Infinity: Reborn

The last guard charged—red skin, ram horns curving back from his skull, halberd raised overhead. The blade descended. Lilith stepped into his reach, too close for the weapon’s arc to connect. Her hell blade came up vertical.

Purple steel met flesh at the groin. She pushed upward, magic-forged edge splitting bone and tissue. The weapon carved through pelvis, abdomen, sternum. The halberd clattered to the ground. The demon’s body separated cleanly, two perfect halves toppling in opposite directions.

Her eyes tracked across the clearing. Andromalius’s forces finished the last resistance near the rear wagon. Twenty seconds from first contact to complete slaughter.

No other targets remained.

She dismissed her hell blade. Purple light dissolved into mist, then nothing. Behind her, corpses formed a straight line from the lead wagon to her current position. Six bodies, clean kills. The familiar absence of remorse registered as a passing observation, catalogued and set aside.

Andromalius approached from the left, yellow eyes scanning the carnage. Blood splattered his leather armour, none of it his own.

“Smoother than I anticipated.” Lilith turned toward him. “Your forces coordinated well.”

“They’ve had practice.” The half-demon gestured toward the wagons. “Three supply raids in four days teaches efficiency.”

The enslaved demons huddled near the wagons, chains rattling as they pressed together. Lesser breeds—short, stocky builds bred for labor rather than combat. Their eyes darted between the corpses and their new captors.

“What do you intend with the slaves?” Lilith watched one flinch as an officer approached.

“Simple choice. Join us or die.” Andromalius’s tone held no inflection, stating fact rather than threat. “Resources are limited. I can’t afford to feed mouths that won’t fight.”

Pragmatic. Brutal, but honest about the realities of warfare in the Wastelands.

Time to extract her forces before Malphas’s reinforcements arrived. The convoy had been expected at his forward camp two hours ago—scouts would be dispatched soon.

“Strip what you can carry.” Andromalius raised his voice toward his demons. “Destroy the rest. We leave in five minutes.”

Lilith waited until his officers began moving toward the wagons. “I could transport everything.”

The half-demon’s head turned sharply. His expression shifted through calculation, dismissal, then settled on scepticism. “You’re joking.”

She shrugged, wings adjusting against her back. “If you prefer to leave supplies for Malphas to recover, that’s your decision. My forces don’t need them.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. The silence stretched three seconds before Andromalius spoke. “Show me.”

A smile touched her lips. “Watch.”

She extended her right arm outward, swept it upward. Magic rippled from her position in visible waves, purple-tinged shimmer marking the spell’s radius. Sixty feet of forest floor fell under her influence.

Mass Telekinesis settled over the clearing. Every wagon, every crate, every loose weapon glowed with subtle violet light. She lifted her palm. The supplies rose in unison, hovering ten feet above the ground. Eight wagons and their contents, held suspended by her will alone. The mana drain was minimal—8 per second, easily sustainable for hours.

Andromalius’s officers froze mid-step, staring upward. The enslaved demons pressed closer together, chains jangling.

“Shall we return to camp?” Lilith lowered her arm slightly. The wagons descended two feet, maintaining formation. “Or would you prefer to admire the scenery?”

The half-demon’s expression remained carefully neutral, but his tail had gone completely still. “Lead the way, Empress.”

* * *

The word had slipped out before thought caught it. Empress. Not a negotiation tactic, not calculated flattery. His mouth had simply acknowledged what his mind refused to process.

Andromalius walked three paces behind Lilith through the twisted forest. Eight wagons floated overhead, suspended by nothing visible. Purple light traced their edges, pulsing in rhythm with her breathing. The enslaved demons shuffled between his officers, chains scraping against stone and root.

His fingers flexed against his palms. The combat replayed behind his eyes—six soldiers dead in less than twenty seconds. Her blade had moved through bodies like they were mist. No wasted motion, no hesitation. The vertical split through that final demon’s torso required strength beyond what her frame suggested.

He’d assumed mystic knight or some other spellsword. Warrior-mages existed, blending steel and magic into hybrid disciplines. Competent at both, masters of neither. The magical blade supported that assessment.

Then she’d lifted eight wagons without breaking stride.

His knowledge of magic was practical rather than theoretical. Sixth circle at minimum for that kind of sustained telekinesis. Possibly higher—the spell showed no strain, no visible concentration. She maintained it while walking, adjusting the wagons’ height to avoid branches, all without glancing upward.

Spellswords couldn’t manage such spells. The mental discipline required for high-tier magic conflicted with the reflexive awareness needed for close combat. Even the most talented hybrids plateaued around third or fourth circle, compensating with enchanted equipment rather than raw power.

She’d killed those guards with ease while channelling magic that would exhaust most dedicated mages.

The contradiction gnawed at his certainty. Legends spoke of Lilith Nocturia as the Demon Queen who’d forged a world spanning empire from nothing. A thousand years ago. Dead, vanished, or mythologized beyond recognition—he’d never cared which.

Demons were technically immortal. Biology didn’t age them. Violence did. Politics did. Ambition turned inward until territories drowned in blood and successor corpses. Three hundred years marked exceptional survival. The oldest demon lords he knew of hadn’t reached a millennium.

Why would an ancient empress surface now? Why approach him specifically? Why conduct supply raids personally when she commanded thousands?

Nothing aligned with rational behaviour.

His tail swept left, then right. The truth was simpler and more immediate than historical verification. She possessed power. Enough to matter against Malphas. Enough to tip warfare from desperate attrition into potential victory.

Enough to kill him if he broke his oath.

The realisation settled in his chest, cold and certain. He’d pledged absolute loyalty when his position offered no alternative. Survival had demanded it. But the promise’s weight had fundamentally shifted in the past hour. Before, it was a calculated gamble—accept subordination to gain military support against an overwhelming threat.

Now it was a leash around his throat.

If she was truly Lilith returned, his vendetta against Malphas represented a stepping stone in her plans. Useful, but disposable. And if he’d sworn loyalty to something so powerful, betrayal wasn’t tactical repositioning.

It was suicide with extra steps.

The camp emerged ahead through the trees. Scattered tents, exhausted soldiers, the acrid smell of rationed supplies burning too fast. His forces numbered in hundreds. Hers in thousands.

His fingers curled into fists. Seventy years of planning, manipulation, and patient vengeance had led him here—dependent on a demon who might be legend incarnate, wielding power he couldn’t comprehend, holding promises he couldn’t break.

The wagons descended as they entered the camp perimeter. Demons scrambled aside, staring upward with open mouths.

Andromalius kept walking. Empress or not, currently she was his only path to Malphas’s corpse.

Everything else was irrelevant.

* * *

The roasted haunch tore between Malphas’s teeth. Flesh separated from bone, juices running down his chin as he bit through cartilage. His jaws worked the meat, grinding it to pulp before swallowing. The table before him sagged under platters—three whole boars, a mountain of charred fowl, basins of blood-sauce cooling in the evening air.

He reached for another cut, his claws scraping porcelain. The dragon’s power still hummed beneath his skin, but fainter now. Weaker. Each day brought diminishment, the borrowed strength bleeding away like water through cupped hands.

His fist slammed into the table. Wood cracked. A platter toppled, spilling roasted organs across the floor.

That brat.

Weeks ago, his forces had advanced three miles daily. Andromalius’s territory crumbled before him, demon after demon deserting that mongrel’s failing cause. The eastern shore of the Tainted Lakes should be his by now. Complete dominion. Absolute control.

Instead, his army sat motionless. Supply lines disrupted. Forward positions abandoned after coordinated raids. Progress measured in yards rather than miles.

Malphas grabbed a whole boar carcass and bit into its ribcage. Bones crunched between his teeth, marrow flooding his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and reached for wine.

Ten years. A decade of that half-breed’s interference. Guerrilla tactics. Psychological warfare. Turning allies against each other while hiding behind clever words and manufactured conflicts.

He’d offered mercy once. One chance for the brat to kneel, to accept his place in the natural order. Malphas would have granted him a minor territory, perhaps even a token position of authority. Acknowledgment of their blood connection, however diluted.

Andromalius had responded by orchestrating the assassination of three of Malphas’s commanders.

The wine basin emptied in four gulps. Malphas hurled it aside, the metal clanging against stone. His chest heaved, purple skin darkening toward sickly green as rage pulsed through his veins.

The dragon’s heart had finally shifted momentum. Borrowed power, yes, but enough to crush resistance. Enough to push that coward’s forces into retreat. Enough to claim what should have been his a thousand times over.

Except now the advance stalled.

Malphas’s claws dug into the table edge, wood splintering beneath his grip. When he caught Andromalius—when, not if—punishment would be creative. Eat both arms first. Let the brat watch as his limbs disappeared into Malphas’s gullet, bone by bone. Keep him alive afterward. A pet. A trophy to parade before other demon lords who thought cleverness trumped strength.

Footsteps scurried outside the feast hall. Light, rapid, pathetic.

“Enter before I add you to the menu,” Malphas said.

The door creaked. An imp shuffled inside, barely three feet tall, wings folded tight against its spine. It prostrated immediately, forehead pressed to stone.

“Speak.” Malphas tore another strip of meat from the haunch. “You have ten seconds.”

“My lord.” The imp’s voice cracked. “Scouts report… an unknown army. Two days from the Tainted Lakes.”

The meat stopped halfway to Malphas’s mouth. His eyes narrowed, crimson irises focusing on the trembling messenger.

“What?”

“An army, my lord. Moving through the Wastelands. Their allegiance is—”

“I heard you.” Malphas dropped the meat, his full attention snapping to the imp. “Unknown? What crest?”

“A violet crescent moon, my lord. With… with a spaded tail curving through its centre.”

The description meant nothing. Malphas knew every major demon lord’s heraldry, every minor warlord’s pathetic attempts at symbolism. This crest belonged to no one.

Or someone new.

His claws drummed against the table, each tap cracking wood further. The dragon’s power whispered warnings beneath his skin. Not enough time. Not enough strength remaining. If another force entered this conflict now, while he was stretched thin against Andromalius’s raids…

“How many?” Malphas leaned forward. “Tell me exactly what the scouts saw.”

The imp’s wings twitched. “They couldn’t establish numbers, my lord. The army moved at night. Estimates range from—”

“Useless.” Malphas stood, his nine-foot frame casting shadows across the cowering messenger. “Send delegates. I want to know who dares march through my territory without announcement. And send more scouts. Real ones. If they fail to return with accurate intelligence, their families feed my troops.”

“Yes, my lord. Immediately.”

The imp scrambled backward, then fled through the door.

Malphas stared at the feast before him, appetite suddenly absent. The dragon’s power pulsed weaker still, counting down toward nothing.

Two days away. Moving toward the lakes. Unknown crest, unknown allegiance, unknown strength.

His hands clenched into fists.

---

The camp materialized ahead, cooking fires scattered across barren ground. Drakul stood at the perimeter, his crimson eyes tracking her approach before shifting to the floating wagons.

“Empress.” He inclined his head. “Your hunt was successful.”

“Productive.” Lilith guided the wagons over the outer tents, adjusting their height to clear the peaked canvas. Purple light pulsed with each breath, holding tonnes of supplies suspended twenty feet above demons who stopped mid-task to stare. “Malphas won’t advance on an empty stomach.”

She walked through the camp’s centre, wagons drifting overhead like strange purple moons. Demons emerged from tents, faces tilted upward. Conversations died. A cook dropped his ladle.

Lilith selected a clear patch near the quartermaster’s station and lowered her hand. The wagons descended in unison, wheels touching earth without a jolt. The spell released, purple light dissolving into nothing.

Her mana reserves barely shifted. One advantage of her absurd stats converting directly to magical capacity.

Demons swarmed the wagons before the light fully dissipated. Crates cracked open. Cured meats, grain sacks, weapon bundles. The quartermaster barked orders, establishing distribution lines while soldiers shoved each other for position.

Footsteps approached from her left. Voso’s spotted fur caught firelight, his yellow eyes reflecting flames.

“Empress.” His leonine muzzle dipped in acknowledgment. “Malphas’s delegates reached our main force an hour ago.”

Lilith’s wings folded tighter against her spine. “What did they want?”

“Identification. Purpose. The standard diplomatic posturing.” Voso’s tail lashed once. “They requested information on our intentions.”

“What response did we give them?”

“Belial had them captured and tortured for intelligence.”

Lilith’s tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. Torturing messengers violated every diplomatic convention, turned potential negotiations into blood feuds. Not her style. Not how she operated.

But they weren’t here to parley.

She’d marched into the Wastelands with one objective: eliminate the variable called Malphas. Diplomatic niceties served no purpose when the endgame involved removing a demon lord from existence.

And Belial’s approach, however distasteful, yielded practical results. Malphas would realize they came to support Andromalius regardless. At least this way they’d extracted information from the delegates before discovery became inevitable.

Though she suspected Belial’s motivations stemmed more from personal entertainment than tactical advantage.

“Did they break?” Lilith asked.

“Within minutes. Confirmed Malphas suspects our involvement. He’s dispatching additional scouts.” Voso’s claws flexed. “The delegates won’t return. Belial was… thorough.”

“Understood.” Lilith turned toward the command tent, her tail sweeping once across the dirt. “Assemble the commanders. It’s time to prepare for decisive engagement.”

“You intend to face Malphas directly?”

“Drakul will handle primary combat.” She paused, considering the ancient vampire’s capabilities against a demon lord empowered by dragon essence. “I’ll intervene only when necessary.”

Voso’s ears flattened slightly. “The Sanguine Duke is formidable, but Malphas consumed a dragon’s heart. That borrowed power—”

“—is temporary.” Lilith resumed walking. “But we can’t slow his advance forever, at some point he’ll adapt to our tactics.”

The quartermaster’s voice rose behind them, organizing supply distribution with military efficiency. Demons hauled crates toward storage tents, their earlier desperation replaced by methodical purpose.

Removing Malphas would shift everything. One less demon lord competing for territory. One less obstacle between Nocturne’s restoration and reality.

And one more step deeper into the role she couldn’t escape.