheek but he couldn’t stop a small, outraged chuckle from squeezing itself through his locked teeth.

This plan, although ingenious, was also callous, like a chess player sacrificing a pawn. Because it was exactly that.

No longer caring about niceties, Damien disrespectfully rambled, “Knowing I’m one step away from a Black Order or an Apocalyptic designation—it doesn’t matter which—you’re asking me to personally contract with a hostile, high-grade demon while the rest of you are physically and politically isolated from the event, thus placing all of the blame on me if your clever little scheme collapses and you carry on with the original subjugation as planned and you can add a demon to your trophy wall—or two, if you’re lucky.

“Did I understand your proposal correctly or is there a mistake in my reasoning somewhere?”

Problem wanted to shoot his head off.

Everyone else was dead quiet. Sweat dripped down the dirt-slathered cheeks of the military officers, who had no doubt understood the gravity of this decision and personally approved it. The Royals Head Officers were stuck between aggrieved and tense, sort of like the old westerns where gunslingers stared dead-eyed at one another, sand-rusty hands above their holsters.

But Monarch was marble.

“That…” Monarch said after what it felt like hours, “...is not our intention. We hope that appealing to the Void Demon using its own blood would increase our odds.” You make it sound like there isn’t a single part of me that’s human. “It’s what you said last week: we cannot use brute force to win, and this is one weapon we need. Please don’t attribute our planning as malice, Fayer. We have a common cause.”

You’re correct, but you’re fully aware that High Dominion is capable of entrapping the Void Demon and forcing a contract that way. Of course, that would mean a lengthy investigation by the Guards. A license suspension at best, jail-time plus permanent impairment at worst. They wouldn’t be considered as Apocalyptics unlike me.

Sometimes a problem can be a solution, that’s what you said earlier.

“Well,” he began, “there’s a large difference between a half-demon and a diabolist. Despite this you’re placing a great amount of trust in me.”

“That’s because you’ve proven yourself to be an ally of humanity.” Since when that wasn’t the case?

His eyes wandered to the Dominion members. “You can say the same thing for a dog on a tight leash.”

“We don’t think of you as that.”

“Of course not.” Because you’ve done your research on my father. White Herald must know. “You’re Slayers, the Magnanimous King and High Dominion, warriors of faith and morality. And I’m your natural opposite. You think of me much worse.”

From the beginning, they never considered Damien as ‘half-human’ but ‘half-demon’. Because, high-rankers naturally had keen senses and they took notice of his demonic energy first. Right now they spoke to Damien as a demon, looked at him as one, treated him as one.

They wouldn’t have come up with the same plan if Silverhonor was in his place.

Damien knew everything he needed to know.

Monarch fought, “I—“

“I accept,” Damien concluded, smiling. “I’ll make a contract with the Void Demon.”

His answer took the entire group by surprise, which of course immediately led to suspicion.

He curtly explained, “I understand your position and I’d do the same thing in your shoes.”

Looking at this from a Guild Master’s perspective, Monarch (and perhaps Seraph as well) made the best possible decision. She minimized the most amount of risk to her own people—Ordoians—and transferred it to the largest liability within the city: Damien Fayer. If they played their part perfectly then no matter the outcome of the negotiation, humanity would win.

Though success had interesting implications once you considered the Global Guards, but he wouldn’t get into that right now.

Damien had understood this from the moment Monarch told him. He planned to go along from the very beginning.

He simply wanted to gauge their reactions, seeing if they would really admit it.

They hadn’t. In Monarch’s attempt to persuade Damien, she unintentionally treated him like a toddler and stirred embarrassment between herself and her peers.

It was an oddly satisfying feeling to see the atmosphere turn from nail-bitingly tense to enjoyably awkward. Damien let himself absorb the pleasure for about five seconds before moving on to what was really important.

“So,” he began, “how are we doing this?”