Demon Lord Nullivar was not having a good time.
He pressed his back against a thick, moss-covered tree, breathing through clenched teeth. Sweat soaked his greasy blond hair, turning the strands dark against his pale face. He reached inside his embroidered coat and pulled out a long-barreled, obsidian-colored pistol—heavy enough that his wrist dipped before he steadied it in his right hand.
He leaned out just enough to scan the jungle with his sharp green eyes.
The stench of blood hung over everything. Corpses littered the undergrowth in every direction—demons skewered clean through by arrows. Some of the projectiles were small and unadorned, but they punched through skulls and throats of imps and reylfs with surgical precision. The cherubs had fared even worse, their bodies shattered outright. The drakoraths, massive as they were, had been hit with arrows the size of spears—some pinned upright against trees like grotesque trophies.
*By Michael… is this what it felt like fighting in Nam?* Nullivar thought grimly.
He had expected an uphill battle—he knew he'd drawn the short straw as the Demon Lord tasked with invading the elves—but this? This was carnage. His forces barely listened to him; they were terrified of the elves before the war even began. They stumbled clumsily through the underbrush, refusing to advance in formation, and the elves punished them for it—picking them off from the canopy with quiet, merciless accuracy.
And the jungle itself… the jungle hated demons.
Nullivar's gaze drifted to a cluster of imps lying dead in the crushing grip of thorn-wrapped vines. Above them, reylfs dangled from the branches of a massive tree, nooses of living greenery tight around their necks.
The elves were turning the entire forest into a weapon. Every root, every creeping vine, every branch seemed primed to kill demons specifically.
*They're programming it,* he thought. *Directing the forest to target demons. Probably the only reason I haven't been skewered yet.*
A flicker of movement pulled his attention upward—dense leaves rustling overhead.
Nullivar slowly raised his pistol and fired.
The weapon thundered like a cannon. The round punched into the canopy, hit something soft, then detonated. A rain of elven gore pattered down through the leaves.
"Two," he murmured, pivoting sharply just in time.
An arrow shot straight for his left eye. He tilted aside. The shaft thudded into the bark of the tree he'd been using as cover.
He fired again at the source—the dark knot of leaves concealing another sniper. Another shower of gore spilled down.
"Three."
He dropped his gaze just in time to see an elven soldier plummeting toward him, blade poised in a perfect, silent killing arc. Nullivar didn't bother raising his pistol. Instead, he snapped up his left hand—and a shadow spear erupted from his palm, skewering the elf from jaw to brain.
"Four."
He rolled away as a spear-sized arrow smashed into the ground where he'd stood a heartbeat before. Dirt blasted upward. Nullivar came up on one knee, pistol ready—only to see four elven soldiers racing toward him with blades drawn, their steps as light and swift as wind. And above them, four more elves on the branches pulled their bowstrings taut.
Nullivar fired at the ground between the four charging elves. The round punched into the dirt and detonated with a concussive blast, hurling all four backward in a spray of soil and leaves.
The archers above loosed immediately.
Nullivar snapped up his left hand. A sheet of shadow rippled outward, catching the arrows mid-flight and slowing them until they hung suspended like insects in amber. The shadows coiled tighter, infusing the shafts with a throbbing black sheen. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled them back.
Three dark streaks cut upward. One elf's skull burst like a cracked gourd. Another's eye exploded in a red mist. The third arrow punched clean through a throat, pinning the body to the branch behind it.
"Seven," Nullivar muttered.
Below, the four elves he'd blasted back recovered quickly, spread out, and charged again—no hesitation, no fear, just cold efficiency.
He shot the first as she broke cover. The bullet hit her sternum and detonated, scattering gore across the trunk behind her.
"Eight."
The remaining three closed the distance. One elf slashed for his throat—a precise, disciplined swing. Nullivar leaned back, letting the blade whistle past his chin as he conjured a shadow machete in his free hand. He stepped in and hacked downward, severing the elf's arm at the shoulder. The soldier screamed and staggered, blood fanning across the air.
Another elf lunged with a stabbing thrust. Nullivar tilted aside, intending to cleave into his collarbone—until the third elf intercepted the blow, bracing his sword with a full-body guard. The impact was so forceful that the elf's boots gouged into the dirt, his legs trembling under the sheer pressure of Nullivar's swing.
The maimed elf, teeth bared in agony, whipped her remaining hand forward. A razor-thin blade of wind formed point-blank at Nullivar's throat.
Nullivar didn't even turn his head. He raised his pistol and fired once.
The round hit her stomach. She detonated into a wave of red shrapnel that staggered the other two elves and broke their stance.
"Nine."
He lunged forward. His machete came down in a savage arc, carving deep into the shoulder of the dazed soldier—so deep the elf was nearly cleaved in half.
"Ten."
The final elf attacked with desperation and skill—four rapid slashes aimed to overwhelm. Nullivar slipped through each one, weaving just outside the cutting arcs, before stepping in and smashing the butt of his pistol into the elf's face. Bones cracked. Skin peeled. The elf collapsed with a strangled cry.
Nullivar shot him in the chest, killing him instantly.
"Eleven."
He exhaled slowly, the adrenaline thinning in his blood.
"Eleven from this skirmish. That makes it a total of three hundred and eleven elves I have killed," he muttered, turning to move—when footsteps crunched behind him.
He whipped around, pistol raised.
Something came hurtling toward his head.
He ducked. The object smashed into a nearby tree with a violent crack, embedding itself halfway into the trunk. Nullivar turned to see what had been thrown—and his stomach tightened.
It was the green helmet of the demon knight assigned to assist him in this invasion.
"Ah shit," he breathed.
Then he looked at the figure standing in the clearing.
An elf—no… a half-elf—stood with murder in his eyes, rage radiating off him so intensely the air felt hotter. He advanced with slow, deliberate steps, each one heavy enough to make the ground quake.
"You all never learn, do you?" the half-elf said, his voice a low growl. "This world isn't one any of you can touch."