Infinity: Reborn

The command tent offered refuge from the sun, its interior cool despite the heat radiating off the Wastelands beyond. Lilith stood at the head of a portable table that Drakul had somehow procured—dark wood inlaid with silver that seemed excessive for a field camp, but she wasn’t about to complain about furniture.

Andromalius stood across from her, yellow eyes fixed on the terrain map weighted down by stones. Voso flanked her left, tail lashing in slow arcs. Belial occupied the right, his violet eyes shifting to crimson as he studied the demon lord positions marked in red. Eligos stood beside Andromalius, arms crossed, his steel-blue gaze tracking every detail.

“The plan is straightforward.” Lilith placed her finger on the map’s centre, where Malphas’s forces clustered near the eastern shore. “My army joins yours. We present a unified front.”

“Combined forces will draw his attention,” Eligos observed. His voice carried the measured cadence of someone who’d orchestrated hundreds of battles. “But Malphas won’t commit his full strength without reason.”

“Which is why the main engagement serves as distraction.” Lilith dragged her finger across the map, indicating the broad front where their armies would clash. “You and Voso lead the primary assault. Keep his forces occupied, prevent them from reinforcing his position.”

Voso’s ears swivelled forward. “And the Empress?”

“Drakul and I lead a strike team.” She tapped a position behind Malphas’s marked location. “We hit him directly while his attention remains elsewhere.”

Andromalius’s fingers drummed against the table’s edge, a rapid staccato that cut through the tent’s stillness. “You need him exposed first.”

“Precisely.” Lilith met his yellow-and-black gaze. “That’s where you come in. You flank with a cavalry unit—something large enough to register as a genuine threat. When Malphas sees you cutting into his flank, he’ll commit. Demon lords don’t delegate when challenged directly.”

The drumming stopped. Andromalius’s expression shifted, something cold settling across his features. “You want me as bait.”

“I want you to create the opening,” Lilith corrected. “Draw him out. Make him think you’re his primary threat. When he overextends, Drakul and I strike.”

“And after?” Andromalius leaned forward, both palms flat against the map. “After I draw him out, after he exposes himself—what then? I retreat while you claim the kill?”

Tension rippled through the tent. Belial’s smile widened slightly, revealing too-sharp teeth. Eligos remained motionless, though his eyes narrowed a fraction.

Lilith’s tail swept once across the tent floor, a habit she still couldn’t fully suppress. She’d known this would be an issue. Andromalius had sworn absolute loyalty, but that oath came wrapped in desperation and personal vendetta. She didn’t know the specifics—he guarded his motivations behind layers of calculated charm—but the intensity in his gaze told her everything she needed to know.

This was personal. Deeply, violently personal.

And denying him participation in Malphas’s death would turn her future subordinate into a liability. Desperate men made reckless decisions. Reckless decisions destroyed careful plans.

She could invoke his oath. Remind him that he’d pledged absolute loyalty, that her commands superseded his personal desires. But that would breed resentment, and resentful subordinates found creative ways to sabotage operations while technically obeying orders.

Fine. She’d adjust.

“You want to be there when he dies.” Lilith straightened, withdrawing her hand from the map. “Very well. Join the strike team.”

Andromalius blinked. Whatever response he’d expected, agreement wasn’t it.

“But,” Lilith continued, her voice dropping into the tone that had once commanded an empire, “you remember your oath. I’m granting you this opportunity not because you’ve earned the right to demand it, but because I choose to allow it.”

She paused, letting the words settle. Framing it as benevolence rather than concession. Maintaining the power dynamic while giving him what he wanted.

“The plan adjusts accordingly.” Lilith turned toward Belial and Eligos. “You two lead the main force. Keep Malphas’s army engaged, prevent reinforcements from reaching him.”

“And my role?” Voso asked.

“You join Andromalius’s cavalry unit for the initial assault.” Lilith traced the flanking route again. “When Malphas commits—when he exposes himself chasing Andromalius—you take command of the retreat. Pull the cavalry back to minimize casualties.”

Andromalius’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to—”

“I expect you to stay,” Lilith interrupted. “The cavalry retreats. You don’t. You join Drakul and myself for the direct engagement.”

The half-demon’s expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to track. Calculation. Suspicion. Something that might have been gratitude, buried beneath layers of paranoid self-preservation.

“Worst case,” Lilith continued, her tone flat, “you die before we reach Malphas. But if you want to be there, I’m giving you the opportunity.” She met his yellow-and-black eyes directly. “If you’re lucky, I might even let you deliver the killing blow.”

The tent fell silent except for the distant sounds of camp activity beyond the canvas walls. Demons moving supplies. Weapons being sharpened. The low murmur of conversations preparing for tomorrow’s violence.

Belial’s smile had transformed into something genuinely amused. “How generous, Empress.”

“It’s practical,” Lilith replied. “We need the bait convincing enough to draw Malphas out. Personal vendetta provides excellent motivation.”

Andromalius’s fingers resumed their drumming, slower this time. Deliberate. “Acceptable.”

“Good.” Lilith pulled the map closer, studying the terrain features. “Now let’s discuss the finer details.”

* * *

The morning sun crept through the tent flap, illuminating the remnants of breakfast scattered across Malphas’s table. Bones picked clean. Strips of leather that had been armour plates yesterday. A helmet crushed flat, its edges gnawed for the trace metals.

Malphas swallowed the final piece—a chunk of flesh that still twitched as it slid down his throat. The dragon’s essence pulsed through his veins, weaker than yesterday but still potent enough to burn.

Andromalius. That half-breed bastard had somehow secured backing from the new power moving through the Wastelands.

Lilith Nocturia.

Malphas’s lips curled back, revealing rows of serrated teeth. The name carried weight, even after a millennium. Ancient empress. Builder of empires. Vanished without explanation.

And now returned, apparently, at precisely the worst moment.

She wanted him crushed. Wanted to announce her resurrection by destroying the Wastelands’ strongest demon lord. Use his corpse as a stepping stone back to power.

Standard strategy. Malphas had employed it himself a hundred times. Kill the biggest threat first. Devour their strength. Watch the smaller demons scramble to pledge loyalty.

His stomach churned, digesting breakfast. The dragon’s heart sat deeper inside him, an ember of power that wouldn’t last much longer. Three weeks, maybe four, before it faded entirely.

More than enough time.

Malphas pushed himself upright. His bulk shifted beneath layers of muscle and fat—each pound evidence of consumed strength, absorbed essence, devoured enemies. Other demons mistook his size for weakness. A fundamental error that ended with them screaming inside his belly.

He’d survived three Solarian assassination attempts. Eaten each so-called “hero” they’d sent to end him. The first had tasted of divine magic that burned his throat for weeks. The second carried enchanted weapons that cut deep before he tore her apart. The third managed to wound him badly enough that the scars still ached in winter.

All dead now. All fuel.

Legends were often overblown. People needed their myths to make sense of reality, so they transformed capable fighters into unstoppable forces. Made strategic victories sound like divine intervention. Turned lucky survivors into eternal champions.

The real Lilith Nocturia—if this woman was genuine and not simply an imposter wearing a famous name—would bleed like anyone else. Would break if hit hard enough. Would die if consumed.

Maybe he’d keep her alive for a while first. See if legendary demons screamed louder than common ones when their bones cracked.

Just like that half-breed’s mother.

That had been enjoyable. The woman’s terror when she realized her son would watch. The boy’s horror as Malphas carved his mother into portions. The desperate hope in both their eyes that maybe, somehow, this was a nightmare they’d wake from.

Looking back, Malphas should have devoured Andromalius alongside her. Saved himself seventy years of irritation. But the experiment had seemed worth pursuing—raising a half-breed to see what happened. Watching him struggle. Testing how long sentiment could survive in the Wastelands.

The answer: long enough to become genuinely annoying.

Malphas pulled the tent flap aside and stepped into morning light. His officers waited outside, arranged in loose formation. Demons of varying sizes and capabilities, unified by hunger and the promise of conquest.

They straightened as he emerged. Some couldn’t entirely suppress their flinches.

Good.

“Ready the troops,” Malphas said. His voice rumbled, deep enough to vibrate through chests. “This ends today.”

Commands rippled outward. Demons moved with purpose, retrieving weapons and donning whatever armour they’d scavenged. The camp transformed from chaotic sprawl to organized violence in minutes.

Malphas watched them prepare. The dragon’s power pulsed once more, a reminder of the fading strength that made him nearly invincible.

Nearly.

He reached into his belt pouch, fingers brushing against the small glass vial nestled there. Cool surface. Liquid that shifted colours when moved. Insurance, harvested months ago from a source nobody knew about.

If the empress proved genuinely dangerous—if the legends contained more truth than exaggeration—he had options beyond the dragon’s might.

But that stayed hidden. Let them think the dragon heart was his only advantage. Let them plan around predictable strength.

Malphas smiled, closed the pouch, and began walking toward the front lines.

* * *

The two armies faced each other across a rocky stretch of wasteland, separated by three hundred yards of scorched earth.

Voso stood on an outcropping to the east, positioned where he could observe the main engagement while remaining hidden from Malphas’s forces. Six hundred mounted demons waited behind him in silence, their warbeasts shifting and snorting.

Andromalius sat motionless on a scaled lizard-mount ten feet to his left, eyes fixed on the battlefield below. The half-demon’s expression revealed nothing.

“Movement,” one of Voso’s scouts reported from further down the slope. “Eligos is forming the line.”

Voso raised his spyglass. Through the lens, he watched Eligos position two thousand demons in staggered formations—infantry in the centre, ranged units on elevated ground to either side, mobile reserves held back in defensive posture.

Proper military deployment. The Warmaster’s approach to combat carried none of the theatrical bravado that dominated most demon warfare. No champions strutting forward to issue challenges. No intimidation displays or roared threats.

Just calculated positioning designed to maximize defensive advantage while minimizing casualties.

“Malphas is committing,” the scout said.

Voso shifted the spyglass. Across the field, Malphas led his forces in a direct advance—four thousand strong, arranged in a wedge formation with the massive Phagoth himself at the point.

Subtle. Like using a battering ram as a surgical instrument.

The armies collided with a sound that echoed off the surrounding cliffs. Steel met flesh. Magic flared in bursts of colour against the grey landscape. Demons fell on both sides, bodies tumbling from the press of combat.

But the line held.

Eligos had positioned his forces to absorb the initial impact, letting Malphas’s momentum break against layered defences instead of meeting force with force. Infantry rotated through the front ranks as soldiers tired, maintaining consistent pressure without exhausting reserves.

Malphas pushed deeper, his bulk tearing through defenders wherever he advanced. Purple energy crackled around him—the dragon’s essence still potent enough to turn his physical strikes into devastating attacks. A demon attempted to engage him directly and simply disintegrated, consumed so quickly that not even bones remained.

But Eligos compensated. Units shifted to contain Malphas’s advance without confronting him head-on, creating a pocket that allowed him to penetrate while isolating his supporting troops from following.

The battle settled into grinding stalemate. Both armies locked together, neither gaining significant ground. Casualties mounted steadily on both sides as attrition did its work.

This was what Eligos excelled at—turning chaotic violence into managed conflict. Every formation adjustment served a purpose. Every tactical retreat created space for counterattack. Even the casualties occurred at calculated rates, trading losses to maintain defensive structure.

It suited Voso’s temperament perfectly. Scholarly warfare. Mathematics applied to mortality.

“There,” Andromalius said quietly.

Voso lowered the spyglass. Malphas had pushed further into Eligos’s formation, surrounded now by his elite guard but separated from his main force by sixty yards of contested ground.

The signal.

Lilith had promised Eligos would create this exact situation—Malphas overextended, committed too deeply to extract himself quickly when the flanking attack arrived.

Voso glanced at Andromalius. The half-demon’s hands gripped his mount’s reins hard enough to whiten his knuckles, yellow eyes tracking Malphas’s position with absolute focus.

Seventy years of vendetta about to reach its conclusion.

“Prepare the charge,” Voso ordered.

Commands rippled through the mounted force. Demons drew weapons. Mounts shuffled into formation, instincts recognizing the imminent violence.

Below, Malphas roared something that carried across the battlefield. Three more defenders disintegrated under his assault.

Voso raised his right hand. Six hundred mounted demons tensed, ready to surge forward on his signal.

His hand dropped.

They charged.