CHAPTER 40: THE ATTRITION

Outpost Dra’kul smelled like slow death.

Far different from the sharp, copper tang of fresh carnage that had filled Krazax’s courtyard. The stench of infected wounds and gangrene, of bodies rotting in places too dangerous to retrieve, of demons dying by inches instead of all at once.

Ten soldiers a day, Gorath had said.

Looking at the outpost now, Liam believed it.

The fortifications were intact but deteriorating. Walls showed scorch marks from holy fire that no one had bothered, or had the energy to clean. The gate hung slightly crooked on its hinges.

Sentries stood watch, but their postures spoke of exhaustion so profound it had become a permanent state of being.

This wasn’t a garrison preparing to fight.

This was a garrison waiting to die.

"Cheerful place," Varg muttered.

"Quiet," Koth snapped, but his molten eyes were scanning the walls with professional assessment. "They’re watching us. Trying to figure out if we’re worth the effort of hope."

As they approached, a demon in battered armor stepped out from the gate. Not the commander—Liam could tell by the lack of insignia and the way he held himself like a man delivering bad news.

"You’re the one they call our savior," the demon said. It wasn’t a question. His voice was hoarse, worn down by too many mornings counting corpses.

"I am," Liam confirmed.

The demon studied him with eyes that had seen too much. "Commander Skel’var is waiting. But I’ll warn you now, he’s not like Koth. He doesn’t want salvation. He wants to die with a sword in his hand and take as many humans with him as he can."

"Then we’ll have to disappoint him," Liam said, moving past.

The interior of Dra’kul was worse than the exterior.

Demons moved like ghosts through corridors that should have been full of activity. The armory was picked clean—weapons taken by dead hands, never returned. The infirmary was overflowing, the wounded lying on floors because there weren’t enough beds.

And everywhere, the smell. Rot and resignation mixing into something toxic.

[Collective Belief - Outpost Dra’kul: -47%]

Negative.

Even more hostile than Krazax had been.

These demons didn’t just disbelieve in salvation—they actively resented the idea of it.

Koth’s expression was grim. "I’ve seen garrisons like this. They’re already dead. They just don’t know it yet."

"Or they know it too well," Zara said softly, her analytical mind processing what she was seeing. "Look at their eyes. They’re not afraid. They’re not even angry anymore. They’re just... empty."

They were led to a command post that had been fortified into a tomb. Narrow windows, reinforced walls, a single escape route that had been sealed with rubble.

Commander Skel’var sat behind a table covered in maps and casualty reports, but he wasn’t looking at them.

He was staring at nothing, his clawed hand wrapped around a flask that was clearly empty but that he hadn’t set down.

He was young – for a demon. Probably hadn’t seen more than eighty years. His horns were intact but scarred, his armor more patches than original metal. But it was his eyes that told the real story.

They were the eyes of someone who’d watched everyone he cared about die, one by one, and knew he’d be next.

"The Demon God," Skel’var said, his voice flat. Not mocking. Just... empty. "Here to save us. How wonderful."

He finally looked up, and Liam saw something flicker in those dead eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or just the spark that came before total darkness.

"Tell me," the young commander continued, "do you know what attrition feels like? Not in theory. In practice."

"Enlighten me," Liam said, pulling up a chair without being invited.

Skel’var’s lip curled—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "It means you wake up every morning and count how many faces are missing. It means you learn not to learn names because in three days, that demon will be a corpse you’re too tired to bury properly. It means watching your garrison hollow out from three hundred to two hundred to one-fifty to what we have now."

"How many?" Liam asked quietly.

"Ninety-three." The number was delivered like a death sentence. "Ninety-three demons holding a position that needs three hundred. Ninety-three demons facing daily raids from an enemy that knows we’re broken and is just waiting for us to collapse completely."

He finally set the flask down.

"So forgive me if I don’t fall to my knees in gratitude, my lord. I’ve had three centuries of propaganda about Primordial Demons and demon gods and salvation through faith. And every morning, I wake up to ten fewer soldiers."

[Skel’var - Emotional State: Profound Depression. Suicidal Ideation.]

[Belief: -89%]

[Loyalty to Crown: 12%]

The numbers were devastating. Liam had never seen belief that negative. Skel’var didn’t just disbelieve ‐ he was hostile to the very concept of hope.

"What’s killing them?" Liam asked, ignoring the hostility.

"Everything." Skel’var gestured to the map. "The Radiant Empire learned they don’t need to assault us. They just need to bleed us. A raid at dawn. A sniper in the rocks. A poisoned water supply. A fire arrow into our granary. Death by a thousand cuts."

He traced a section of terrain east of the outpost.

"They have a forward operating base here. Hidden in a ravine, almost impossible to assault. Fifty paladins, rotating shifts, supplied by a trail we can’t reach without exposing ourselves completely. They send out kill-teams three times a day. We repel them, but we lose soldiers doing it. Slowly. Steadily. Mathematically."

His clawed finger tapped the map.

"And we can’t leave. Can’t retreat. Because this outpost guards the eastern approach to the supply roads. If we fall, the entire Ashard Perimeter loses twenty percent of its provisions. So we stay. And we die. And eventually, there won’t be anyone left to guard anything."

The tactical situation was elegantly brutal.

The Radiant Empire had found the perfect strategy—sustainable pressure that required minimal resources while guaranteeing eventual victory.

Liam studied the map, the Cognitor feeding him data about terrain, approach vectors, defensive possibilities.

[Tactical Analysis: Stalemate Situation]

[Recommendation: Offensive action required to break pattern]

[Probability of Success (Conventional Assault): 12%]

[Enemy Position: Well-Fortified, Defensible, Sustainable]

Twelve percent. Unacceptable odds.

"How many did you have when this started?" Liam asked.

"Three hundred." Skel’var’s voice cracked slightly. "I had three hundred demons under my command. Good soldiers. Veterans. Demons with families, with futures, with reasons."

He looked at Liam, and there was accusation in those dead eyes.

"And I killed them all. Not quickly. Not mercifully. I killed them through incompetence and indecision and the failure to make the hard choice when it mattered."

"What choice?"

"To abandon the outpost." The words came out like a confession. "Three months ago, I could have evacuated. Saved two hundred soldiers. Let the supply roads burn. But I followed orders. Held position. And now..."

He gestured weakly at the maps, the casualty reports, the empty fortress around them.

"Now I have ninety-three demons waiting to die, and I’m too much of a coward to give the order that would save them."