My name is Isabelle Vhagar.
Once, I was known by another title: Thorne.
That name belonged to a ghost, a girl who likes justice, trust, and friendship.
She believed in noble causes and wielded her convictions like a wooden sword, brittle, breakable, and ultimately useless.
That girl died screaming in a dungeon, surrounded by betrayal and blood. Her friends turned their backs on her.
What crawled out of that wreckage was me.
Now, I serve as the Commander of the "Wrecking Crew," Lord Ragnar’s personal invasion force.
It is not a glamorous title, but it is an honest one. I am no longer a hero. I no longer pretend to be.
I am something far more dangerous: a monster who remembers what it was like to be human.
My squad is a strange and terrifying collection of creatures. Each of them is powerful. Each of them is loyal. And none of them care about what the world thinks.
Reina, the Dhampir, is my second. A silent blade wrapped in explosive potential. She hides a suicidal sense of honor beneath her calm expression, the kind that will one day get her killed, but she’ll die standing.
Lillith, the Lilim, is an enchantress in every sense. Her voice is a web, her smile a trap. She can make a priest confess his sins and thank her for it. I keep her at arm’s length.
Fenris is a Werewolf, big and brooding. A loyal beast with more discipline than most commanders I’ve known.
He doesn’t speak much, but when he fights, the battlefield listens.
The Living Mail...Stoney, as I call him, is a sentient suit of armor. No one knows what’s inside.
Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Either way, he moves with the unhurried certainty of someone who cannot die.
And then there’s Clobber. An Ogre. He’s not much for words or thoughts, really. But he hits like divine judgment and laughs while doing it. Sometimes I envy his simplicity.
They are monsters. They are demons. And they are more dependable than any so-called hero I ever marched beside in my past life.
There is no jealousy here. No secret ambition. No fear of betrayal. There is only the mission and unwavering loyalty to our Lord. It is not peace as most understand it, but it is a kind of peace, and I find myself clinging to it.
Our first target lies ahead: the domain of a rival Demon King. He calls himself the Tyrant of the Shopping Mall.
Ridiculous, yes, but power does not always dress itself in dignity.
Our scouts, a pair of clever Giant Bats, report that the dungeon functions as a "Farm."
A trap for low-level heroes, luring them in with easy battles and false hope.
The Demon King’s name is Gorgon. An Orc-type.
Brute strength, low intelligence, basic tactics. This should be a straightforward conquest.
We stand before the entrance. It’s a ridiculous structure, an oversized archway made to look like the front of a discount department store. Neon signs flicker with fake welcome. I give the signal.
The first floor is just as described. Wide open space. Linoleum tiles. Fluorescent lights that flicker above a massive food court. And goblins. Hundreds of them.
Skinny, desperate things wielding plastic trays like clubs, sounds like kettle whistles as they charge.
I lift a hand. "Engage."
That one word is all it takes.
Fenris leaps forward like a missile of muscle and fur. The floor cracks beneath his feet as he launches. The goblins don’t stand a chance.
He hits them like a thunderstorm, tearing through their line and sending bodies flying like leaves in a gale.
Reina moves next. One blink and she’s gone. She reappears at the heart of a goblin cluster. Her fist slams into the ground, not into the enemy, but the stone beneath them.
The floor erupts. A shockwave of pure force sends two dozen goblins flying backward in a perfect circle. Dust and limbs hang in the air like confetti.
Lillith giggles. She doesn’t need force. Just a whisper and a wave of her hand. Pink smoke wafts across the field. Goblins walk right into it.
Then they begin to argue. Loudly. Pettily. Over a bottle cap.
Clobber just clobbers.
Every swing of his massive club sends shockwaves through the chamber. Goblins disintegrate into paste. The food court becomes a crater.
Minutes pass. The goblins are gone. Their pathetic resistance crumbles under our assault.
We proceed, unchallenged, to the next level.
At the bottom of the staircase, a room awaits. Clean. White. Calm. A small fountain bubbles at its center, filled with glowing water.
A place of safety, familiar and inviting. My body begins to relax without permission. A sigh threatens to escape.
I step toward the light.
And stop. Three feet away, I hit something.
Not a wall I can see, but one I can feel.
It’s there. A barrier. Invisible, humming with the unmistakable energy of Law. It doesn’t hurt me. It simply denies me. Gently. Completely.
I am not welcome here.
The realization slams into me harder than any blow. I have fought for these sanctuaries my whole life. Rest Areas were sacred. They meant survival. They meant hope.
Now, they are closed to me.
"Commander?" Reina’s voice is soft. She already knew. They all did. For them, Rest Areas have always been forbidden. I was the last to understand.
"The Rest Area is inaccessible to us," I say.
My voice comes out colder than I intend.
"We are the monsters here. We make our own safety."
I turn from the light. From the comfort. From the lie.
The corridor ahead is long, dark, and hostile. I point to a defensible corner along the wall.
"We rest here. Stoney, first watch. Fenris, second. We take shifts."
No complaints. No questions. They move into position without a word.
I lean against the cold stone wall, the weight of everything pressing into my chest. This is what it means to be one of us now. No safe havens. No warm lights.
Only the cold. The dark. The mission.
But I look at them, Reina, Fenris, Lillith, Stoney, Clobber, and something stirs in my chest.
They are not friends.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel no need to pretend.