Infinity: Reborn

Andromalius’s mount surged forward, six hundred armoured bodies flowing down the slope in a thunderous wave. Voso rode three lengths to his right, weapon drawn, leading the cavalry into Malphas’s exposed flank.

Andromalius didn’t trust the leonine demon. He’d heard what Valac had done to him—stolen territories, scattered followers, reduced a demon lord to nomadic existence. But Lilith trusted Voso’s judgment enough to make him a general, and Andromalius had sworn his allegiance to her. She’d already demonstrated power and insight that justified the oath.

The distance closed rapidly. Two hundred yards. One hundred. Malphas’s forces noticed the incoming assault too late, soldiers turning toward the threat while still engaged with Eligos’s defenders.

Fifty yards.

Andromalius braced himself. This wasn’t his kind of fight. Small raids, ambushes from cover, surgical strikes against supply lines—those operations played to his strengths. But cavalry charges into massed infantry? Pure chaos that favoured strength and raw combat skill over tactics and planning.

The mounted force crashed into Malphas’s flank.

Impact threw three demons backwards, bodies crushed beneath warbeast claws. Andromalius’s mount trampled a soldier who raised a spear too slowly, the weapon snapping as bone shattered beneath scaled feet. He drove his blade down into an unprotected neck, felt resistance give way, yanked the weapon free already seeking the next target.

A demon to his left screamed as fire magic caught him full in the chest. The flames didn’t just burn—they consumed, eating through armour and flesh until the soldier collapsed from his mount in a charred, smoking heap.

Steel clashed against steel in every direction. A mounted warrior beside Andromalius engaged three infantry soldiers simultaneously, trading blows whilst his mount snapped at legs and torsos. One soldier got through the defence and drove a curved blade into the warrior’s side, ripping sideways. Blood sprayed across Andromalius’s face as the mounted demon toppled.

Andromalius killed the soldier who’d struck the fatal blow, blade punching through ribs from above before the enemy could celebrate. The body slid off his weapon and dropped.

Chaos pressed in from all sides. No clear lines of battle, just individual struggles repeated across hundreds of combatants. Screams mixed with roared commands, the sound of breaking bones punctuating metallic clashes.

A spear thrust came from his right. Andromalius twisted, felt the point graze his ribs, kicked out and connected with something soft. His attacker staggered backwards. Someone else killed them before Andromalius could finish the job—a mounted warrior he didn’t recognize driving a morning star through the spear-wielder’s skull.

Magic flared green three yards ahead. The spell caught two mounted demons, flesh bubbling and dissolving as acid ate through protective gear and skin beneath. One managed a brief scream. The other simply collapsed, face melting into unrecognizable ruin.

Andromalius’s mount lurched left to avoid a pike formation. He leaned with the movement, blade cutting across a defender’s throat as they passed. Blood sprayed hot across his hand.

The press of bodies tightened. His mount couldn’t manoeuvre properly anymore, hemmed in by allied cavalry and enemy infantry. A sword scraped across his thigh, shallow but enough to draw blood. He killed the wielder with a downward strike that split collar bone.

Too close. Too crowded. This wasn’t tactical warfare—just grinding butchery where survival depended on reaction speed and brutal efficiency.

An axe swung toward his head. Andromalius raised his blade to block, felt the impact jar through his arm. His opponent pressed forward, trying to use superior strength to force the weapon down. Andromalius’s mount snapped sideways, catching the attacker’s leg in massive jaws and crushing bone. The demon screamed and fell. The mount’s claws finished what its teeth began.

Voso appeared from the press, blade moving in precise arcs that dispatched three soldiers in rapid succession. The leonine demon fought with controlled ferocity—every movement calculated, no wasted motion, predatory grace applied to systematic killing.

A flash of purple caught Andromalius’s peripheral vision. He turned in time to see a demon dissolve into nothing, consumed by Malphas’s casual backhand strike. The Phagoth lord stood thirty yards away now, wading through the battle with contemptuous ease.

Movement to his left. Andromalius spotted the attack too late—a massive tusked demon swinging a war-hammer in a horizontal arc aimed directly at his ribs. No time to block. His mount couldn’t dodge fast enough.

Voso’s blade intercepted the hammer mid-swing, deflecting it upward. The leonine demon’s mount slammed into the tusked warrior’s side, knocking him off balance. Voso’s follow-through cut across the enemy’s throat before Andromalius could process what happened.

“Focus!” Voso snarled, already turning to engage another threat.

Andromalius killed a soldier who tried to exploit the distraction, blade punching through an eye socket. He yanked the weapon free, scanned for the next threat.

The cavalry charge had devolved into close-quarters slaughter. Bodies littered the ground—demon and mount alike, some still twitching, most motionless in spreading pools of blood. The acrid stench of burnt flesh mixed with the copper tang of spilled blood and the sharper odour of exposed organs.

A spellcaster threw lightning into the press. The bolt killed three demons instantly, their bodies convulsing as electricity coursed through armour and flesh. One of the victims was still mounted, and the dying warbeast thrashed wildly before collapsing, crushing two infantry soldiers beneath its bulk.

Andromalius’s mount stumbled over a corpse. He gripped with his thighs, stayed in the saddle, blocked an opportunistic strike from a soldier who thought him vulnerable. His counter-attack opened the enemy’s stomach. Intestines spilled as the body fell.

More fire magic ahead. A mounted demon ignited, flames spreading too quickly to extinguish. The warrior’s screams cut through the battle noise before finally stopping as the body slumped forward.

Malphas laughed. The sound carried across the battlefield—deep, rumbling, full of genuine amusement at the carnage surrounding him. Purple energy crackled around the Phagoth lord as he grabbed a defender and simply tore them in half, tossing the pieces aside like refuse.

Twenty-five yards away. Close enough now.

Andromalius forced his mount through the press, blade cutting down anyone who blocked the path. Voso followed, the leonine demon clearing soldiers with brutal efficiency.

Twenty yards. Fifteen.

Malphas turned, massive form radiating stolen power. Those eyes burning with endless hunger fixed on Andromalius with something like recognition.

Andromalius stood in his stirrups, yellow eyes meeting his father’s gaze across the blood-soaked battlefield.

“MALPHAS!” His voice carried over the chaos. “Face me, you coward!”

* * *

Malphas watched the cavalry formation crash into his flank from sixty yards away. Bold. Effective, too—the mounted charge punched through his infantry line, creating chaos in formations that had been advancing steadily moments before.

His soldiers died in clusters as the mounted demons exploited their momentum advantage. A waste of perfectly good strength, of power that could have fed him instead.

He stepped forward, leaving the relative safety of his rear position. His commanders could handle the frontal assault against Eligos’s defensive formations. This flank required direct intervention.

A soldier stumbled backward into Malphas’s path, retreating from a mounted attacker. Malphas grabbed the fleeing demon by the head and threw him back toward the enemy with enough force to knock two cavalry riders from their mounts. The soldier’s body crumpled on impact, bones shattering. Pathetic. Weak. Not even worth consuming—the effort of bending down would exceed the meagre power such a coward would provide.

Malphas waded into the press, his massive frame cleaving through the chaos like a boulder through water. A mounted demon swung a morning-star toward his face. He caught the weapon mid-swing, yanked hard enough to pull the rider from the saddle, and drove his fist through the demon’s chest. Ribs cracked beneath his knuckles. He pulled his hand free, the heart still beating in his palm, and consumed it in a single bite.

The rush of power spread through him as the demon’s strength became his own—minor, barely noticeable compared to the dragon’s might still coursing through his veins, but satisfying nonetheless. Each kill added to his reservoir. Each bite made him stronger. This was how Phagoth demons ascended, not through inherited titles or political manoeuvring, but through the simple, primal act of devouring one’s enemies.

A warbeast lunged at him, massive jaws open wide. Malphas punched it in the skull. The creature’s head caved inward with a wet crunch. It collapsed, twitching. He considered consuming it—beasts provided raw physical power, enhancing muscle and bone—but cavalry was pressing from three sides now. Better to clear the immediate threat first, feast after.

Three infantry soldiers pushed forward, emboldened by his presence. They killed a dismounted cavalry demon together, spears punching through gaps in armour. Good. His forces needed to stabilize this section before the entire flank collapsed. Malphas had no intention of letting Andromalius’s clever little manoeuvre cost him this battle. The half-breed’s forces would break, and when they did, Malphas would devour every last one of them.

Malphas grabbed a mounted demon’s leg as the rider tried to circle behind him. He pulled, dragging both mount and rider sideways into the ground. The warbeast scrambled to rise. Malphas stomped on its spine, felt vertebrae shatter beneath his boot. The rider tried to crawl away. Malphas seized him by the throat, lifted, and bit down.

Blood filled his mouth as teeth tore through flesh and windpipe. The demon’s strength flowed into him as he swallowed, sweet and warm, still fighting even as life faded. Fresh kills always tasted better—the power more potent when consumed before death fully claimed it. He dropped the corpse and moved forward, already feeling the addition to his own might, however small.

A spellcaster threw fire at him from behind a line of soldiers. The flames washed across his chest harmlessly, dissipating against the stolen dragon’s resilience—one of many gifts that magnificent kill had granted. Malphas closed the distance in three strides, soldiers scattering from his path. He caught the caster by the skull and slammed him face-first into the ground hard enough to pulp bone and brain matter together.

More power. Another minor addition to the well inside him. Magic-users provided unique benefits—their consumed strength often included fragments of their spellcraft, their understanding of arcane forces. He’d gained his resistance to fire from a pyromancer consumed decades ago. The oracle-demon’s precognitive abilities had come the same way. Every kill made him more dangerous, more versatile, more unstoppable.

The cavalry formation was losing cohesion now, grinding down into close-quarters butchery. Exactly what he’d intended. Mounted demons fought best with space to manoeuvre. Deny them that, force them into standing fights, and they became just more bodies to devour, more strength to claim.

“MALPHAS!”

The voice cut through the battle noise, familiar despite seventy years passing since he’d last heard it. Malphas turned toward the source, curious. Few dared address him so directly.

Andromalius stood in his stirrups thirty yards away, yellow eyes blazing with hatred across the blood-soaked ground between them. The half-breed looked older, harder, but still carried that same defiant rage Malphas remembered from their final encounter.

“Face me, you coward!”

Malphas laughed, the sound booming across the battlefield. The half-breed actually thought him a coward? After ruling the eastern shore for decades, after devouring more demons than any lord currently living? After consuming a dragon and claiming its power as his own?

The brat had spirit, if not sense. Malphas would grant him that much.

He changed direction, moving toward Andromalius instead of simply crushing the flank attack. His soldiers could finish mopping up the cavalry without direct supervision. This required personal attention. Seventy years ago he’d cast the boy out as an afterthought, a mercy killing denied. Now the half-breed had grown bold enough to challenge him directly. Such presumption deserved acknowledgment before consumption.

A soldier blocked his path. Malphas backhanded him aside without breaking stride. The demon’s body began dissolving mid-flight as Malphas pulled its strength into himself—a reflexive action, as natural as breathing. The corpse hit the ground as an empty husk, all power already claimed.

Another mounted warrior charged, warbeast snarling. Malphas caught the beast by its jaws, twisted, and snapped its neck. The rider tumbled free. Malphas stepped on his chest, feeling ribs crack, then continued forward. Not worth the effort of consumption—too little power for the time investment. Some kills fed him. Others merely cleared his path.

Twenty yards from Andromalius now. Close enough to see the half-breed’s expression clearly—pure hatred mixed with grim determination. No fear though. Interesting. Most demons showed at least some survival instinct when facing him. Either Andromalius was exceptionally brave or exceptionally stupid.

Fifteen yards.

The cavalry formation suddenly shifted. Not retreat exactly, but a coordinated withdrawal that suggested pre-planning rather than panic. Mounted demons disengaged in organized clusters, supporting each other’s retreat while maintaining enough cohesion to discourage pursuit. Tactically sound, which meant Eligos’s hand in the planning. The Warmaster didn’t waste soldiers on futile last stands.

Andromalius didn’t follow. The half-breed remained in position with perhaps eight others—a small knot of demons who chose to stand rather than flee with their fellows.

Malphas smiled. Stupid. Tactically idiotic to separate himself from his supporting forces just to make some dramatic gesture of defiance. The half-breed’s hatred had overcome his strategic sense. Predictable. Emotions always made prey easier to catch.

But entertaining nonetheless.

He’d wondered occasionally over the decades whether the half-breed had survived. The Wastelands consumed weak things quickly, and Andromalius had been pathetically weak when Malphas cast him out seventy years ago—a scrawny ten-year-old covered in his mother’s blood, crying and screaming worthless threats about vengeance.

Apparently he’d survived. Grown strong enough to claim territory, build forces, resist Malphas’s expansion for a decade. Strong enough to become a proper demon lord, earning his place among the wastelands through cunning rather than raw power.

Not strong enough to matter in the end, but strong enough to deserve personal attention rather than dying by random soldiers. When Malphas consumed him—and he would consume him—he’d gain whatever strength the half-breed had accumulated over seven decades of survival. Perhaps some of that tactical cunning would prove useful. Perhaps not. Either way, Andromalius would add to his power, become part of the unstoppable force that would eventually unite the Wastelands under a single banner.

Malphas advanced, stepping over corpses and dying demons with equal indifference. The dragon’s power burned hot in his veins, might sufficient to crush anything the half-breed could possibly muster. That single magnificent kill had granted him strength beyond anything Andromalius could have accumulated through his entire lifetime of schemes and manipulations. The half-breed understood tactics. Malphas understood consumption. And consumption always won in the end.

This would be brief. Perhaps disappointing—seventy years of anticipation rarely lived up to the actual moment of conclusion. The half-breed would die, Malphas would consume his strength and claim his territories, and the minor inconvenience of this decade-long resistance would finally end.

But satisfying nonetheless. The look on Andromalius’s face when he finally understood how completely outmatched he was would make the decades of minor territorial skirmishes worthwhile. The moment when that defiant hatred turned to terror, when the half-breed realized his mother’s fate awaited him as well—that would taste sweeter than any physical consumption.

Ten yards separated them now. Close enough that Malphas could see the half-breed’s knuckles white around his weapon’s grip. Close enough to smell the fear Andromalius tried so hard to hide beneath his rage.

“Hello, boy,” Malphas said, his voice rumbling with dark amusement. “Shall we finish what I started seventy years ago?”