Infinity: Reborn

Andromalius collapsed across Malphas’s corpse.

The body beneath him began to rot. Not the gradual decay of days or weeks—accelerated dissolution that peeled flesh from bone in moments. The stench hit her first: sulphur mixed with charred meat. Malphas’s twenty-foot frame shrank, skin blackening and flaking away like ash.

Drakul stood three paces away, breathing hard. Blood ran down his left arm where Malphas had broken his shoulder.

“Get him off there.” Lilith pulled a vial from her dimensional subspace—red liquid that caught the light. She tossed it to Drakul. “Feed him this.”

The vampire caught it one-handed, glancing at the contents before moving to Andromalius. He grabbed the half-demon by the shoulders and rolled him off Malphas’s dissolving corpse. Andromalius didn’t react. His chest rose and fell in shallow, stuttering gasps.

Lilith watched as Drakul uncorked the vial and tilted Andromalius’s head back, pouring the draught down his throat. The half-demon’s body convulsed once, then went still.

She’d considered giving him an elixir instead. The superior variant would’ve guaranteed survival—instant restoration, no question. But this draught was different. It healed a fixed amount rather than percentages, which made it cheaper but less reliable for someone at her level. In the game, she would’ve needed dozens of the things to make a dent in her health pool. But for someone weaker…

The question was whether “weaker” translated properly here. Levels didn’t exist anymore. Neither did numerical health values. She couldn’t measure Andromalius’s vitality in concrete terms or know if the draught’s former restrictions would manifest as fatal side effects.

An experiment, then.

The thought didn’t bother her. Should it? She was saving him. Probably. Without her intervention, he’d be dead regardless—his ribs had been powder, his spine snapped, organs ruptured. At worst, she was improving his odds. At best, she’d learn something useful about how game mechanics translated to this reality.

Andromalius’s breathing steadied. The ragged quality smoothed into something deeper, more regular. His face lost the grey pallor that had settled over it moments before.

Worked, then.

Drakul looked up at her. “He’ll live.”

“Good.” Lilith turned toward the battlefield.

The fighting had stalled. Malphas’s forces stood scattered across the bloodied ground, weapons lowered, staring at their commander’s rotting corpse. Some had already dropped their blades. Others looked toward the edges of the field, calculating escape routes.

Her own troops held formation, waiting for orders. Eligos’s defensive lines remained intact. Voso’s cavalry had withdrawn to the western ridge, regrouping.

Demons were such predictable creatures. During the entire fight with Malphas, only a handful had tried to help him. Either they’d resented him enough to watch him die, or they’d feared getting too close to that crushing aura he’d radiated. Either way, they’d let their commander fall without lifting a finger.

Now they faced a choice.

Lilith’s wings spread. She launched herself upward, each beat carrying her higher until the battlefield spread below her like a map. Four thousand demons—or what remained of them—scattered across churned earth and corpses. Fires still burned where spellcasters had exchanged volleys. The Tainted Lake shimmered in the distance, reflecting violet light from the setting sun.

She hovered above the centre of the field, silhouetted against the sky.

Time to make an offer.

* * *

The battlefield sprawled below, bodies scattered across churned earth. Belial had already organised a dozen demons to begin the grim work of separating the dead—Malphas’s troops on one side, hers on the other. Eligos supervised defensive positions while Voso directed mounted patrols along the perimeter.

Fifty demons fled north toward the rocky highlands, their forms shrinking against the darkening sky.

Lilith had let them run. Intentionally.

Nine hundred others lay dead in the dirt, cut down as they attempted retreat. On Earth, that would’ve been a war crime—killing fleeing combatants after offering surrender. Here, it sent a message. Join or die. No third option.

The thought didn’t bother her.

“Casualties?” She descended near Eligos, wings folding.

“Three hundred seventy dead. Another hundred wounded beyond immediate recovery.” Eligos gestured toward the field hospital—a dozen tents erected hastily at the western edge. “The wounded will need at least a week before they can march.”

“Leave them here with medical staff. We return to Umbra in three days with those who can travel.”

Voso approached from the south, his spotted fur matted with blood. “Patrols confirm no organised resistance within five miles. Malphas’s remaining officers have either surrendered or fled with the runners.”

“The fifty who escaped—ensure they reach inhabited territories.” Lilith turned toward the Tainted Lake, its purple waters reflecting the light. “I want every demon lord in the Wastelands to hear what happened here.”

Belial emerged from the nearest tent, wiping purple ichor from his hands. “The new recruits are being processed. Two thousand accepted your offer once they saw alternatives included creative impalement.” His smile revealed too-sharp teeth. “Remarkably persuasive.”

“Assign them to Eligos’s command until they prove loyalty through action.” Lilith scanned the battlefield. “What of supplies?”

“Malphas maintained three supply depots within his territory.” Voso pulled a folded map from his harness. “Northeast shore of the Tainted Lake, approximately sixteen miles from here. Another twelve miles south. The third—”

“Secure all three. Redistribute half to Andromalius’s troops and absorb the remainder into our stores.”

Nine thousand total forces now. Maybe. Two thousand absorbed from Malphas, roughly seven thousand combined between her original troops and Andromalius’s survivors. Not enough. The Solarian Empire could field ten times that number—probably more—and she couldn’t even deploy half her current strength without overextending supply lines through the Wastelands.

The math didn’t work.

Belial tilted his head. “You’re planning something unpleasant. I can tell.”

“I’m planning necessity.” Lilith’s tail flicked once before she stilled it. “The Solarians will hear about this within days. A demon lord powerful enough to kill Malphas, absorb his territories, and consolidate the eastern Wastelands. They’ll respond.”

“An assassination attempt,” Eligos said.

“Or a full invasion while we’re still fragmented.” Lilith turned toward the north, where the fifty runners had vanished. “Which means I need every remaining demon lord at Umbra within the month. A conference. They’ll hear my terms.”

Voso’s eyes narrowed. “They won’t all come willingly.”

“They’ll come because the alternative is facing the Solarians alone.” She looked at each commander in turn. “Sixty-three demon lords remain scattered across the Wastelands. Divided, the empire picks them off one by one. United, we become a threat they can’t ignore—but also can’t easily eliminate.”

“And if they refuse?” Belial asked.

“Then they’ll hear what happened to those who refused me today.”

Drakul approached from the field hospital, blood still staining his armour. “Lord Andromalius is stable. The medics estimate two or three days before he wakes.”

“Good.” Lilith’s wings shifted. “I need him functional. His territories border the empire’s eastern frontier—strategically valuable.”

The Wastelands stretched in every direction, corrupted earth that supported nothing but twisted flora and poisonous fauna. Demons could survive on it. Barely. Anyone else would die within weeks.

It would need to change. Not just for morale, but for practical expansion. She couldn’t feed a growing empire on corrupted scraps.

The spell existed—she’d already verified it. Alter the fundamental climate patterns, transform the entire region into fertile land capable of supporting agriculture. Permanent changes requiring only a single casting.

The problem was time. Four weeks to build the proper focal point and prepare the focus itself. Longer if she had to start from scratch.

Unless she could repair the damaged altar already inside the Imperial Spire.

“We return to Umbra in three days,” Lilith said. “Secure Malphas’s territories, process the wounded, and prepare supply caravans. I want every functional soldier ready to march.”

Belial bowed. “As you command, Empress.”

She launched skyward again, circling once above the battlefield before turning west toward distant Umbra.

* * *

The Grand Inquisitor set the report on his desk with deliberate care, each movement measured. Thrax Valentine’s steel-blue eyes fixed on Mathias through the narrow window of his office overlooking the Sanctum’s courtyard.

“Six thousand demons.” Thrax’s fingers drummed once against the leather surface. “You expect me to believe this pretender assembled that many in two weeks?”

“Most came with the demon lords who pledged to her, Grand Inquisitor.” Mathias kept his hands clasped behind his back, amber eyes steady behind tinted spectacles. “She inherited their existing forces.”

“And your estimate of her magical capabilities—eighth circle at most.” Thrax leaned back in his chair. “Rather convenient that you never witnessed her casting anything beyond common battle magic.”

“I observed the aftermath of her combat with four demon lords. The destruction patterns suggested—”

“Suggested.” Thrax’s mouth thinned. “You’re speculating, Whitefield. Again. Just as you speculated about the defensive capabilities of those inner rings or the loyalty of her commanders.”

The familiar contempt threaded through Thrax’s words like it always had. Before, Mathias would have felt the need to justify, to prove his competence despite his heritage. Now it simply confirmed what Father Gallivan had told him—the purification had been theatre. Thrax had never believed in him. Never would.

“I reported what I observed, Grand Inquisitor.”

“What you claim to have observed.” Thrax straightened a stack of parchments to his right. “This entire report reads like the account of someone who’s never set foot in a war camp. Too many gaps. Too much uncertainty for an operative who spent weeks embedded in their capital.”

Mathias said nothing. Let Thrax see doubt where doubt served purpose. If the Grand Inquisitor believed Mathias had overestimated the threat, better still.

“Regardless.” Thrax pulled a sealed letter from his desk drawer. “You’re being reassigned.”

The words struck like cold water. Mathias’s tail tightened against his waist beneath his coat. “Grand Inquisitor?”

“Landskavia. There’s a pest that’s resurfaced after several months of absence.” Thrax broke the seal and unfolded the letter. “Five of our operatives disappeared along the Solarian-Landskavian border few months ago. No bodies recovered. No witnesses. We initially attributed it to bandits or hostile mages.”

Mathias’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t protest the reassignment—that would raise immediate suspicion.

“New intelligence suggests the incidents may be connected.” Thrax’s eyes scanned the letter. “A half-demon woman, suspected of facilitating illegal border crossings for monstrous races. Witnesses place her in three of the five disappearance zones within the relevant timeframes.”

The description could fit dozens of half-demons operating in border territories. Mathias forced his expression neutral. “What’s my assignment?”

“You’ll join an existing team investigating the matter. Three Hunters, two Seekers, and yourself.” Thrax folded the letter. “Your particular heritage makes you… suitable for this work. The target trusts half-breeds. You’ll serve as bait.”

“Of course, Grand Inquisitor.” The words tasted like ash.

“The team departs in three days. Report to Cardinal Inquisitor Marcus at the eastern garrison for briefing.” Thrax set the letter aside and retrieved Mathias’s report again. “I’ll forward your intelligence on Umbra to the strategic council. They’ll determine whether this pretender empress warrants a strike team or simple observation.”

Mathias bowed. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes.” Thrax’s fingers tapped the report’s edge. “Don’t embarrass the Flame again with speculation dressed as fact. If you’re uncertain about magical capabilities, say so clearly. If you can’t verify numbers, note it. Your tendency to overcompensate for your limitations makes your intelligence worthless.”

“Understood, Grand Inquisitor.”

“Dismissed.”

Mathias turned and left the office, closing the door behind him with careful precision. The corridor stretched forty feet to the stairwell, empty except for two junior acolytes carrying scrolls toward the archives. His boots clicked against stone in measured rhythm.

Three days.

He couldn’t flee—the Flame would send assassins, and running would only paint a target on everyone he’d encountered in Umbra. Seraphina especially. Returning to the Wastelands would lead them straight to her.

He descended the stairs, passed through the Sanctum’s main hall where morning prayers echoed from the chapel, and emerged into the courtyard. Sunlight reflected off white marble. Devotional banners bearing Solaris’s golden sun hung from iron posts.

Mathias’s vestigial horns itched beneath his hair. His tail pressed uncomfortably against his lower back.

Landskavia. Hunting a half-demon woman who helped monstrous races escape persecution.

Exactly what Seraphina did.

He crossed the courtyard toward the eastern wing where operatives maintained private quarters. Three days to prepare. Three days to figure out how to serve the Flame without becoming the instrument of someone else’s destruction.