It took three days for their plan to come to fruition.

  Before then, he and Daskar stalked and planned. Courtesy of his tie with the Minder, Gray, Daimen was always shrouded against far scrying, a major reason why he hadn't been captured all this while, despite all the long-distance finding methods that must have been attempted to uncover his location.

  Daskar, while not blessed with the same protection as Daimen, also had his own form of shroud against scrying, a trick Daimen noticed protected him even when he was near other hostile demons. Because of this, their presence was undetected. The only way the demons were going to discover them was if they attempted any push outside the little bubble that surrounded them.

  The convoy was composed mostly of Spirit lords, with a Spirit King mind Allayer leading from the front, sitting on an open palanquin.

  She looked comfortable, overly comfortable. Too bad they were about to spoil her day.

  The other demons, a greater mix of mind allayers, accompanied by a small squadron of armored guards, comprised a total of forty five total enemy combatants. At least that was what Daimen counted. There was bound to have been more scouting forward deep inside the forest. He left those ones to Daskar.

  Daimen stayed behind them. The prisoners pulled in reinforced chains were all Spirit lords, and so did not need to eat, sleep, or stop for any bodily waste removal as often as those in the lower realms. The same could also be said for the demons that escorted them, who all resided in hosts that didn't need to do any of such things.

  Because of this, their travel time was substantially reduced, a disadvantage to Daimen's plans. Luckily, there was also a silver lining.

  The prisoners, perhaps because of the trance they had been put in, a fragile state Daskar had explained required careful motion to prevent them from waking, were made to walk, not sprint.

  This countered their nigh continuous movement, slowing them down until Daimen was able to surpass them, marching a great distance to await their arrival.

  Daskar, well… the days after their separation had seen rumors abound within the demonic ranks of moving shadows prowling through the dark misty forest. The rumors had originated from one of the demon guards, who'd gotten so spooked that they had fled immediately to report to the Spirit King, the white devourer that led them.

  With no word back from the scouts who were supposed to be on guard for such things, the demons had chalked it down to a deceit of the mind. Ironic.

  Daimen had held his breath on the possibility that the Spirit King might decide to extend its perception, but thankfully it had discarded their worries, openly calling for the convoy to continue moving. He understood the reason for this. After all, who would be stupid enough to challenge a convoy filled with dozens of Spirit lords and a Spirit King? It was suicide, something which Daimen agreed wholly with.

  He was of a mind to do away with this suicide of a scheme and continue on his way. It was one thing to attempt a rescue from the hands of a Convoy filled with Spirit lords. Adding a Spirit King to the mix only served to complicate things, and not in their favor either.

  But he'd sold the idea to Daskar in the first place, before he'd known about the Spirit King. And Daskar, who wanted a chance to chip at his father's forces, had taken to it with little to no resistance.

  …just when Daimen was about to change his mind.

  Daimen stood about half a mile ahead of the demon convoy, waiting with bated breath as the sounds of wooden tires rolled ahead.

  It was morning, so the mist was not as thick as it normally was. However, it seemed to be enough because the demons paid him no mind as they approached. It was like they couldn't see him—even the Spirit King—where he stood a short distance from them.

  Taking a deep breath, Daimen smiled as he stretched his hand, summoning a great sword into it. The blade was black and felt like stone to his touch, yet its lethality could not be denied. This thing could cut through his flesh with next to zero resistance.

  Swirls of stylized scripts ran along its flat surface, long lines of grey that swiveled across the weapon. Touching them felt like he was running his hands on a recently used cooking equipment. It felt warm, a warmth that never died, just a touch away from becoming burning hot.

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  Daskar had said that those were the weapon's conduits, lines that took in and channelled the essence of whoever wielded the sword, turning it into devastating techniques.

  Unfortunately for him, he could not use it. The weapon had been forged for Spirit Kings, and only a Spirit King could ignite its inbuilt enchantments.

  However, though he could not use the enchantments, Daimen could certainly wield the weapon itself.

  Unlike his other weapons, he couldn't swing this one continuously with wild abandon, considering it was built to withstand the strengths of Spirit Kings. Even as he held it, Daimen was straining his muscles just to keep it from slipping through his grip and eviscerating his foot.

  The convoy paused, and Daimen frowned in confusion at first until he realized that his summoning of the weapon had produced a dull flash of purple, a dim but bright enough glow for the eyes of the lords and Kings to catch.

  The Spirit King Allayer raised its hand, her female feline vessel tightening five clawed fingers into a fist. As one, the others halted, both guards and prisoners alike.

  Daimen froze where he stood as the Demoness' slitted eyes narrowed, its green hue seemingly piercing through the mist.

  He knew he'd been seen when the demon's claws lengthened and its aura burst forth. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as he was buffeted backwards by a gale of wild energy, and raised the blade in his hands to deflect whatever attack might come.

  But as the seconds passed, nothing came. Not a sound. Daimen popped his eyes open just as Daskar screamed into his mind, voice straining with a great obvious deal of effort.

  “Make your play now! I can't hold them much longer!”

  It didn't take long to figure out what the demon was saying. The entire convoy, both lords and King, were frozen still. The convoy leader remained seated on her palanquin, her hands still up in the air, claws brimming with devastating energy yet released.

  Her aura, to his senses, felt constrained, like it was held in the vice of something else's and struggling to free itself. It flickered and the temperature lowered further as the Spirit King fought to free itself.

  Daimen took the opportunity.

  He hefted the weapon up into the air, holding it more like a spear than a sword. His right hand gripped the dull edge, positioning near the leather-wrapped handle. While his left hand drew forward, much closer to the sharpened tip.

  Daimen might have been holding it wrong, but that was a distant concern in the face of his dwindling opportunity.

  His astral image burst forth in a wave of thundering energy, dispelling much of the gathering mist and infusing him with great strength.

  With a heave, Daimen sent the sword sailing forth, the blade flying more under the force of his throw than any technique.

  It reached the demon just as it broke through its shackles, freeing itself quickly enough to hop out of the palanquin, but not avoid the blade.

  Rather than the head as Daimen had planned, the blade dug its way into the chest of the demon, slipping through its fur to dig into the earth below.

  The weapon was so large that the handle and two feet of blade remained above the creature's chest even as it held the demon stationary on the floor.

  The other demons, having freed themselves, came forth to the aid of their leader, but Daimen was faster. With his astral-infused strength, he carved through the wind with a whoosh of air and thunderclap in his wake.

  Energy flashed in the grip of the half-fatal demon, and Daimen felt a flash of hot white agony on his left and then silence. He pushed through it, blinking tears out of his eyes as he leaped into the air, angling his right shoulder forward to slam through the palanquin in his way and onto the jutting sword hilt.

  With nary a sign of resistance, just enough to send a wave of vibrating force through his body, Daimen felt the blade cut down. Like a knife against a piece of fruit, the blade cut through the rest of the demon's upper region, parting the rest of its chest, neck, and then its head, including the fragile tentacled Demon within.

  Daimen crashed onto the ground with a heavy grunt, his shoulders fractured and his body ringing from the force of his flight.

  Sticking to his face and partially blocking his view was a mix of demon goo, sticky and transparent, and blood and brain matter. He felt disgusted but lacked the strength to do anything about it. So he lay there.

  The earth shook beneath him as something heavy approached. He heard infernal—not Daskar—grating and furious as whatever demon that produced it leaped into the air.

  It came into view, a Spirit lord infernal creature in heavy armor, carrying a hammer capable of turning his head into mashed meat.

  Something growled as the earth shook, this time the sound approaching from the opposite direction where the demon had come from.

  A flash of crimson was all he saw, and the Demon vanished from his sight, its hammer falling to crash a foot away from him, throwing dirt onto his face.

  Many tremors followed behind, and Daimen forced himself to turn, shifting dirt and body innards to watch as more than a dozen monsters poured out of the darkened forest, growling and screeching as they crashed into the demon line.

  He smiled, proud that the first base of their plan had worked… if with a little bit of hiccup.

  With a grimace, he glanced down at his left hand, or where his left hand should have been. Right now, there was nothing below his upper arm; the rest having been eviscerated by the dead Spirit King.

  Victory, but with a cost.

  With a groan, he pushed himself onto his feet, lifting his body with his remaining hand. He staggered toward the sword, glanced at it, and then to his vanished limb. Daimen snorted as he touched the weapon, sending it back into his storage.

  He stretched forth his right hand, summoning a spear onto it. And then he stood upright, breathing in the air into his lungs.

  His Astral image still burned behind him, towering in its magnificence. Daimen gazed at the chaos happening around him, Demons and Infernal monsters clashing against each other.

  The monsters were numerous, much more than their adversaries. But the Demons had them in quality, so for every demon that fell, four monsters followed it.

  Daimen smiled wickedly. Time to change that.