This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Express-coal on 2025-11-27 17:01:49+00:00.
This goes out to all my reddit readers who are hiding from their families today, or who are taking a break between activities, or who are just relaxing after a big Thanksgiving meal. For anyone who isn't American, well, I can't help that, but I'll share my turkey with you.
Chapter 25: Crucible
“They think they understand us,” Arthur said flatly.
The tent was quiet. No one spoke. Arthur had been right so far, and it didn’t seem wise to interrupt a winning streak.
“Every engagement so far has given them the opportunity to assess us,” he continued. “There’ve been a few surprises, sure.”
He pointed across the table. “The head of the Holy Church.” His finger landed on Father Ulrich. “Some of the greatest knights alive.” He gestured, sweepingly over Sir Bedivere, Sir Lebrun, and Sir Aton in turn. “And the best adventurers, soldiers, and killers this kingdom could field.”
Arthur leaned over the map, eyes cold in the lantern light. “They’ll be preparing their finest to break us. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve seen our strength. They have no reason to think we’ve held anything back.”
A pause. His tone dropped, wolfish and deliberate. “But they’ll still second-guess themselves. And that gives us the edge.”
He traced a finger across the map, eyes narrowing as he studied the terrain.
“To summon, or empower, a Demon Lord, they’ll need open ground. A flat area near the power source. A place large enough to etch the circle, and defensible enough to finish the rite.”
He tapped the map once, the sound sharp against the table. “More than the right place, they need time. Days.”
Straightening, Arthur met each commander’s gaze in turn. “Our job now is to deny them both.”
The strike teams gathered in the predawn chill, movements hushed and exact. Men checked their gear, studied maps in the dim lantern light, and murmured quietly to comrades. Horses snorted and pawed at the damp earth, sensing the tension that hung thick over the camp.
Arthur moved among them, a reassuring presence without ceremony. Commanders, Prince Alric, Sir Bedivere, Sir Lebrun, Sir Aton, Father Ulrich, Berthold Kaufungen, Sir Henry, Sir Hanek, and Guildmaster Talon, stood ready by their mounts.
At each group Arthur paused, exchanging nods or quick words. At Prince Alric’s post, the prince grinned confidently. “See you after victory, Arthur.”
“We’ll make them regret stepping foot in our world,” Arthur said.
Alric nodded firmly, turning to mount up. Beside him, Sir Lance saluted crisply, calm confidence radiating from his posture.
As Arthur passed, Father Ulrich bellowed to his men. “Remember lads, every demon slain today earns you a seat at the Goddess’s table! Don’t leave me drinkin’ alone!”
Laughter rippled through the ranks, thinning the tension for a precious moment.
At Bedivere’s company, Arthur paused. Bedivere gripped Arthur’s forearm with a warrior’s grip. “We’ll hold fast, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded solemnly, looking Bedivere directly in the eye. “I know you will.”
The sky began to bleed from grey to a fragile rose as Arthur approached Guildmaster Talon. The older man adjusted his grey vest, eyes grim and thoughtful.
“I’ll be counting on you,” Arthur said quietly, his tone serious.
Talon regarded him evenly, nodding slowly. “It’s mutual.”
Arthur turned and mounted up, his horse shifting beneath him. Drew rode up alongside, spear held firmly, a familiar, reassuring presence.
Arthur raised his fist. Silence fell instantly across the gathered warriors. Hundreds of eyes fixed upon him.
“Brothers in arms!” he said, voice even, each phrase measured so it landed like a blow. “Harden your hearts. Seal your helms. Ready your steel.”
“Before us lies a land that has forgotten peace. Once the golden domain of our Goddess, it is now choked with demon bile!
“The bells that once rang in devotion now toll in dread. The sacred lands of our King lie buried beneath decay and rot! And who defiles them? The pestilent servants of a demon god who spews ruin as sacrament and calls it grace!
“There is no dialogue with demons. You cannot reason with plague. You cannot debate with filth. You cannot bargain with Evil! You can only burn it!
“We descend not as liberators, but as executioners. Do not pity what you kill. Do not flinch at what you burn. These things are not men. Their souls are forfeit, their minds leased to destruction. Their hearts beat only for ruin, and where ruin reigns, humanity must erase it.
“This is not war. This is exorcism!
So when the gates open, do not stop. When the skies bleed, do not falter. When they beg, when they mock, when they offer peace beneath their chains, strike them at the root!
“Ready your blades. Seal your helms. Stoke your flames. We descend not as men, but as weapons!
“We leave only silence in our wake! Cleanse The Demon!”
He lowered his fist and signaled forward.
The horns sounded, clear and bright in the dawn’s fragile glow.
Five Strike Arms moved out from camp like the spread fingers of a mailed fist, each group riding out with unified purpose. The thunder of hooves echoed, then faded, leaving the camp behind in the capable hands of Leigh Carpenter and Major General Marmion.
Ahead lay battle… and destiny.
The sun climbed slowly above the horizon, gilding the canyon rim in molten gold. At the head of the central Strike Arm, Prince Alric rode with his visor down, eyes narrowing as he studied the mouth of the ravine.
He knew the enemy awaited them, and with the skills honed from years of warfare, he could guess where. As they rode towards the mouth of the canyon, he pulled on his horse’s reins, raising a fist in the air.
Seconds ticked by, and finally, a chortling laugh came from the cliff face.
“So, you humans’s have figured out my traps’s!” Echoed a voice from the cliff face above.
“Show yourself, demon.” Alric's answer was stoic. “There is no point in hiding.”
The demon slunk down from rocks, half-formed in human outline, the rest a writhing, scaled tail. Black scales gleamed in the sunlight. Disgust rose in every throat at the sight of the creature, instincts as old as time rising up, demanding its death.
“What say yous’s human, we have a duels’s? Winner gets tos’s leave, unharmed, with their groups’s,” the creature slurred in a sibilant, imitating voice.
Prince Alric dismounted without haste, handing his reins to Sir Lance. He strode forward, sunlight glinting sharply off his polished armor, drawing his longsword smoothly. Then he loosened his sword belt, letting his scabbard fall freely to the dirt.
“I accept, demon,” Alric declared. His tone was quiet and absolute. “Come, then. Face me.”
The creature laughed. A raspy, broken sound echoing mockingly across the rocky canyon walls. “So very delightfuls’s. Such bravery from weak preys’s.”
Alric’s expression never wavered. “I suppose we’ll see.”
They closed the gap in careful silence, the scraping of scales against rough dirt and the measured crunch of armored boots the only sounds marking their convergence. Thirty feet. Twenty. Fifteen.
Alric halted, his blade unmoving. He eyed his opponent with grim intent, waiting.
The demon lunged, clawed hands flashing forward in twin arcs, while its tail propelled it forward with sudden, sinuous speed. It seemed impossible to block, too swift to dodge.
Alric moved, his form blurring with unnatural grace. He parried the strike effortlessly, following through with a precise counter cut. The longsword sliced cleanly through the demon's left arm, opening a deep gash that severed nerves and muscles alike. The limb hung useless, twitching.
“You wield matched blades as if you can attack from both flanks at once,” Alric said almost conversationally as he stepped forward, “Without proper rotation of the hips, the strike becomes weak, and entirely too easy to parry.”
“Stop it, stops’s it!” The demon howled in fury and pain. “Puny human, ones’s cut will not end me, fools’s!”
Alric's smile was a blade, sharpened with cold amusement. “The fight was over the moment you challenged me.”
With a shriek of desperation, the demon lunged again, reckless, wild, and furious. Alric did not give it further chances. His blade flashed, an impossible to follow move that found the hollow at the creature’s center and drove home.
The sound it made was wet, final. It crumpled, twitching, blood like white oil pooling in the dust.
“You think… you have won?” it hissed weakly, breathing labored and rasping. “My…masters’s…will rise…”
Then nothing
Alric wiped his blade on his surcoat, retrieved his sword belt, and sheathed his blade. As he swung into his saddle, a quiet sigh escaped his lips.
“Finally had a real fight for once?” Sir Lance joked lightly.
“Yes, well, it’s been some time,” Alric replied, surveying the surrounding cliffs warily.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” Lance said. “No one willingly challenges a man with the S-Rank skill Perfect Duelist. Most turn tail the moment they hear of it.”
“Yes, yes,” Alric replied, voice growing firm again. “Enough banter. Search the area. Flush out any hiding demons, and kill them all.”
Lance gestured toward the dea...
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