I have a throne now.
It's made of bones, skulls, and an old barrel that smells like vinegar. It creaks when I breathe and leans slightly left, like it wants to collapse out of shame but knows it's too late.
They call it "The Crescent Seat of Soft-Pawed Wisdom."
I call it a mistake.
Velis stood in front of a chalk-covered wall, drawing diagrams with three hands simultaneously. Two were hers. One belonged to an imp scribe she commandeered for speed.
"The miasma pump systems are all tied to the lower leyline grid," she said. "If we trigger collapse here, here, and here"—she stabbed three circles with terrifying precision—"the entire eastern hive tier will collapse under its own entropy."
"That's the good news," Silas said. "The bad news is: someone's got to walk into a nest of hellcats and politely sabotage it."
"Define politely."
"With fire."
"Ah. My kind of diplomacy."
The rebellion had officially declared me their leader.
Not because of my skills.
Not because of my knowledge.
Because I ate a glowing fruit and tripped backward into a leyline flare, causing a magical ripple that happened to vaporize a demon tax booth.
Once.
Now my face is on murals.
Bad murals. Imps aren't great at anatomy. My eyes are too big, my smile too wide, and my shield has somehow gained a second, smaller cat riding the original one like a battle mount.
They bring me offerings now.
Not treasure. Not relics.
Poetry.
One scroll I received this morning read:
> "Oh nyan-borne lord, who glows with pink,
> Uncurse our fates with your divine wink."
I begged Velis to throw it in the fire.
She framed it.
Our first strike was simple on paper:
1. Infiltrate the forge chambers beneath the hive.
2. Disable the central miasma vent that fuels the demon elite.
3. Get out without anyone becoming demon jam.
I appointed Silas as field coordinator, Iria as security enforcer, Velis as magical overseer, Lyra as... anti-infection manager.
And myself?
I was in charge of "inspiration."
Which mostly involved making up slogans and pretending to understand what Velis was saying.
We split into teams.
Silas and Iria took the direct route—sneaking through tunnels, knocking out patrols, and whispering very conflicting stealth philosophies at each other.
> "Stop clanking."
> "Stop sneaking like a thief with scoliosis."
Velis and Lyra approached from the leyline maintenance duct, using disruption charms that sounded like increasingly panicked arcane cursing.
And me?
I was sent to "rally" the western cell of imp rebels.
They were preparing for combat.
Which meant... interpretive screaming.
One held a torch. Another held what I *
think was a weaponized ladle. All of them were wearing facepaint made from powdered mushrooms and sadness.
They looked at me with reverence.
I cleared my throat.
"Uh... my faithful. My warriors. My mushroom-painted champions. Today, we march not into battle—but into legend."
They squeaked.
"We will not flinch. We will not falter. We will politely knock over this horrifying empire like a very ugly table!"
Cheers.
"And remember—"
I raised the shield, which hummed in glittering defiance.
"—The system is only powerful if it knows where its shoes are!"
They lost their minds.
The sabotage hit all three points.
Velis activated a pulse node that short-circuited the miasma regulators. Iria punched a forge engine until it coughed out flaming ash. Lyra purified an entire chamber by weaponizing an anti-fungal poultice that caused six demons to start hallucinating about their own failure as middle managers.
And my imps?
They sang.
Loudly.
In synchronized shrieking.
One rode into battle on a wheeled cauldron, swinging a spoon like a blessed scepter.
It shouldn't have worked.
It really shouldn't have worked.
But as the vent ruptured and molten magic poured sideways across the inner hive wall, I stood on my barrel-throne, held up my shield, and shouted:
"WE'RE DOING STRATEGY!"
I was nearly hit by falling debris.
Lyra pulled me backward and smacked the back of my head.
"Stop yelling and get underground."
"Yes, ma'am."
When the smoke cleared, nearly a third of the hive's infrastructure had failed.
Demon messages didn't reach their targets. Summonings fizzled. Half the army was locked in the wrong section of the city.
We regrouped in a collapsed transit node.
Silas handed me a piece of shattered rune crystal.
"They're rattled."
Velis added, "Tomorrow we hit the leyline core tower. That'll end it."
Lyra bandaged a rebel's tail and nodded. "They're ready."
I sat on a rock.
My armor was burned. My boots were slime-stained. My shield now had stickers from the imp militia that said "Team Meowseidon."
I looked at my party.
Then at the rebels.
Then down at my own hands.
"Why do I feel like the mascot of an apocalypse?"
Iria smiled faintly.
"Because you are."