“Missed,” Aishe spat coldly from atop the giant armored dragon that served as her mount.
Despite their name, armored dragons weren’t true dragons. Like wyverns, which were winged but had no forelegs, armored dragons were a sub-dragon species. They were large, wingless lizards that could never exceed Rank 4, no matter how much they grew.
True dragons were fundamentally different. A single breath attack from even a lesser earth dragon could blast through entire groups of adventurers and destroy man-made structures kilometers away.
Earlier, Aishe had spotted a foreign object trying to take flight from atop a crumbling tower and ordered the earth dragon to attack. But either because it had aimed poorly or the distance had been too great, the blast had only blown away more of the tower’s upper portion, and the foreign object remained aloft.
“That’s...a hot-air balloon, I think,” Aishe mused as the object came into clearer view. This was her first time seeing one, but she’d heard about them from her older sister, decades ago.
She’d ordered the attack on instinct, and that had apparently been the right call. It was unbelievable that such a thing could exist in a dump like Cutlass. Whether it was somehow connected to Kal’Faan was unclear, but regardless, letting it get away would increase the odds of human nations being alerted to the demon invasion.
“Make the dragon attack again!” Aishe commanded. “Don’t let that thing escape!”
One of the nearby dark elves, sweating profusely, bowed his head low. “A-Apologies, General, but we cannot issue consecutive commands...”
“Tch.”
There were no skills for monster taming—that was because no single ability could permanently brainwash another creature. Monster taming was considered a technical occupation, like alchemy and smithing, and only certain clans in the demonic nation had inherited the relevant techniques. The clan leaders had ordered that the earth dragon be tamed, but controlling a dragon was extremely difficult, and even with multiclan efforts spanning several years, they’d suffered considerable casualties. Thanks to a combination of special drugs and suggestions made through shadow sorcery, this dragon was no longer hostile to the demon army. However, frequent commands risked breaking the suggestion.
“Hurry up,” Aishe hissed, frowning.
The tamer clan leader hesitated but replied, “Yes, General!”
His dark skin was noticeably paler as he fearfully ran toward the rear, where the earth dragon was.
Aishe was still young—a novice by elf standards—but was ruthless enough that the demon army feared her. Behind that ruthlessness was the loss of her only family, over fifty years ago, in the war against humans. Her hatred smoldered still, five decades later.
She would let nothing stand between her and revenge. Even women and children would suffer the consequences if necessary.
Aishe directed her hateful glare at the hot-air balloon—and saw what appeared to be fluttering wings of silver light spilling from it.
✦ ✦ ✦
“What is that?”
Among the two thousand advancing demon soldiers, the knight Hassan—commander of a hundred-strong unit at the vanguard—witnessed trails of silver light dancing down from the tower the dragon had attacked.
A distant figure, framed in fluttering light particles that looked like wings, reminded him of the angels from fairy tales.
Hassan narrowed his eyes. “What a foolish thought.”
He couldn’t help but mock himself for that notion. Hassan and others of his kind had been branded evil by the Holy Church. They were feared and reviled as demons. Their existing conflicts with wood elves had been exploited to drive them away from their fertile lands.
They had embraced the “demon” moniker and sworn revenge. For such people to be captivated by the idea of an angel was laughable.
But what was it that had fallen from that flying object? The figure was too distant for clear visual identification. Perhaps the dragon’s attack had broken something off and scattered debris?
Nevertheless, it was evident that something was there. If it posed a danger to the demon army, then as commander of the vanguard, Hassan had a duty to eliminate it.
“Men, we march to the tower the dragon attacked! Something may be lurking there—and our brave clan will destroy whatever awaits us!”
“Raaaaaaah!”
The hundred soldiers cheered and raised their weapons as they made for the tower, seeking their prey.
Hassan smiled. His unit consisted of members of his clan and had been organized by his father. Even the common soldiers, divided into groups of ten, were at minimum Rank 2, and some of their captains were as high as Rank 3. They were far above human soldiers in skill, so even if they were outnumbered two-to-one, Hassan knew his soldiers could handle it.
But that expectation wouldn’t last.
“Chief! Something’s coming!” a young soldier at the front shouted.
“What do you mean, ‘something’? Be more clear!”
Hassan turned around to see a figure racing across the desert at terrifying speed, wrapped in rags, coming straight from the tower.
The sun began to dip, dyeing the sky in shades of crimson. Long shadows extended from the rags, fluttering like phantom birds. It was as if a vengeful spirit had manifested in the desert, and Hassan gasped.
“Archers, shoot it!” Hassan’s uncle, the vice commander, shouted from beside him. “Don’t let it approach!”
He glanced at his still-young nephew with a rueful smile.
“Focus up, Hassan. You’re our clan’s future leader.”
“Sorry, uncle...”
Trained archers immediately unleashed a barrage of arrows toward the racing phantom. Vengeful spirit or no, with this many trusted comrades at his side, Hassan had nothing to fear.
He should’ve had nothing to fear.
“What?!”
The arrows missed their mark, arcing over the figure as it sped up even further.
Panicked, the archers readied the next volley—but nocking new arrows took time. This was different from shooting at large advancing armies. Taking proper aim at a small target in the distance was a slow process. Not only that, but the enemy figure was also approaching at several times normal human speed, which made the vanguard infantry shudder with fear. That terror was passed on to the archers. By the time they’d taken aim, the figure had already reached the infantry.
“Aaah!” the soldiers screamed, hiding behind their shields and thrusting out their spears without looking.
But aimless spear thrusts were meaningless. The enemy deflected the spearheads with their palms, jumped onto a massive shield, then leaped over the wall of spearmen.
“Eek!”
The tattered phantom danced through the air, the silver light that leaked from the seams of their rags making the soldiers scream. Jet-black blades gleamed in the phantom’s hands, and the archers were sliced open before they even had the chance to drop their bows. The survivors tossed aside their weapons and drew daggers, but by then, the figure had already left the archers behind and was coming for Hassan’s group.
“Keep it away from us!” the vice commander shouted.
The guards protecting the clan leader’s son thrust their spears toward the approaching foe. Several of them pierced the dancing rags, but the phantom twisted and kicked upward, using their tattered wraps as a decoy. They crushed one soldier’s face as they descended to the ground.
“What? That fighting style—”
Before the wide-eyed vice commander could finish his sentence, a throwing knife stabbed into his forehead.
The figure was lightning quick. Their fighting style—not only their movements but the way they cut through enemy lines solo and went straight for the enemy commanders—reminded Hassan of an infamous demoness who was said to have died in battle decades ago.
“Fiend,” Hassan murmured.
A lone girl was reflected in his irises, her ash-iron hair dancing in the wind. The Fiend of the Desert.
Her sharp eyes didn’t so much as look at Hassan as her blades ended his life—instead, they were fixed straight ahead.