Tave stepped out into the open area. His eyes swept left and right, scanning the fortress, watching the movents, the routines, the power balance in every corner of this nest of demons.
Hopefully, no one here really knew him.
The face he wore ca from a demon already dead, one of those who had fallen earlier in the Rift. If anyone had known that particular demon too well... yeah, that would be a problem.
Now the question was: Where’s their leader?
The main structure was divided into several sections, central, left, and right. The central one was clearly more refined than the rest, its architecture more fortified, even symbolic. That had to be where the leader was.
Tave hadn’t seen that towering demon again, the one who had captured them in the forest.
He passed several camps where demons lounged around in small groups, laughing, brawling, gambling, or sharing at ripped from monsters. The place was crude, but alive.
Then. A hand slapped his shoulder from behind.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned, baring his fangs.
"Watch your hand if you want to keep it!" he snarled.
Behind him stood a thinner demon, lacking the bulky armor of the others, clearly a laborer or lesser-class type. His eyes widened slightly but didn’t flinch.
"How are you still here, you scum-chewing maggot?" the demon snapped back.
This one knew the face he was using?
"I heard you and your whole squad got butchered by those Rift challengers."
Tave’s snarl deepened. He stepped closer.
"I’m not as stupid or soft as the rest of them. That’s why I’m still breathing."
The demon’s lip curled into a sharp grin. "Oh, you know, I didn’t think you’d crawl back. But hey, good to see you made it out, Skarn."
Skarn?
Well, there it was. The na tied to the face Tave wore. Good to know.
Bad news? He knew nothing else about this Skarn.
"Stop calling my na like you’re even close to my rank. And..." Tave let the words trail, keeping his tone sharp.
He needed to think fast. Better yet, think like a demon.
Demons didn’t care much for knowing each other. Their lives were brutal, short, chaotic. Most didn’t even have real nas, and those who did often changed them when it suited them. Survival was valued more than identity. Reputation ca from power, not mory.
That gave Tave room to maneuver.
He narrowed his eyes. "Now tell , what should I call you, you carrion-sucking rodent?"
"I... uh... just call ’Scum-Brew,’ yeah? That’s my latest title. They liked my brew at the last gathering. You want to taste my new batch? We’re saving it for tomorrow night’s feast."
Tave grunted. "Make sure it tastes decent. Or I’ll toss you in the barrel as flavoring."
"Noted," the demon snorted, clearly used to insults.
They continued walking, weaving through the fortress until they reached a smaller structure near the far edge. Unlike the rest, this one was built mostly of dark wood, reinforced with bones and rusted tal plates.
Tave followed, keeping pace.
The door creaked open, and they stepped into a dimly lit room that reeked of fernted herbs, smoke, and sothing vaguely tallic. At the center stood a massive wooden barrel, roughly put together with iron rings and scorched carvings. Not a single guard in sight.
The demon, ’Scum-Brew’, strode over to the side, snatched a cracked wooden mug, and made his way to the tap embedded in the barrel’s side. With a grunt, he twisted the spout, and a thick, dark-red liquid began to pour.
He handed the cup to Tave with a crooked grin. "Here. Just a sip. Consider it a gift. Since you, you know, ca back from the dead, hahaha."
"Shut up," Tave growled, snatching the mug from his hand.
He hesitated for a split second.
Damn it.
He wasn’t used to drinking, anything, really. The strongest thing he’d ever willingly consud was bitter coffee. How was he supposed to know what this demon brew was supposed to taste like?
Still, he had to sell the role.
He took a gulp.
And instantly regretted it.
The liquid hit his tongue like fire, sharp, burning, with a rancid twist of rot and tal. It scraped down his throat like acid. Tave tried to keep a straight face, but his entire mouth rebelled. A dry gag caught in his throat, and without thinking, he spat it out, part of it splashing on the demon’s feet.
The demon looked horrified.
"W-what?! You didn’t like it?! Is sothing off? Was it the wrong root? Did I ss up the ratio again?!"
Tave wiped his mouth, snarling. "Why don’t you try it and find out?"
The demon blinked, then quickly grabbed another mug, poured a smaller portion, and took a sip.
He paused.
Chewed the taste.
Then blinked again.
"No... no, it’s the sa as earlier, wait, give a mont! I’ll check the ingredients again!"
The demon, still in a mild panic, began rummaging through a wooden cupboard to the side, yanking out old jars, dried roots, half-empty flasks. A few of them clattered to the floor with a crash. Muttering curses, he dashed up a wooden ladder nailed to the side of the barrel, peered inside nervously, and tossed in a few more ingredients with clear uncertainty.
Tave sat down in the far corner of the room, and leaned back slightly. The mont was perfect enough to keep the demon distracted, yet calm enough for conversation.
"You’re seriously going to have a problem if the higher-ups don’t like this." Tave said.
"No, no, I know," the demon muttered. "I’m putting everything on the line here. This can’t fail. The Rift’s about to burst, and this feast, it’s supposed to celebrate that mont."
Tave tilted his head slightly, keeping his tone indifferent. "Oh, really? So, how long until the Rift breaks? I haven’t exactly been paying attention lately."
The demon paused, holding a fistful of dark, shriveled leaves. Tave could practically hear the cogs grinding in that empty skull.
"Uh... I’m not sure. I think they said... less than a week?"
Less than a week.
Tave’s hand clenched slowly on his knee.
This wasn’t just bad news. It was disastrous.
This Ergency Rift... it had already been modified by the demons who took control of it. Normally, you could tell when a Rift was close to collapse from the sky fracturing, the dinsional shatter signs. But here, in this separated world, none of that showed.
And the worst part?
The gate out, the bridge into Yunatea, would likely open at a single point.
They were already preparing for that. The demons had organized. Gathered. Built. They weren’t just waiting for the Rift to expire. They were planning to move in.
A full invasion.
In just a few days.
If no one stopped it... A disaster was going to tear into the world outside.
The demon scrambled back down the ladder, still muttering to himself, clearly deep in his frantic thoughts. Tave stood up calmly and walked toward the massive barrel. Without waiting for permission, he climbed the ladder, looking down into the thick, bubbling liquid inside.
"Hey, what are you doing?! Don’t ss with that!" the demon snapped, turning toward him.
"Let check it. You make sure your ingredients aren’t missing anything," Tave growled, not bothering to look back.
The demon hesitated. "Ah. Are you sure? Please don’t do anything weird. I... I put my life into this batch!" the Scum-Brew pleaded.
Tave didn’t answer.
He simply lifted his hand, activating his storage ring with a faint flicker.
From it, five vials appeared. Each filled with a thick, dark-red liquid.
He stared at them for a mont.
Then unscrewed one.
"I was saving this for sothing else," he muttered under his breath, "but what’s the point if I never make it out of here?"
One by one, he poured them into the barrel. The Scum-Brew was still digging through a wooden cabinet behind him, completely unaware.
Once the final drop vanished into the churning brew, Tave climbed down without a word and returned to his corner, sitting once again with legs crossed, watching.
The Scum-Brew climbed up next, inspecting the barrel with narrowed eyes. He dipped a finger into the liquid, licked it, and froze.
He stared. Confused.
Then turned his head sharply toward Tave.
"What did you put in this drink?" Scum-Brew asked sternly with a stern look on his face.
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