The Demon wave was much... weaker today.

Yes, they still blotted the sky and turned day into night, the Suns vanishing behind a ceiling of black twisted flesh.

Yes, the ground still shook beneath the weight of their approach, and the air still filled with that stench that clung to the back of the throat.

But still, there were fewer of them.

Malik noticed it immediately.

He didn’t question it; there would be time for questions later.

There was always time for questions later, assuming he lived.

His people surged past, a tide of courage heading towards the descending darkness.

They remained respectful even in their charge, ensuring they wouldn’t bump or even touch him.

Yet, such a beautiful display of reverence didn’t stop the Demons fall from the sky.

The Demons crashed into the front lines with thunderous impact, slamming into shields, blades, and the raised arms of soldiers.

Bodies flew through the air, steel shattered, and earth erupted in geysers.

Despite all their numerous formations, it turned into complete and utter chaos.

The screams began, human and Demon alike, indistinguishable in the chaos, blending into a single wall of sound that pressed against their ears and minds.

But today, the human screams were fewer.

Because today, they fought harder than ever.

Malik stood in the middle of the carnage and watched.

His golden eyes tracked the movements of his soldiers, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses, noting who held and who faltered.

None of his own died, but some had gotten close.

Yet... he still didn’t raise his hand.

Once more, he was observing and analyzing.

He couldn’t risk going in blind.

But those near him in status didn’t remain so still.

Sinbad was a blur through the sky, his feathers catching the light even through the clouds of Demons.

His now much larger wings billowed behind him as he flew, and the wind obeyed his every command.

Tens of spirals of compressed air tore through clusters of Demons, shredding them into black mist before they could even scream.

Tens of thousands dead in a single breath. Then another. Then another.

This was the might of the strongest crimson owl, the one who had fought besides the Sultan for longer than most of the soldiers had been alive.

Aladdin was different... much more subtle.

His blue hair floated as if underwater, moved by currents of pure Rukh, and his movements were slow. A flick of the wrist here, a snap of the fingers there. But the result was the same.

Blades of Rukh bisected Demons in their thousands, their bodies falling in two halves that dissolved before they hit the ground.

Pressure waves of concentrated Rukh flattened entire ranks, crushing the twisted creatures into paste.

His young face was set in an expression of cold focus that belied his years.

’They’re plenty strong.’

It was obvious to Malik that Sinbad was stronger, killing more Demons per second, his attacks covering wider areas, and hitting with more force. But surprisingly, Aladdin wasn’t that far behind his master.

His precision and efficiency made up for what he lacked in raw power.

It was likely because Sinbad was holding back, keeping some of his strength in reserve in case something went wrong—an old soldier’s habit, born from years of sudden reversals.

But still, Aladdin’s performance was impressive, considering how young he was and how recently he had taken command.

Malik filed the observations away and then finally raised his hand.

It was time for him to act.

’Fall.’

A Shifting Ground Soul Glyph activated, the power flooding into his veins.

Though using it unnecessarily was not ideal, he now did so without any hesitation.

The math was simple.

Using it here would more than recoup its price in Fear Points.

The battlefield was packed with targets, each one a potential source of fear. And his Rukh reserves—depleted by that date with Layla and the constant effort of maintaining his appearance—needed replenishment.

It was more than worth it.

Malik waved his hand, and the region moved.

Yes, the ’region’ itself had moved. And it did so as if it had been waiting for this moment its entire existence.

A hill rose from the ground.

It erupted from the center of the Demon horde and kept rising and expanding until it blotted out the sky, casting the entire battlefield into further shadow.

His Ascension increased the Soul Glyph’s strength indeed.

The Demons flying above never saw it coming.

They had been focused on the soldiers below, on the Magi cutting through their ranks, that they never noticed the ground rising to meet them.

Malik’s hill swallowed them.

Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands.

They crashed into the rising earth and were buried, crushed, silenced in an instant.

Most of the black dots in the sky vanished beneath that single wave, replaced by the solid mass of stone that finally began its fall.

And somehow not a single one of his people was touched.

Upon its descent, the hill had turned soft and gentle, a mother’s hand lowering a blanket over a sleeping child.

It passed over his soldiers without even scratching them.

But the Demons?

Oh, the Demons felt every ounce of weight.

When the hill settled back into the ground, the battlefield turned quiet.

The trembling silence stretched as soldiers looked at each other and at the space where the horde had been.

A breath later, the fighting continued as more Demons arrived from the horizon.

Yes, Malik had killed many hundreds of thousands of them, but they were millions strong.

About one million remained, give or take, and that million was still more than enough to overwhelm his army if they weren’t careful.

But his soldiers made quick work of those that remained, their morale bolstered by the Sultan’s display, restored to full by the knowledge that their leader was fighting beside them.

They didn’t need to chant or even say anything to acknowledge what they’d just seen.

It all remained deep within their thunderous hearts.

Those who were injured in the battle were quickly healed by the Magi stationed in the rear, whose morale was never higher as well.

Not a single soldier seemed to have died. Not one.

Of course, many had come close, missing a limb or two, but with these soldiers, that was just another day.

It wasn’t long before the wave was over.

The last of the Demons fell beneath a combined assault from Sinbad and Aladdin.

The sky cleared, the Suns returning to cast their light across the blood-soaked sand.

The soldiers stood still for a moment, catching their breath while looking at the empty horizon.

A second wave didn’t arrive.

They had survived another day.

Once all acknowledged that, the cheers suddenly began.

"Long live the Sultan!"

"Long live the Sultan!"

"Long live the Sultan!"

It rose from a thousand throats, then ten thousand, then every soldier on the battlefield.

They screamed it to the sky, to the Suns, and to the man who stood among them with hands that had moved mountains.

Malik didn’t stay for them.

He turned around and began to head back.

The hill where Dunya and Layla waited was his destination.

A Sultan walked through the aftermath, his soldiers stepping aside for him, still in awe.

Even now, they couldn’t believe it.

Even now, after seeing him raise a mountain, after watching him crush hundreds of thousands of Demons with a wave of his hand, they still looked at him like he might disappear at any moment.

Perhaps the whole thing had been a dream, and they were about to wake up.

That seemed too cruel, but thankfully for their sanity, this Sultan was very real.

And now, he himself was facing his own nightmare.

A hilariously repeating one.

’How am I to reach the top?’

Before he could ask someone for help, a soldier appeared at his side.

Saying nothing at all, the young soldier just knelt and conjured a stone platform for Malik to stand on, much like that enemy soldier had done only a little while ago.

Malik smiled at him.

"Thank you."

He stepped onto the platform and was lifted upward, rising smoothly through the air, reaching the top of the hill in a matter of seconds.

Dunya stood where he had left her, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression unchanged.

Happy. Always happy with him.

Actually, she seemed happier than before, though he wasn’t about to dive into why.

Layla stood beside her, and unlike the maid, her smile was bittersweet.

Her joy was tempered by something deeper.

She hated this.

Her husband’s duty.

His never-ending sacrifice.

The way he threw himself into danger and expected her to just... wait.

To stand on a hill and watch while he walked into the jaws of death, doing everything in his power to protect a people who could never repay him.

She hated it.

And she loved him for it anyway.

Malik opened his mouth to say something, but Dunya spoke first, saving him from the effort:

[Thank you for your efforts, my Sultan. But I must inform you, your father is awake.]

Malik closed his mouth.

Once more, he wasn’t given the chance to breathe.