Interlude One

  Pain flared across Bael’s gut as the demon servant removed the pungent swathe of magical herbs wrapped around his waist. A long gash was revealed underneath, running horizontally from one end to the other. His already red skin looked extra tender where the wound had puckered closed. He could only see the front of his abdomen, but he knew the scar would look the same whichever angle you viewed it from.

  “My lord, should I…”

  Bael spun his hand, testing his core strength, and the head of the old physician exploded like a muskmelon.

  “Hmm…” He considered. “Decent work. You are dismissed now.”

  Before the old hag’s body could hit the ground, vermin like itself were already dragging it out of his chambers. Another soon took its place, bringing a cloth to wipe his hand that rested atop the armrest of his throne.

  “Retrieve my belt,” Bael spoke, feeling his anger returning, and the new servant demon rushed out, shouting orders to get it done.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  It took four demons to carry it over to him, and he was tempted to execute them all for their sheer weakness, but refrained. Not because it was the right thing to do, but because there was someone else he would rather torment at this moment.

  His wound flared up again at the thought, and he reflexively winced.

  That accursed human… He hated him. Hated him for what he was. Every last fragment of his being despised him with a zeal like nothing else.

  He reached out his hand toward his metallic belt and caressed it, feeling the three gems set in it. Two of them were spent.

  His anger flared again—even that was his fault.

  Eighty-five years ago, he had to spend one to stay alive after that wretched human had cut him in two. Such indignity. Such humiliation.

  He had been left bleeding out on the battlefield, his army dead, defeated, or scattered—left to rot, to be fed to carrion as if he were some lowly minor demon and not the Bronze General himself; Commander of all the Nine Hells’ forces.

  Even though the wish from the belt had kept him alive that day, it took nearly a century for him to recover from the wounds. His body and organs had to reknit. Whatever magic that human scum had used prevented serious healing, forcing him to rely on his body’s natural regenerative abilities.

  It had felt like forever, but he had returned now—fortunately, just as the Hand had finally decided to make its move. The army he’d gathered in hiding all these years would be undefeatable, joined by the Hand’s Drow and orcs. But that was a concern for later.

  He smiled. Now that he was healed, he would gladly spend the last charge as well on that human. The last wish.

  Last time, that human had refused his offer of alliance, choosing instead to stand and fight. This time, he’d made sure the human would not get a choice. He would suffer, bound to servitude for eternity, killing his own kind, forced to relish their pain.

  He laughed.

  Then he put the belt on.

  And spoke the words.