Exhaling a small amount of air, which crystallized due to the room's low temperature, he placed his hands on his head, trying to organize his thoughts. However, a grating voice interrupted him:
"Master? ...Cri."
The tone was unpleasant, and the screeching of the mask distorted any aesthetic sense of the words, destroying them. This bothersome voice belonged to one of his subordinates, who, due to his imposing stature, could easily pass for a giant. He wore thick, dark clothing. His pockets were filled with scissors, thick thread, and needles.
Both he, the one called "master," and his subordinate were fallen beings. Currently, they were arguing in a massive room, resembling a human office.
Three large ebony wood bookshelves stood tall, packed with old, faded leather-bound books. Piles of loose papers were stacked on both the tables and furniture. However, not a single speck of dust stained the place. In short, there was no sense of order, though the space was undeniably clean.
"It's annoying," said the master, grabbing the documents his subordinate had just read to him and, exhausted, flung them into the air. "Like a plague."
The papers floated in an arc and landed on the already cluttered piles of documents, making the room appear even more disorganized. The subordinate, though he extended a hand as if trying to stop the master, made no effort to pick up the scattered papers.
"Damn those heroes," the master whispered.
He didn't have a fixed name, as was common for all the fallen, so he preferred to be called "master." After all, wasn't that the proper way for any subordinate to address their superior? It was simply normal.
Even so, even as a master, he was still under the command of others. To be honest, it irked him to have to follow those stupid orders that led nowhere.
"Ugh! Losing both the mail and the supply crates makes us look bad," the master said.
"Cri. But even though the situation is dire, cri, it doesn't mean we've lost all means of communication with the frontlines, cri," his subordinate consoled him.
"Tsk, the most annoying thing is that they dared to trample on my authority. Who do they think they are? Everything, everyone… How is it that—"
"Master."
"Hmm?!"
"Cri! No need to get upset. Cri, cri. If you'll allow it, I will personally take care of this matter."
"You'll take care of the heroes, huh?"
The heroes, as humans preferred to call them, were beings summoned from other times. Endowed with all kinds of abilities, each of the seven represented one of the primordial styles of combat. Once summoned, they were trained and equipped with a unique weapon that enhanced their power. Placed under the care of various groups, they served as the spearhead of the races.
Though, as master, he believed they were nothing more than a swarm of annoying flies.
"They attacked one of the routes we used for transport. Ugh, we lost several containers of mail, food, and weapons."
"I'm aware of that, master, cri."
"Tsk. More importantly, they annihilated all the fallen who volunteered as sentinels for the transport convoy. Each of those sentinels had significant rank and power, do you understand that?"
"Even so, I—"
"Stop joking! Someone as useless as you? Ha-ha-ha! Do you really think you could even buy time against one of the heroes?"
There had been a total of five upper bronze-ranked sentinels guarding the lost cargo, each one with the equivalent strength of 80 soldiers.
There was a vast difference between how the races and the fallen measured power. While the races used levels—where level 1 was the minimum and level 100 the maximum—the fallen had a different system.
Called the Rank System, it was divided as follows:
Copper: the average soldier. Bronze: equivalent to 10 copper soldiers. Silver: with the strength of 100 soldiers. Gold: 500 soldiers. Mithril: 1,000 soldiers. Platinum: 10,000 soldiers. Adamantite: 100,000 soldiers.
Each rank also had three subdivisions. For instance, in the case of bronze:
Initial Bronze. Intermediate Bronze. Upper Bronze.
If Initial Bronze was equivalent to 10-39 copper soldiers, Intermediate Bronze corresponded to 40-69 soldiers, and Upper Bronze to 70-99 soldiers, stopping short of 100, as that would place them in the Silver rank. The same applied to the other ranks: Initial Silver, Intermediate Silver, Upper Silver, and so on. Though the races used a different measurement system, it could be said that even one Upper Bronze sentinel wouldn't be able to hold off a hero.
"Even among the fallen, reaching Gold rank is extremely rare. The same goes for the races: very few individuals have ever surpassed this barrier. It's almost as if it's an unspoken rule of the world. But heroes, as always, are the exception."
They always hovered around the Mithril rank, one step above the elite of the fallen. That's why saying something like, 'I'll take care of the heroes' was sheer stupidity.
Maybe it was the heat of the moment, maybe loyalty, or perhaps a lack of understanding of the enemy's capabilities—but, no matter the reason, the master couldn't allow a valuable asset to be wasted so easily.
"Do you really think you can win? Your rank is no different from that of the dead sentinels, right?"
"Cri. That's..."
"Boooring! How exasperating, how irritating, how tiresome! Just leave it at that."
"Sorry… cri."
"In the first place, who would've thought those brats would end up finding one of our routes? Though, the amount of supplies, the quality of the weapons, and the importance of the mail weren't significant."
The compact supply packs barely contained two rations of dried meat, two water vegetables, and a bit of powdered seasoning. The weapons were nothing but old, rusty metal relics meant for storage at the destination, and the mail consisted of minor directives about shifts and watch changes.
"Cri. If anything valuable was lost, mmm... it was the sentinels of the convoy, who were hitching a ride with the cargo in the first place. The damage isn't significant, cri."
Nodding at his subordinate's conclusion, the master said:
"We'll close that route. It seems they invested a lot of resources into this attack, but no matter how many flies they stir up, the result will always be irrelevant."
If the heroes could see just how futile their efforts had been, what expression would they make now? The thought thrilled him. So why was the master so angry? And why had his subordinate been so insistent on revenge?
"The most irritating thing isn't the damage, it's the offense."
"Cri. Correct, master."
"Ha! Like they say, right? If they wanted to crush me, they should've given it everything they had. The heroes made a mistake; I won't be so lenient."
The harshness in the master's words caused his subordinate to tremble. Dropping to his knees, the giant fallen bowed his enormous body until he was nearly touching the floor and, before his superior, declared:
"Cri! As a member of the Antlered Forest unit, cri, please allow me to be of service this time."
The master could see the excitement in the fallen's massive form, so he decided to take him at his word.
"So be it."
Being one of the largest armies in the world, it was natural for task distribution to be organized into various brigades, though the fallen preferred to call them guilds. Each guild was responsible for different duties: from infantry and installations to transportation. There were even groups dedicated solely to dealing with the heroes. Likewise, these guilds were subdivided. For example, the Logistics Guild for Deliveries was composed of four units:
The Inverted Forest Unit: in charge of acquiring supplies at the few supply points. The Misty Forest Unit: responsible for collecting weapons and mail. The Crystal Forest Unit: tasked with transporting personnel. The Antlered Forest Unit: responsible for storing and distributing supplies, weaponry, and mail.
The master was in charge of the last unit—the Antlered Forest Unit. While it was true that his group was not meant for combat, that didn't mean he would let this offense slide. Annoyed, the master spoke:
"How dare they waste my precious time? Disgusting. They should consider their own carelessness." His anger grew so intense that the grinding of his teeth became audible. "I want you to find the current locations of the seven heroes."
"I don't think it'll be difficult, cri. But with the Hero of the Dead and the Hero of Blades, cri, it might take a little longer."
"No matter. When you have all their locations, I want you to tell me. Ahhh~! It will be fascinating!"
"Cri! As expected of the master. You have a plan, right?"
"Do you take me for a fool?"
"Of course not, cri! But…"
"Tsk. Speak!"
"Cri... I-I don't think they'll give us any room. I mean, the…"
When the master twisted his smile into a grotesque shape, the words "those above the master" didn't leave his subordinate's mouth. It was simple: though he was obliged to take orders, the master hated being reminded that there were fallen with more authority than him. To be honest, he believed central command inside the wall would welcome his plan.
"Just do it."
"Alright. Cri."
"Is everyone a fool?"
Perhaps trying to calm the master's rising fury, the subordinate added:
"Master, it's almost time, cri. Are you going to feed your pet today?"
The words snapped him out of his trance.
'Right, it's a good way to calm down. Getting too angry is pointless', the master thought, and then he spoke:
"Midday? I suppose you're referring to the adorable creature in the grand hall. I've neglected it a lot recently." He stood up. "You're right; cursing the heroes will get us nowhere."
The thought of petting his beloved creature excited him, even if he only had a short time to do so. What the master liked most about his pet was its obedience: if he told it to be quiet, it was silent; if he ordered it to give him its paw, it obeyed without hesitation.
"Far more well-behaved than any other beast or animal," the master whispered as he exited the messy room that served as a conference hall.
There was a big difference between a beast and an animal. But, to simplify, a beast was a being that could use abilities; an animal could not.
"The adorable creature… it's the calmest of the three."
The adorable creature in the grand hall wasn't the master's only pet; there were two others—one for each meal of the day: one in the morning, another at noon, and one in the evening.
"But they're getting old now. It makes no sense to keep them around."
"Cri? Master, are you thinking of sacrificing them?"
"Ahhh, it happened recently. The adorable creature in the grand hall finally went mad. How should I put it? An illusion? Mmm, well, let's say it's hallucinating."
"Wouldn't it be better to try bringing it back to reality? Maybe, I don't know, with some kind of drug, cri."
Shaking his head, the master refused.
"If I do that, it's more than likely that it'll completely break."
"Completely break, cri? Forgive my ignorance, but…"
"Ahhh! How do I explain it? The pet in the grand hall has created its own reality. If I shatter it, then it will have nothing left. At the very least, I want to wait until I've secured some new young ones from the races. Ideally, an elf, though I wouldn't complain about a dwarf."
"Does its behavior not bother you, cri?"
"I'm annoyed by how noisy it's becoming. But I let it do as it pleases. It's my way of saying goodbye—or you could see it as its reward for being so obedient. It's also my way of apologizing for neglecting it these past few days. Huh? Wait a second… am I too generous?!"
"Cri! As expected of the master, so kind."
"Ha! Stating the obvious is no compliment."
"In any case, cri, I hope you find a new toy soon, cri."
"Although this time, I don't want humans. They're either too weak or always trying to escape, right, girl?"
For a brief moment, an image of a cream-haired girl with a cold, slightly angry gaze flashed through his mind.
"Tsk. I hate it when they try to run."
Still, the thought of a new toy eclipsed everything else. Once he had it, he wanted to hold it, caress it, scold it, hurt it, torture it, consume it—until finally destroying it.
'Fascinated? Ecstatic? Excited?', the master wondered how best to describe his state of mind.
The thought was so pleasing to him; blending the beauty and the weary faces of the young ones from the races was certainly an art. And the pain—pain that ultimately sweetened their bodies—was what brought him to his peak.
'Satisfied, yes, that would be the right way to describe this warmth in my chest', he thought, feeling rejuvenated as he stepped out through the door toward the grand hall.