Chapter 30
Title: The Fan Club
Now I see why he gave me that look.
I should've realized sooner—Varek knew his squad better than anyone. Knew the layout of this fight before it even started. He didn't just adapt. He orchestrated. They all did.
Every move from his team was like clockwork. Two words from Varek and the whole party fell into line like pieces on a war board. No wasted movement. No hesitation. One blow from Juno. One flash from James. One baited charge. One perfect finishing strike.
A beautiful display of domino attacks.
I mean just look at him, he hasn't moved or even looked over his shoulder since he drove his sword through the named demon's skull. He just stood there, hand resting on the head of the named demon he'd just buried his blade in. Like he'd claimed a trophy. Like he was proud—not of the kill, but of the artistry behind it.
If he were just a bit stronger, I'd have him duel Thomas for the Sentinel position.
But Thomas… he's become something else entirely.
These three weeks didn't just shape him—they unmade him and rebuilt what was left into something darker. Something colder. He's not a soldier anymore. He's not even human in the way he moves, the way he looks at demons. There's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just this quiet, simmering hunger.
He's turning into the very thing he was meant to destroy.
A demon wearing a mortal shell.
And he's not the only one.
Synn? He's gone from deadweight to deadly. Tenacious. Efficient. Unyielding. A fire's been lit in him, and it burns hotter every day.
But Lisa—
Lisa has become a miracle wrapped in flesh and magic. (S)-Rank healers like her? They don't just keep a team alive. They rewrite fate. Keep a man breathing long after the world says he's done. And she does it with a calm that unsettles even me.
This legion isn't just growing stronger.
It's evolving.
And some of them…
Some of them are becoming monsters the demons should fear.
"Good work, everyone," Varek muttered as he wrenched his sword free, wiped it clean with a smooth flick, and slid it into his sheath. Then he drew a dagger, knelt down beside the corpse, and began carving.
Lisa groaned, disgusted. "Oh ewww… not again, Vek. Really? You're doing THAT again?"
He just smiled without looking back. "Of course I am."
"I've seen weird hobbies," Juno said, grimacing. "But collecting demon teeth? Seriously? That's psychotic."
"Ah, you youngins still got your hearts intact, huh?" Varek said with a dry chuckle, raising the dagger to trace the jagged scar running down his eye. "That's good. Innocence makes the first loss hit harder."
He crouched beside the named demon's corpse, his eyes catching the firelight—cold and distant.
"When you have something ripped from you—something that mattered—you don't just let it go. You take something back. A reminder. A piece."
He jammed the blade into the creature's jaw and began prying at a molar, gritting his teeth as the sound of cracking bone echoed into the silence.
"These bastards… they respawn. They don't stay dead. So you ask yourself—how do you make something immortal hurt?"
He looked over his shoulder, smiling—but there was nothing warm in it.
"You take a piece every time. A tooth. A claw. An eye if you're lucky. And then—someday—you dump that whole sack of parts at their feet." He chuckled darkly, flicking the blood from his blade as the tooth came free.
"Only works on the smart ones," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "The ones that remember."
His voice dropped into something low and reverent—almost trembling with excitement.
"The moment it clicks—their face twists. You can see it. That creeping realization… This is me. This used to be me. All of it. Every time I died. And here it is—proof. Laid bare. A shrine to their failures."
Lisa's expression contorted in disgust. She turned her face away, her stomach visibly churning.
Varek didn't care. He was far away now—lost in the memory.
"They get quiet then. Real quiet. Like their whole body's trying to curl in on itself. And in that silence… I swear you can taste their fear."
His grin widened, eyes gleaming like someone high off their own madness.
"Gets my rod going like nothing else."
Juno let out a long sigh and shook his head. "You're a weird bastard, Vek."
Varek just laughed as he tucked the bloodied tooth into a pouch on his belt like it was a keepsake.
"Yeah. Maybe. But you'll understand one day."
Lisa curled her lip in revulsion. "You're sick."
"Yeah," Juno muttered. "Real fucked up, old man."
Varek laughed. It wasn't the hearty kind. It was rough, coarse, and edged in madness. "You'll understand one day. When it's personal. Anyway, let's finish this up. I'm missing my bed."
They started toward the church.
And I watched them go—knowing something else had taken root in more than just Varek. Something dark.
There was one other thing—something I hadn't planned for—that spread through the men like a disease.
An addiction.
Although they were now perfect killing machines—disciplined, ruthless, able to push forward even when staring death in the face—some of them had... gone a bit off.
It started slow. Quiet.
But after enough raids, I began noticing a hunger in their eyes. A thirst that didn't go away after the gate closed behind us. For some of them, slaughtering demons wasn't just duty anymore—it was pleasure. Craved. Needed. Like it had embedded itself in their very DNA.
Some of the worst cases?
They started waiting by the gate each morning, practically bouncing with excitement like kids waiting for the icecreamshop to open on a hot empire day.
And when they came out, they'd always bring a little trophy with them—something torn from the strongest demon they'd managed to kill. They'd sprint over to me like kids showing off a prize at a festival, grinning ear to ear and yelling,
"Commander! Commander! Look what I got today!"
I'd turn around, already bracing myself, and there they'd be— soaked in demon blood—holding up some grotesque trophy. One time, it was a demon's claw. Another? A fanged tongue. And the worst offender…
A fucking anus.
"Look! I got the kill shot on the demon overlord! Ripped this out myself!"
I didn't even ask how. I refused to ask.
But the real cause of it all? It was Varek.
The quiet one.
He got the scar on his face back in his twenties—mana beast attack. Wore it like a badge. For the first week of gate raids, he was exactly what I expected: stoic, focused, efficient. Spoke only when necessary. Killed only when required.
But somewhere near the end of week one, something changed.
He got agitated. Snapped at anyone who walked too close to his tent. I started getting reports from other captains that he wasn't sleeping. He was pacing at night, muttering to himself. Grinding his teeth during raids.
So, I checked his tent.
Found a demon skull—cleaned, polished, and set on a crude pedestal. Like it was on display. Art gallery-style.
At first, I thought maybe he'd cracked under pressure—or worse, turned. Started sympathizing with the bastards. Switching sides.
So I pulled him aside. Asked him about it in private.
And you know what the crazy bastard said?
He smiled—smiled—and said:
"Oh, not at all, Commander. It's not like that. I just think the severed head of a demon is… art."
Art. He called it art.
Then he continued like he was reminiscing about an old wife.
"The sound they make when they drown on their own blood—if you slit the throat at just the right angle—it's this sort of wet gurgle, like a melody. And the way the blade slips through the neck cleanly, no resistance… It's perfect. In that skull's case, it was the look in his eyes. The fear—real fear—as I drove my sword through his chest. Weak buglike bastard. Worst floor general I've ever faced."
All with a fond smile, like he was describing a memory with him and his children.
I didn't know whether to promote him or order him to be looked at by a doctor.
…Maybe both.
So, like any good commander, I responded with:
"No, no, Varek. That's unacceptable." I paused, leaned in close, and dropped my voice.
"If you kill them too fast, the enjoyment is fleeting. You've gotta make them understand fear—and that you were the one who created it. Then… torture them until they're practically begging for death. And in that crucial moment—when they think they might live if they just give you something of value—watch it. That flicker of hope in their eyes. And then—"
CLAP!
"Boom. You take their heads. And in those last three seconds, right before they lose consciousness, they get to sit with that despair. That confusion. That rage."
I smiled. "That, my dear captain, is true art."
Varek looked confused for a second, then something lit up behind his eyes. He saluted like he'd just had a divine revelation.
"I understand now, Commander!an honor… its an honnor to follow you!"
…And just like that, shit spiraled.
Apparently, he started telling everyone that his scar came from a demon—that it was a sign from the Goddess of Death herself, calling him to bring ruin to all demonkind. Before I knew it, he had a following. A damn cult. Wild-eyed maniacs, all parroting the same gospel, mirroring his fervor, his violence, his obsession.
But hey, that was neither here nor there.
What really freaked me out?
Their little secret meetings at night. They thought no one knew.
But of course, nothing happens in my legion without me knowing. So, one night—out of curiosity—I decided to spy on them.
What I saw pretty much confirmed it:
They'd gone completely, collectively, batshit crazy about killing demons.
They spent the entire night—and I mean the entire night—talking about all the different ways they'd killed a demon since their last meeting. Then they launched into vivid, overly-detailed accounts of how they planned to kill demons in the next raid. And, of course, they told their "favorites"—full-blown, lovingly retold stories about the one demon they absolutely cherished ending.
And if that wasn't enough—
At the end of it all, they rated each other's stories. Yes, rated them. Like some blood-soaked talent show. The top three winners?
They got to "compete" in a little ritual to see who would get to give the Commander their 'Happy Thing.'
Whatever the hell that means.
After all was said and done, it was "Commander this, Commander that."
It was like I had somehow become a messiah of demon torture—because of one offhand comment I made around a damn campfire after a long day of raiding.
And now they hang on every word I say like I'm preaching scripture.
So yeah… fed up and realizing I had wasted an entire evening eavesdropping on a psycho fan club, I left it alone.
Maybe my training methods were a little too… intense. Maybe I broke a few brains.
Oh well.
Too late to turn back now.