Chapter 21: Reinforcements
Lucifer and Michael spent the entire night in the Gnome Canyon. From within the rocky caverns, they observed the gnomes crafting weapons. Excluding the intricate processes of engraving and fitting the hilts, a single gnome could simultaneously forge two iron swords in a single night; those with exceptional efficiency in blade-making and polishing could even produce three or four—a truly astonishing speed.
The angels possessed their own armories as well, yet it would take them roughly a month to craft a single weapon of suitable quality—and even then, the blades they produced were not guaranteed to be as sharp as those forged by the gnomes.
Given this, it became entirely conceivable how the gnome race had been able to assist the demons in manufacturing such a massive mechanical army.
The next day, at sunrise.
Five thousand three hundred and sixty gnomes, laden with raw materials and forging tools, prepared to set out toward the Angelic encampment at Mount Sinai.
Michael watched the valley teeming with the diminutive figures—calling out to friends, scurrying to and fro, and displaying absolutely no sense of organization or discipline—and felt his head begin to throb. He could not help but turn to Lucifer to seek confirmation once more.
"Your Highness, are we truly going to take these gnomes back with us without first asking for the Elven King's permission?" After all, this was an internal affair of the realm of Atrides; was it truly appropriate for them to make such a unilateral decision?
"Not *us*," Lucifer replied, fastening the sword sent by Gareth to his waist. The Gnome Patriarch had not reappeared since bidding them farewell the previous night; instead, he had entrusted Pynom to deliver this sword—which he had forged with his own hands—as a gift. Lucifer's fingers grazed lightly over the scabbard, his slender digits lingering for a moment on the flaxen-colored tassel before finally coming to rest upon the guard.
Half the blade slid from its sheath, flashing with a fierce, cold glint that vanished as quickly as it appeared. With a sharp *clang*, he sheathed the sword once more, then turned his gaze upon Michael—his features beautiful, yet commanding of absolute authority.
"It is *you* who will be responsible for safely escorting them to the camp."
Although he felt confident in the security of the encampment, Lucifer still needed to return as swiftly as possible; traveling at speed would be utterly impossible while leading such a massive throng of gnomes. "The Dwarves' technology is vital to us; there is absolutely no room for error."
After giving Michael a brief instruction—and without waiting to see his adjutant's reaction—Lucifer immediately unfurled his six wings of holy light. The blinding brilliance of the light drew gasps of astonishment from the crowd below. Under the gaze of a thousand onlookers, he soared into the heavens, vanishing into the clouds in the blink of an eye.
Angels travel eight hundred *li* a day; in what felt like mere moments, he landed just outside the encampment.
Beelzebub was leaning against the rolled-up tent flap, taking a moment to rest; upon seeing Lucifer, his eyes lit up, and he immediately rushed forward to greet him.
"Your Highness! You're back!"
Lucifer gave a brief acknowledgment, brushing aside Beelzebub's rapid-fire barrage of questions—*Where did Michael go? Why didn't he come back with you? Did he fall into Hell and get stuck there?*—and cut straight to the matter at hand.
"What is the situation here?"
Although itching with curiosity, Beelzebub knew this was no time for tomfoolery. He blinked once, shed his usual flippant demeanor, and replied with utmost seriousness:
"The Elven King has quite a knack for dealing with the Mechanical Demons. Thanks to his strategic brilliance, the demons didn't launch the kind of frontal assaults on our fortifications that we saw the other day. However..." He paused, his brow furrowing as he continued, "The behavioral patterns of the Mechanical Demons are changing."
"I recall that on the first day, they ceased all activity the moment the sky began to lighten at dawn. But today, they didn't stop moving until the sun had fully risen."
"If this trend continues, I fear they may soon be capable of fighting even during the day. That would be disastrous: with the Mechanical Demons holding the front line while the other demons exploit the gaps to launch sneak attacks, this battle is becoming increasingly difficult to fight."
Lucifer nodded, signaling that he had taken note of the situation.
"And Gabriel? Where are they?"
"They're still holding the line over there; she and Samael just relieved me and Belial from our shift."
"Then get some proper rest. Once your strength has sufficiently recovered, go clear out the territory to the west. Michael should be back by this afternoon, and when he returns, he'll be bringing some reinforcements with him."
"As you command. Belial will be joining me as well," Beelzebub replied cheerfully—taking the opportunity to drag the nearby Belial, who was feigning sleep, into the assignment along with him. "I am going to speak with Atreides on a matter; do not disturb us unless it is an emergency." Lucifer offered a faint smile before making his way toward the large central tent.
Atreides sat upon his personal throne just as he always did. Clad in a long winter cloak woven from wool, he leaned his entire body against the armrest of his seat, appearing lost in thought; he looked even more haggard than he had just a day prior.
Hearing the sound of Lucifer lifting the tent flap to enter, he raised his head to look. Before a word was spoken, a hint of a smile—three parts mirth—had already lit up his emerald eyes.
"You have returned," he said, stepping swiftly down from his throne to greet Lucifer.
"You look a bit weary, Atreides." The Arch-Seraph sat down beside him; after exchanging a few pleasantries, he broached the subject of the dwarves.
Upon hearing the name "Gareth," the smile on the Elf King's face began to fade; by the time Lucifer had finished relaying the dwarves' demands, his smile had vanished completely.
"They are short and hideous—how dare they claim to be Elves!" Atreides flatly rejected the dwarves' request.
"So, what the dwarves said is true?" Unable to comprehend his friend's resistance, Lucifer could only ask him directly.
"Why would you do such a thing?"
Atreides's expression remained impassive. Though he was typically as gentle as the wind, he was now shrouded in an aura of chilling coldness.
"The Gods favor beauty and goodness; those creatures would only serve to displease them."
"You abandoned your own kin for *that* reason?" Lucifer stared at his friend in shock, as if seeing him—truly seeing him—for the very first time.
Perceiving Lucifer's look of utter disapproval, Atreides offered no defense, but instead posed a question of his own.
"Have you ever heard of Leviathan?"
Lucifer offered no verbal reply, yet information regarding Leviathan swiftly surfaced in his mind.
Leviathan the Chaos Dragon—the very first being created by the Gods.
"Do you know where she is now?" Atreides asked softly; then, without waiting for an answer, he spoke the words himself. "The Sea of the Abyss."
Lucifer immediately grasped the Elf King's meaning, and he was consumed by a burning rage.
"The Divine is not as you describe it! Even if He holds no love for demons, my God has never sought to strip them of their very existence. By what right do you invoke the name of God to cast out your own kin?"
"No matter what you say, I will never acknowledge the Gnomes."
"We do not require your acknowledgment!" A voice charged with emotion rang out from Lucifer's side. The Arch-Seraph unfastened the longsword from his waist, watching as it shifted from the form of a blade into the likeness of Gareth.
"I apologize for using you, Your Highness Lucifer, but I have long sought an opportunity to speak plainly—face-to-face—with the King I once served," Gareth murmured, lowering his head briefly, before immediately glaring in the direction of the Elf King.
"I did not banish you, Gareth. You are distinct from that horde of hideous, accursed abominations. Even now, I would welcome you back into the fold of the Elves at any time," Atreides stated coolly.
"I did not come here to listen to your drivel, King of the Elves."
"I came only to tell you this: whether you acknowledge us or not, the Mother Tree is our true root. So long as the Mother Tree accepts us, we remain Elves." Gareth surged forward, closing the distance between himself and Atreides. He glared furiously at the brown-haired monarch, his gaze burning with the desire to rip away that mask of feigned, gentle refinement.
"Impudence!" The crushing aura of the Elf King radiated outward from Atreides. Although he had long appeared frail and sickly, the power of a true King was a force that Gareth could not hope to withstand.
Gareth's face instantly drained of color, and beads of cold sweat began to trickle down his brow. Yet, he remained defiant, holding his head high—his eyes refusing to yield, even for a single moment.
"Enough!" Lucifer intervened, shattering the oppressive pressure the Elf King continued to exert. He steadied the tottering Gnome, his expression utterly devoid of emotion, and spoke:
"If you refuse to acknowledge them, then I shall take them in. From this day forth, they shall belong to the ranks of the Angels."
"Do you truly believe yourself to be so noble?" Atreides watched as the Arch-Seraph guided the Gnome away; upon his face, a faint trace of mockery began to surface. "Surely, among the angels—even the lowliest of them—none would ever carry themselves in such a manner," the Elf King remarked; yet Lucifer did not turn his head. The King could not help but feel a pang of sorrow deep within his heart.
*How could you ever comprehend my pain?*
"God is partial."
A long silence fell over the tent. Atrides lay semi-reclined upon his couch; golden sunlight filtered through the colorless window membrane, casting boundless shadows across the room. He gazed at a single speck of dust drifting ceaselessly in the air, his eyes distant and ethereal.
Who knows how much time had passed before Salamander, the elder of the Fire Elves, lifted the tent flap and entered. She looked at the Elf King—who remained lost in thought—and spoke in a soft voice:
"My King, a large host of gnomes has arrived outside the camp."
"The Arch-Seraph has cleared a patch of open ground nearby for them to pitch their tents; they have already begun forging weapons to combat the mechanical demons."
"Was I wrong, Salamander?" the Elf King asked his elemental elder softly. His gaze seemed to waver for a moment, but just as quickly, it grew firm once more.
"No. The angels would not understand."
"They possess no hearts—only cores of light condensed into the *semblance* of a heart. How, then, could they ever comprehend such a struggle?" He touched his own heart—a heart that beat ceaselessly, entwined by the five-hued spiritual energies of the mortal realm—and gave a bitter, hollow smile.
"No... regardless of all else..."
"No one shall escape."
"The demons who preyed upon the elves, the angels who meddled in our affairs—none of them shall escape."
"The glory of the Elven race lies in the near future."
His lips began to move rapidly, twitching in a manner bordering on madness; he even began to speak incoherently. Salamander stepped forward to help him sit up, her face etched with anxiety.
"My King!" She attempted to interrupt his delirious ramblings, but just as quickly, the Elf King grew calm once more. He reverted to his usual demeanor—the one he wore every day—and offered a gentle, faint smile.
"I believe... that it lies just ahead."
*We possess the gift of boundless time; so long as the World Tree endures, we shall never fall.* Michael led a contingent of roughly six thousand dwarves to the camp at high noon. Beelzebub, who had long been awaiting their arrival, had—in accordance with Lucifer's instructions—already cleared a section of the western woodlands to create a space large enough to accommodate this peculiar band of reinforcements.
Tents soon sprang up across the dwarves' encampment; simultaneously, their forges were erected. These diminutive folk possessed an impatient, impulsive nature; they set to work almost the very moment they arrived. Gareth, deeply grateful for the Seraph Archangel's patronage and trust, labored tirelessly—not only forging weapons designed to counter the mechanical demons but also crafting sturdy armor for the angels themselves.
"Rest assured, the production of weapons will not be delayed," the dwarf declared with a smile—one filled with both pride and self-satisfaction.
As evening fell, vast banks of dark clouds gathered on the horizon. Amidst a scene that seemed to herald the very end of the world, the eyes of the mechanical demons once again flared with crimson light. With the grinding screech of moving joints, the demons—marching close behind their mechanical counterparts—launched a fresh assault.
Yet this time, the angels were fully prepared.
Since the dwarves' specialized weaponry was not yet sufficient to equip the entire army, Lucifer ordered the First Division to engage the enemy. Samael deployed a defensive phalanx of spears along the front lines.
Round shields held firm in the vanguard, while spears thrust out from behind them. As the spearheads were designed for single use only, the angels in the front rank would immediately withdraw after delivering a single strike, allowing the next rank to step forward and take their place. The dwarves stationed in the rear provided timely resupply, swiftly fitting the spears with fresh heads. Thanks to this highly organized and disciplined response, the demons once again lost their tactical advantage. The ranks of the mechanical demons visibly thinned; they fought a retreating battle—and for every mile they fell back, the allied forces advanced a mile in return.
Deep within the demons' main encampment, Baal was in a towering rage. He hurled the battle report onto the table, glaring furiously across the room at Agares. "What on earth is going on here? Weren't we told that the 37th Legion was invincible?"
"Just look at them! They're practically held together by paper-thin skins; the angels can pierce right through them with a single thrust, and they burn up so completely that there isn't even a shell left to salvage."
Agares's expression was even grimmer than Baal's, yet possessing far more intelligence at his fingertips, he did not rage blindly in bewilderment as Baal had.
"Lucifer has identified the parties involved in the creation of these mechanical demons. This was my oversight."
"Non-demonic races are inherently untrustworthy. I should have slaughtered every last one of those gnomes the moment I took command of the 37th Legion."
His words served to soothe Baal; the Great Demon calmed himself and asked:
"Then what course of action should we take now?"
"If the other races cannot be trusted, then the only ones worthy of our trust are our own kin."
"Are you suggesting we bring *them* into this as well?" Baal asked hesitantly.
By "them," he referred to the two other King-tier Great Demons—aside from Baal and Agares themselves: Mephisto, the Lord of Hatred, and Azmodan, the Lord of Fear.
They held dominion over the other half of Hell; much like Baal and Agares, they were executioners who had carved their way up the bloody path to seize their thrones.
"It is all for the greater good of Hell; there is no reason for them to refuse to participate."
Just as Agares slammed his fist down to seal the decision—preparing to dispatch his subordinates to summon reinforcements—a young, unfamiliar voice cut in to interrupt him.
"Please wait a moment, Lord Agares. Might I have a word?"
A demonic military council naturally consisted of more than just Agares and Baal; however, the other demons present were subordinate to the King-tier Lords. Even if they technically possessed the right to speak, they rarely dared to exercise it. The demon who had just spoken possessed a head of long, pale-yellow hair and a countenance of exceptional handsomeness.
Truth be told, he scarcely resembled a demon at all; he was polite and refined—so much so that he could have easily passed himself off as an angel or an elf without arousing the slightest suspicion.
"What is it you wish to report, Breyce?" Agares harbored a subtle fondness for demons who possessed such fine appearances and refined temperaments; after all, among demons, maintaining an air of decency and cleanliness was a rare and truly commendable virtue. "Before you and Lord Baal join forces with those other two, please grant me a single opportunity," Bress said, idly twirling a lock of his long hair as he offered a nonchalant smile.
"If I succeed, you will have no need to share the spoils of victory with them."
"You sound remarkably confident." Agares did not rush to accept; instead, he fixed his gaze upon Bress—a demon not exactly renowned among his kind for physical prowess, nor particularly distinguished for his strategic intellect.
"What is your plan?"
"My ability allows me to give physical form to the deepest desires harbored within a summoner's heart—to manifest the very object of their affection and make their romantic fantasies a reality. Please, hold your mockery for a moment," Bress said coolly, glancing at Baal, who was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
"I take no shame in my ability; indeed, if wielded correctly, its destructive potential is incalculable." He then turned his attention back to Agares.
"Have you ever heard of the angel Asmodeus?"
"He is an angel unlike any other; in his eyes, nothing holds greater significance than the passion of love."
"You intend to ensnare him?"
"To ensnare him—and thereby cause the angelic host to crumble from within."
"The tide of battle is not what it once was," Agares remarked, inwardly pleased to see such talent emerging from within the demonic ranks.
"I have heard tales of the methods you employed among the demons in the past, but tell me: will they prove effective against the angels?"
Agares did not doubt Bress's capabilities. Demons place no value on concepts like chastity; their sole pursuit is pleasure. Consequently, when Bress summoned them to appear before their secret admirers—strangers though they might be—the demons felt no inhibition whatsoever; on the contrary, they reveled in the experience.
But while such is the nature of demons, angels are a race diametrically opposed to them. Even Asmodeus—whose reputation as a libertine had reached even the depths of Hell—remains, at his very core, an angel of unwavering fidelity.
"Angels are not the sort of pliable 'love demons' one finds so easily in the bedchamber. Are you truly confident that the individual you summon—the very object of Asmodeus's desire—will inevitably reciprocate his affection and remain under our control?"
Upon seeing Bress nod in affirmation, Agares's eyes widened in astonishment.
"Could it be... a demon?!" That, truly, would be the most astonishing revelation of all! "I don't know who Asmodeus loves, but we can manipulate the one he loves," Bress chuckled, smoothing his long hair as he spoke meaningfully.
"So I need an accomplice."
(You provided the author, Twilight, with the arduous story of creating a world in [Hebrew Mythology].)