Chapter 39: The Name That Was Erased & The Truth That Was Buried
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Zyrenia was young. Too young.
Barely ten years old by human standards, yet already carrying the weight of a history that no one in this room seemed to remember.
She was not a battle-hardened warrior.
She was not a veteran of war.
She was not even born in the same era as the person she mourned.
And yet—
She knew.
She knew, because all of demonkind knew.
It had been told to her since birth.
Taught to her like scripture.
Passed through her bloodline like a sacred truth.
She had grown up knowing Lilith's name.
Knowing what she had done for their people.
Knowing that if not for her, Zyrenia wouldn't even exist.
And now—standing here, in the very academy that Lilith had founded, in front of the very people who had once slaughtered their kind—
She was realizing something impossible.
They had erased her.
They had wiped her from their history like she was nothing.
They had stood here, in Lilith's own academy, in her own lands, in the kingdom she had bled for—
And they had forgotten her.
Tears welled in Zyrenia's golden eyes.
But they were not tears of sadness.
They were tears of rage.
Of betrayal.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she shook, her body taut with fury.
And then, her voice—loud, raw, and shaking with barely restrained emotion—
"You... you monsters."
The words rang out, clear and unrelenting.
The entire room froze.
The human scholars stared.
Lucien's heart stopped.
"You monsters, how dare you forget her name?"
Zyrenia's voice rose, breaking with the sheer force of her anger.
"You monsters killed 50 million demons before she stopped you.
50 million.
And you dare forget her name?"
The humans in the room remained silent.
Not because they did not want to speak—but because they could not.
The weight of her words had paralyzed them.
They could only watch as Zyrenia's tears spilled over her cheeks, her body trembling, her fangs bared.
"Her sword was fueled with the sorrow, grief, and rage of the 50 million demons you slaughtered—
You enslaved and murdered us.
And you dare forget her name?"
Her shoulders shook with fury, her nails sinking deeper into her skin.
Sevrin remained silent beside her, his presence unwavering but visibly strained.
Duke Vaelora did not move, but his golden gaze burned with quiet, terrible understanding.
None of them interrupted her.
Because this was not something that could be interrupted.
This was something that had to be said.
Something that had to be heard.
Zyrenia's voice lowered, but the weight of it did not lessen.
"She carried the sorrow of 50 million so that she could save 50 million.
She took that burden, that wrath, and that grief upon herself for the 100 million affected by your madness...
So that we could live.
Your... your... your genocide."
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The moment the words left Zyrenia's mouth, something clicked.
It wasn't doubt.
It wasn't a question of whether she was lying.
It was realization.
Because now that they thought about it—
There were no records of POW camps.
None.
No refugee movements.
No mass migrations.
No sudden displacement logs.
In any other war in history, there had always been some kind of record of what happened to the people whose homes were taken.
But in this war?
There was nothing.
No prisoners. No refugees. No exiled nobility.
Only silence.
And the more they thought about it—the worse it became.
Because while there were plenty of records of the Demon Lord of Wrath forcing humans back into their own empire, there were no records of her killing civilians unless they revolted.
Even though humans considered demons to be the monsters.
One of the scholars, an older professor, exhaled sharply, his hands clenching slightly.
"...How?" he muttered under his breath.
His fellow scholar beside him swallowed, his expression pale.
"How was this never documented?"
The reality settled into the room like lead.
They had taken an entire history and erased it.
And now—
It was returning to haunt them.
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Zyrenia's shoulders rose and fell with her ragged breathing, her hands still trembling from where they had drawn blood against her palms.
Sevrin, standing beside her, remained silent—but his posture was stiff, the first sign that even his control was fraying.
And then—
Duke Vaelora finally spoke.
His voice was not loud.
But it carried the weight of centuries of silence.
"Tell me," he said. "Did you forget? Or did you erase her?"
His golden gaze burned into the prince.
The prince, still rattled, opened his mouth to respond.
And then, with the worst possible timing, one of the noble scholars—**completely ignorant of what was happening—**muttered under his breath:
"I don't see why it matters. It's just an old war."
The entire room went still.
Zyrenia's breath hitched.
Sevrin's golden irises burned.
Duke Vaelora's expression did not change.
But in that moment, something fundamental had shifted in the air.
And then, Zyrenia did something no one expected.
She laughed.
A hollow, shaking, disbelieving laugh.
A laugh that had no joy, no amusement.
Her fangs were still showing.
Her hands were still bleeding.
And when she looked up at the prince, her golden eyes filled with tears, she whispered—
"She was our Messiah."
A pause.
She inhaled sharply.
Her voice cracked, but the words still came out like a curse—
"She was a hero from the heavens."
Silence.
Complete. Utter. Silence.
And then, Sevrin finally spoke.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Unyielding.
"Lilith was not just a general. She was the only thing standing between us and complete collapse."
His gaze flickered between the humans, sharp and assessing.
"...And you erased her."
The humans did not respond.
Because what could they say?
And for the first time in 2,000 years—
The demons were standing in the very academy Lilith had founded...
Realizing that the humans had erased their Messiah.
And to the demons—
That was unforgivable.
_______
The air in the conference hall was still heavy with Zyrenia's grief, her anger, her tears still fresh on her cheeks.
No one spoke.
No one dared to.
Except for Duke Vaelora.
The moment his daughter's voice finally broke into quiet, shaky breaths, he turned back toward the humans—his golden eyes sharp, cold, and filled with barely contained fury.
His voice was low, clipped, restrained only by sheer force of will.
"Enough. Where is the goddamn strategy?"
The words cracked through the room like a whip.
Lucien exhaled sharply.
Seraphina and Alistair stayed rigidly composed, unwilling to be the ones to speak.
The prince, still unsettled, met the Duke's eyes carefully. "We—"
"Now."
The prince's jaw tightened.
Duke Vaelora's voice carried no room for negotiation, no space for delay.
He had not endured this—brought his children here, watched his daughter break apart, listened to 50 million erased voices screaming through her fury—
Only to be stalled.
He wanted to see it.
Now.
The headmaster, who had been silent this entire time, simply sighed through his nose.
Then, in a calm, measured voice, he turned to one of the scholars and said,
"Well. You heard them. Get it."
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One of the older scholars, hands visibly unsteady, moved toward the locked archives of the Academy's collected battle research.
The silence in the room stretched thin as he retrieved a set of parchments—the ones containing the so-called solution to Lilith's greatest battle.
The theory that claimed to have solved a 2,000-year-old tactical masterpiece.
And then, with hands still shaking, he turned toward the Duke... and carefully, hesitantly, held them out.
Duke Vaelora did not hesitate.
He took them from the scholar's hands in one swift movement, his sharp gaze flickering across the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Minutes passed.
Long, agonizing minutes of complete silence.
Not a single person in the room dared to breathe too loudly.
Lucien sat completely motionless.
Seraphina's fingers curled slightly against her folded hands.
The prince, though composed, was still on edge.
Zyrenia, still visibly shaken, was watching her father's face carefully.
Sevrin, standing beside her, merely observed—waiting.
And then—
The Duke's hand tightened on the parchment.
His fingers curled against the edges, the paper slightly crumpling under the sheer force of his grip.
His breath came in sharply, unsteady for the first time since arriving.
Then, he exhaled.
One word.
Soft. But tainted with disbelief.
"...Thirty-two?"
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The Duke's pulse was loud in his ears.
Thirty-two.
Lilith had needed forty martyrs to trigger the collapse.
Forty warriors, willing to throw their lives away without hesitation.
This—this version accounted for only thirty-two.
And the worst part?
It was right.
The angles—optimized.
The mana flows—refined.
The sequence of triggers—flawlessly efficient.
His mind reeled, scanning over the logistical calculations, the accounting for aura morale, the precise mental calculations that accounted for unyielding loyalty in a force outnumbered 10 to 1.
And not just loyalty.
Belief.
This strategy relied on more than numbers.
It relied on the absolute certainty that the entire army would not just fight—
But give everything.
That every single soldier would believe with all their heart and soul that their leader would lead them to victory.
That the martyrs would commit to the suicide charge without hesitation.
That the foot soldiers—**minor aura users, barely trained—**would push beyond human capability.
That they would give 120% of their strength, their will, their bodies—because they believed in the leader commanding them.
And that was unthinkable.
How?
How could a human strategist account for something like that?
How could they know?
Lilith's army had not been an army of strength.
It had been an army of faith.
Of desperation.
Of demons who had nothing left—who could not afford to doubt.
How did this strategist know that?
How did they understand that?
His breath was unsteady.
The humans had no idea what was wrong.
But Zyrenia and Sevrin—they understood.
Zyrenia, watching her father's face, whispered, "...It's an improved version."
The Duke said nothing.
Because she was right.
This—this was not Lilith's strategy.
This was better.
A theory built off her framework—optimized.
To come up with this—in less than two days.
His grip tightened further.
He inhaled, slow, sharp.
Then, with dangerous calm, he lifted his head and spoke.
"...Where is the tactician?"
The humans in the room visibly hesitated.
Because they were not keen on feeding Jessica Moran to him while he was like this.
The headmaster, still perfectly composed, simply exhaled.
"Perhaps it would be best if we—"
"No."
The Duke's golden eyes burned.
"Where is the tactician?"
Silence.
Lucien's fingers curled against his sleeve.
Seraphina remained still.
The prince's shoulders tensed ever so slightly.
The headmaster, after a pause, simply folded his hands.
"...I would advise against seeking them out while you are in this state."
That was the diplomatic way of saying 'you are too furious to handle this properly.'
The Duke exhaled sharply through his nose.
Zyrenia glanced toward her father.
Sevrin watched.
For a moment, the weight of the tension lingered.
And then, after several long seconds, Duke Vaelora stood from his seat.
His movements were deliberate.
His eyes did not leave the humans in front of him.
His voice, when he spoke again, was low, heavy, absolute.
"I will see them before the day is over."
There was no question in his tone.
Only certainty.
They were going to find Jessica Moran.
______
The tension in the room was so thick it felt suffocating.
Duke Vaelora had just declared, in no uncertain terms, that he would see the tactician before the day was over.
The headmaster remained composed.
The prince's shoulders were still tense.
Lucien's hands were still shaking slightly.
No one spoke.
No one dared to.
Until Seraphina did.
She had been silent up until now.
Watching. Calculating.
And she could already tell that this situation was spiraling too quickly.
She could not let this proceed unchecked.
Because she didn't know which version of Jessica the demons would get.
And that was a problem.
So, she did what she did best—redirected.
She adjusted her posture ever so slightly, her voice smooth but firm.
"My lord," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I understand your urgency, but before you demand to see the tactician, I believe there's something you should know."
Duke Vaelora did not respond immediately.
His golden eyes flickered toward her.
But he said nothing.
Seraphina exhaled softly. "The tactician isn't always... right in the head."
Zyrenia visibly bristled.
Sevrin's expression remained neutral, but his attention sharpened.
The Duke's gaze did not change.
Seraphina continued, her tone still calm. "They didn't even know which battle they were solving when they came up with this strategy. It was completely blind—built purely from the available conditions without any knowledge of historical precedent."
She let that sink in for a moment before adding, "Their genius comes with a few... screws loose."
She had chosen that phrase deliberately.
It wasn't a direct insult.
It wasn't enough to completely discredit Jessica.
But it was meant to plant doubt.
To make the demons reconsider their urgency.
To make them waste more time.
Seraphina knew better than to tell outright lies.
Instead, she gave them the truth in a way that worked to her advantage.
And for a brief moment—she thought it would work.
But then—Duke Vaelora exhaled sharply through his nose.
And laughed.
A short, sharp, disbelieving sound.
Seraphina stiffened.
The Duke's golden eyes burned into her with something between exhaustion and sheer frustration.
"And this," he muttered, voice low but heavy with disdain, "is what you're trying to use to dissuade me?"
Seraphina remained poised, but her throat tightened.
The Duke straightened slightly, his composure somehow even more imposing than before.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that the one person in this entire academy who can match Lilith's tactical genius—
The one who solved a battle that has gone unanswered for two thousand years—
Is someone you claim to have 'a few screws loose?'"
His voice was flat.
Deadpan.
Almost mocking.
Seraphina did not flinch, but she knew immediately—he wasn't deterred in the slightest.
If anything—he was even more determined than before.
The Duke's grip on the parchment tightened.
"The fact that this strategist did not even know about the cave collapse," he said, "makes this even worse."
He exhaled, sharp and unsteady.
"She had all the information in front of her. A controlled setting. Time to think. Time to plan."
His golden eyes darkened.
"But she was not on the back legs of a retreat, trying to read maps on a horse."
His voice dropped lower.
"And despite that—"
He held up the parchment.
"She came up with something better."
He didn't even try to hide the frustration in his voice.
"Less than two days. With zero prior knowledge of the battle's outcome.
And yet, she accounted for morale.
She accounted for faith.
She accounted for the fact that demons do not fight with strategy alone—they fight with belief."
His hands clenched around the paper, his jaw tightening.
"And she accounted for it better than Lilith did."
A long silence.
Seraphina's nails pressed into her palm.
Lucien's breath hitched.
Zyrenia and Sevrin did not move.
Duke Vaelora exhaled sharply.
"She accounted for the unyielding loyalty of a force outnumbered 10 to 1."
He shook his head, his grip on the parchment taut.
"A force with more elemental mages, outclassing the demon side.
With low-level aura users who should have been nothing more than foot soldiers.
And yet—she accounted for them giving 120% of their strength.
Because she knew they would."
His voice grew sharper, more frustrated.
"How did she know?
How did she know—without even knowing this was a battle fought by demons—
That a force with no business winning would still fight like hell until the bitter end?"
No answer.
The headmaster remained still.
The prince did not speak.
Seraphina, for once, had no words.
Duke Vaelora's fingers curled into the parchment.
And then—he slammed it onto the table.
Hard.
The sound echoed through the room.
And in a voice low, commanding, and absolute, he said:
"I will see her. Now."
No hesitation.
No room for discussion.
The prince finally spoke, his tone carefully measured.
"My lord—"
The Duke cut him off with a glare.
"You will not waste my time with any further excuses."
A pause.
The prince exhaled slowly through his nose.
He knew.
There was no stopping this.
The demons had not just come here for answers anymore.
They had come for her.
And there was nothing anyone could do to stop them.