{Chapter: 33: Crimson Decision}
Harry let out a booming laugh and raised his sword toward the gray sky. His voice rang over the field like a bell before battle.
"So be it! I will crush your forces beneath the boots of my cavalry and watch you kneel with your own blood on your lips. And when you surrender, it will not be to save your people—but to beg for your pride!"
He gave a sharp gesture with his blade.
"Siege weapons forward! Infantry units prepare to engage! Cavalry squadrons—hold position and prepare to break the gate the moment it cracks!"
With synchronized movements, the soldiers behind him surged into motion. Siege towers creaked forward, catapults rolled into place, and squads of disciplined infantry formed tight, overlapping formations like the plates of a great serpent. The drums of war began to beat, shaking the earth beneath their boots.
From the high walls of Fort Mogus, James watched with unwavering eyes. He didn't flinch, didn't even blink.
"Hold fire," he commanded calmly to the general beside him. "Archers and artillery teams are to wait until they're within one hundred paces. No sooner."
"Understood, Your Highness." The officer bowed and departed, relaying the command to the various captains positioned across the battlements.
The battlefield was becoming a theater of tension. The air crackled with anticipation—like a storm building but refusing to break.
Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, James reached into the inner pocket of his chestplate and retrieved a ruby the size of a pigeon egg. The crimson stone shimmered unnaturally in the dim light, its glow pulsating with a subtle rhythm—like the heartbeat of something ancient and unspeakable.
He ran his thumb along its smooth, flawless surface.
To anyone else, it looked like a precious gem—perhaps worth a small fortune in gold.
Turning to the aging Baron Duke standing beside him, he held it up and asked, "Tell me, what do you think this is?"
The Baron, one of the few entrusted with James's most dangerous secrets, paled slightly. His eyes lingered on the gem, and he replied with a voice tinged with apprehension.
"My lord... to me, it appears no more than a ruby. Yet I know better than to believe what my eyes show me. This… this is no ordinary jewel."
James chuckled darkly, his grip tightening slightly around the stone.
"Exactly. It looks like a gem, but it's so much more. The very moment I touched it, I understood it—not in the way we learn things, but as if it whispered its truth directly into my thoughts."
He glanced out across the battlefield, his voice becoming distant.
"It's... a feeling I can't quite describe. Like having another sense. I can see through it... sense through it. And what I feel—what I know—is terrifying."
He paused as a stray arrow clattered harmlessly against the stone wall behind him, then turned back to the Duke.
"This gem is connected to him. To Dex."
The name alone sent a chill down the spines of those within earshot.
James continued, his words slow and heavy:
"I can feel it—his presence through the gem. A demonic power far beyond our comprehension. He pretends to be calm. Gentle, even. He remains secluded in his estate and rarely speaks unless spoken to. But don't be fooled. His eyes… they haven't changed since the day we met him. They remain cold. Detached. Uncaring."
He stared down at the ruby, its light seeming to pulse in response to his thoughts.
"In his gaze, we are less than ants. He issues no commands beyond a few casual ones—most of which seem pointless. He doesn't restrict us. Doesn't spy on us. Doesn't even punish betrayal unless forced. As if it all... simply doesn't matter to him."
He looked back up toward the advancing army, his face a mask of grim resolve.
"A demon who seeks souls, blood, and slaughter... but doesn't act on those instincts? That's not mercy—that's restraint. And restraint implies fear. He's waiting. Holding back. That's what terrifies me most."
James let the gem slip back into his armor and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the battle—and the world—to come. The war with Ar was only one front. Behind the curtain, darker forces stirred.
The Duke lowered his head, his voice as heavy as a coffin's lid. "Your Highness, I truly believe that in this entire world, among all nations, kingdoms, and hidden orders, only the Church holds knowledge vast and ancient enough to provide an answer. Only they possess the forbidden texts, the divine insight, and the historical records required to truly understand the nature of demons."
James remained silent for a moment, then let out a long, weary sigh, as if a thousand invisible weights pressed upon his chest.
"Yes," he finally said, his voice calm yet laced with quiet bitterness. "There is no denying that. Among all the powers in existence, the Church understands demons the best. Their archives run deeper than the roots of the oldest trees, and their vaults guard truths that the world has long since chosen to forget. They will have answers—but what kind of price will they demand in return?"
He turned his eyes toward the cloudy sky, a deep frown etched into his brow. "The Church," he continued, "though cloaked in the name of virtue and purity, is itself a monster—an insatiable creature that devours without discrimination. It does not feast on flesh like the demons, no. It feeds on power, on influence, on control. It seeks dominion over the hearts of the people and the crowns of kings. The moment they sense an opening, a flicker of vulnerability in our rule, they will strike—and when they do, the Principality of Marton will not be engulfed by flame or sword, but by scripture and holy decree."
James's gaze darkened as he walked toward the edge of the city wall. His boots echoed heavily against the ancient stone. From his elevated vantage point, he could clearly see the enemy troops swarming below. Like ants they came, crawling over the hills and ridges, climbing siege ladders, hurling rocks and fire at the walls of Grottofort. And in their eyes, he saw no fear. Only exhilaration. Only savage joy. It was the look of men who believed they had already won.
Perhaps, James mused grimly, they had already envisioned their victory celebrations—how they would march through the streets adorned in blood and triumph, how they would plunder the homes of nobles and peasants alike, how they would take whatever they wanted—gold, gems… women, how they will r@p£ how they are going to return home in glory and riches.
James exhaled slowly, his voice little more than a breath. But within that whisper lay something far darker than mere resignation.
"You've put me in a position where I have to do this, haven't you? Now I can only hope... enough of you survive. Otherwise, the lack of proper sacrifices will prove... inconvenient."
His fingers tightened around the gemstone hidden in his palm—a perfectly cut ruby, the size of a pigeon's egg. It pulsed faintly, as if something inside it still breathed, still lived.
Without hesitation, James crushed it.
The gemstone cracked with a sharp, glass-like snap—and then, with the fury of a storm breaking free from heaven's prison, it exploded in a blinding surge of crimson light. The sky above Grottofort ignited in bloody brilliance, casting a hellish glow across the entire battlefield.
Every soldier—friend and foe alike—paused in confusion. Their weapons halted mid-swing. Their eyes blinked against the brightness. They turned their heads skyward in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.
But comprehension never came.
Without warning, an invisible wave of unnatural energy surged across the battlefield. It moved with speed and precision, like the hand of some divine reaper brushing across the living. It struck every Ar soldier below the rank of [Grand Knight], and the change was immediate.
Their bodies locked up. Their eyes dilated.
And then—they screamed.
Their screams were not those of fear or pain. No. These were screams of madness, of bloodlust and overwhelming, bestial hunger. Their irises flared a deep, glowing red, and their veins pulsed visibly beneath their skin, turning black and gnarled like twisted roots.
And then—they moved.
Not as soldiers. Not as men.
But as monsters.
The battlefield transformed into a nightmarish landscape of betrayal and unrelenting slaughter. Ar soldiers turned on each other with mindless ferocity. Blades meant for foreign enemies were now buried in familiar flesh. Screams of confusion erupted alongside desperate pleas for mercy. None were heeded.
A knight—one of Ar's best—had only just raised his sword to defend himself when his own squire, now snarling and drooling, pounced upon him like a wild animal. The squire's teeth sank into the knight's exposed throat, tearing it open in a shower of crimson mist. The knight's sword fell with a clatter as he collapsed, eyes wide in shock and betrayal.
Nearby, another soldier screamed in utter disbelief as his former commander, once a man of discipline and honor, tore open his gut with bare, blood-soaked hands. Intestines spilled onto the ground like coiled serpents, the soldier writhing in the dirt as he gasped for breath that would never come.
Gone were the organized ranks and military formations. In their place surged chaos—utter, primal chaos. The shrieks of agony and betrayal echoed into the skies. Steel met bone. Flesh met teeth. Limbs were severed. Faces ripped apart. The soil drank deeply of blood until the ground itself seemed to churn and writhe.
There were no longer sides. No longer allies or enemies. There was only hunger. Only rage. Only death.
No banners flew anymore. No horns blew. No war cries filled the air.
Only the sickening crunch of bone, the guttural growls of the maddened, the panicked sobs of those trying to flee, and the deranged laughter of the damned.
No battle cries remained. Only the wet crunch of bodies being devoured, the desperate wails of the dying, and the unhinged laughter of those too far gone to realize they were already lost.
The fortress known as Grottofort had become something else entirely.
Not a battlefield.
Not a stronghold.
Grottofort had descended into madness.
But a cursed monument to the depths of human depravity—and the terrifying unknown that James Woz had dared to unleash.
And above it all, he stood silently, high upon the battlements, watching the chaos below as a quiet smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
In his heart, he knew this was only the beginning.
*****
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