A New Clan Leader

Later that night, Diyu slipped away into the darkness, seeking solitude beyond the noise of the barracks and the restless hunger of Noxeer.

The food crisis had become more than a weakness in the capital. It had become an opportunity. The people were afraid. The poor were already desperate. Even those with coin would soon learn that wealth could not be eaten once the markets emptied. If Diyu could control food, he could control loyalty. If he could control loyalty, then the capital would no longer belong to Yorlee in anything but memory.

Still, the question gnawed at him.

How could he feed an army before that army existed?

He stopped beneath the open sky and stared into the dark, feeling the weight of his transformed body beneath him and the heavier weight of destiny pressing from within.

“Zurrotan,” Diyu said into the night, “how can I turn this capital into a formidable army when starvation already waits at its gates?”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then a voice drifted through the darkness.

It was distant, haunting, and familiar—the same voice Diyu had heard in the depths of the void during his transformation.

“Those who serve you shall never go hungry.”

Diyu went still.

The voice continued, soft and terrible.

“Those who resist joining your great War Machine will face starvation. Zurrotan has blessed your cause. Your mess hall shall always be plentiful.”

The words settled into Diyu’s mind like a commandment.

A plan began to form immediately.

He turned back toward the barracks, moving with purpose, though a strange disbelief followed him the entire way. Could such a thing truly be possible? Could Zurrotan provide what Hadawon itself had begun to withhold? Diyu did not know how such a blessing would work, but he no longer doubted the presence guiding him. He had seen too much, endured too much, and become too much to believe the universe still obeyed ordinary rules.

When he reached the mess hall, he made his way to the back, where the provisions were stored. The room smelled of old grain, smoke, dried meat, and empty shelves. There, sitting against the wall where he was certain nothing had been before, stood a large wooden box. It measured roughly five feet across and nearly four feet deep, plain in construction but impossible in presence.

A piece of paper rested on top.

Diyu lifted it and read the words written there.

Write down the items you require. Place the list in the box. Close the lid and reopen it.

For a moment, Diyu only stared.

The act felt almost absurd. He no longer ate. Hunger and thirst had become distant things, memories belonging to the flesh he had lost. Yet if Zurrotan had given him this gift, he would test it.

He found charcoal and wrote what came first to mind.

Ten pounds of fish.

One hundred pounds of Anoxe meat.

Diyu placed the list inside the box, closed the lid, and immediately opened it again.

The smell struck him at once.

Fresh fish.

Raw meat.

Cold air spilled from inside the box, and a thin fog rolled over the edge. The food lay neatly arranged within, packed in a bed of ice as if it had been placed there by careful hands.

A slow smile spread across Diyu’s face.

Tomorrow, he would win over anyone with an empty stomach.

He remained near the mess hall through the night, watching the box, thinking, planning, and waiting for the cooks to arrive. When they came at first light, still heavy-eyed and confused by his presence, Diyu stopped them at the entrance.

“I have blessed your domain,” he told them, his voice filled with newfound confidence. “As long as you serve me, this hall will remain abundant.”

The cooks looked at one another uncertainly.

Diyu opened the box.

Their hesitation vanished.

He instructed them to prepare a feast grand enough that no hungry Kreegan in the surrounding streets could ignore the scent. The cooks obeyed quickly. Soon, the mess hall filled with the sound of knives against boards, boiling water, sizzling meat, and hurried footsteps. Smoke rose from cooking fires. The aroma of fish and roasted Anoxe spread through the barracks and drifted beyond the gates.

It did not take long for the Guardsmen to form a line.

Soon after, others gathered outside.

The poor came first. The desperate. The thin. The ones who had already felt the food shortages before the wealthy even admitted a problem existed. They stood near the barracks gate, drawn by the smell, staring through the entrance with hunger plain on their faces.

Diyu walked toward them.

“You all appear famished,” he said.

His voice carried over the small crowd, and satisfaction stirred in him as their desperate eyes fixed upon him. Here was the power Yorlee did not understand. Fear could bend knees. Violence could silence opposition. But food could pull loyalty from the belly before the mind even formed an argument.

“Join my War Machine,” Diyu said. “Aid in saving our people, and sustenance shall be yours. It is as simple as that.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then one stepped forward.

Another followed.

Soon, a line formed outside the gate, not of challengers or protesters, but recruits.

Diyu pulled Emo aside as the first of them entered the barracks.

“Begin their training,” Diyu said. “Teach them enough to hold formation and use a weapon properly. Do not waste time making them strategists. Strategy belongs to those trusted to lead.”

Emo nodded.

“Your will be done, my lord.”

With recruitment underway, Diyu turned his mind toward the rest of the capital. The mess hall would bring the hungry to him, but he needed to know how long the markets could resist his pull. If the wealthy stores remained full, the city’s upper classes would hesitate. If the markets held, Yorlee might retain influence through trade and provision. Diyu needed to know the truth of Noxeer’s food supply.

As he passed through the barracks, he noticed someone standing inside the weapons tent, studying an arrangement of swords and knives with unusual interest.

Varok.

The young Kreegan had come with him during the confrontation outside the capital gates. Diyu remembered the fascination in Varok’s eyes as he had stared at the dead. Not horror. Not disgust. Fascination. The youth was ambitious, eager to prove himself, and hungry for recognition.

Useful traits, if directed properly.

“Varok,” Diyu called. “I have a task for you.”

Varok’s eyes widened. He hurried over immediately.

“My lord. Anything.”

“I need you to go into the market district and learn the state of their food supplies. Find out how much they have, how well it is guarded, and how long before the people begin lining up at our gates in greater numbers.”

Varok straightened.

“Yes, my lord. Your will shall be carried out.”

As Varok departed, Diyu returned to the training grounds. The sound reached him before he arrived: grunts of effort, weapons clashing, instructors shouting corrections, new recruits stumbling through their first lessons in discipline. It was a captivating thing to witness. The birth of soldiers. Raw citizens shaped into instruments of obedience and destruction, all under his command.

At times, a strange sensation washed over him as he watched them. A pull. A hunger. A deep satisfaction that seemed to rise from somewhere beneath his own thoughts. For a few moments, he would see not frightened recruits, but tools. Pieces. Bodies to be shaped and spent.

Then the reality of his purpose would return.

He was doing this to save them.

Was he not?

The question disturbed him more than he allowed himself to show. Each passing day brought a subtle transformation. Not merely of body, but of will. It felt as though his choices were narrowing, as if the path beneath his feet had already been carved and he was only discovering where it led.

“My lord.”

Emo’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Diyu turned.

“The training progresses well,” Emo said. “I trust everything meets your satisfaction?”

“Yes, General,” Diyu replied. “You have done exceptional work.”

Emo paused.

A small smirk curled at the edge of his mouth before he controlled it. Diyu saw the pride the title gave him. General. It was no small thing for a village hunter to become the commander of a growing army, and Emo wore the honor with discipline, but also eagerness.

That pleased Diyu.

Ambition could corrupt weak men.

But in the right hands, it could build empires.

Diyu eventually retreated to his quarters to await Varok’s return. He sat alone, expecting his thoughts to drift toward old hunts, childhood memories, or the village he had left behind. Instead, his mind wandered into places that did not feel entirely his own.

Fire.

Magma.

Chains of heat pulling across thought.

He remembered the orb that had consumed him. The molten metal swallowing his flesh. The darkness after. The voice in the void. The betrayal he believed had been carved into him by the Anunnaki.

The memory stirred rage until it pulsed through his body like a second heart.

A sharp knock struck the door.

Diyu opened it and found Varok standing outside in the dead of night.

Only then did Diyu realize how much time had passed. What had felt like moments in memory must have consumed hours.

“Come inside,” Diyu said. “Close the door.”

Varok obeyed.

“Speak freely,” Diyu continued. “No one else is to hear this.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Varok lowered his voice.

“I managed to avoid most of the security measures around the food establishments. The wealthy will not face immediate shortages. Their storage houses still hold a significant amount, though demand is increasing and prices are rising. It is only a matter of time before the less fortunate begin flocking to our gates for food.”

Diyu absorbed the report.

A darker plan began to form.

“You mentioned avoiding their security,” he said. “Do you believe you could do so again?”

Varok’s expression changed. Pride entered it.

“Without a doubt, my lord. I have a talent for entering places where I am not meant to be.”

Diyu smiled faintly.

“The food stores rely on their refrigeration systems to preserve much of what remains. I need you to infiltrate the facility and sabotage the system so it fails. It must appear to be an accidental malfunction caused by neglect.”

Varok listened carefully.

“If you succeed,” Diyu continued, “there will be a promotion waiting for you, along with the recognition you deserve. But understand this. If you are captured, I will deny any knowledge of this conversation. My political battle with Yorlee cannot be endangered by a careless hand.”

Varok’s face tightened with determination.

“I understand, my lord. You can rely on me.”

“Good,” Diyu said. “Once the task is complete, prepare to teach your methods to a select few of our most trusted people.”

The thought excited him as he said it. A stealth force could serve the War Machine in countless ways: sabotage, reconnaissance, assassination, infiltration, and intelligence. Varok’s natural gifts could become doctrine. His hunger for recognition could become a weapon.

Varok’s eyes brightened as if he understood the opportunity at once.

“Yes, my lord. Once the operation is complete, I will be ready to teach those you choose.”

Diyu leaned forward.

“The success of this mission will mark the beginning of a new chapter for our forces. Together, we will shape an unstoppable machine capable of changing the destiny of this world.”

Varok nodded, fully committed.

“Your will be done.”

“Go,” Diyu commanded. “Execute the plan, and the rewards of your success will follow.”

Varok departed without hesitation.

Diyu watched him go, a subtle smile forming. There was satisfaction in molding such a willing mind. Persuasion, when wielded correctly, could bend even strong wills toward a desired end.

He did not yet understand how true that thought was.

Each day, Diyu strengthened his authority. Each decision ensnared more minds. Each promise, threat, and reward pulled those around him deeper into the growing shadow of his intentions. The pieces were falling into place. If the plan succeeded, the entire population of Noxeer might soon come begging to join the War Machine.

As Diyu sat in the darkness, Zurrotan’s voice returned.

“You are doing well, Diyu. Your plan will work because I will make it so. Time is growing short.”

Diyu lifted his head.

“Time is growing short for what?”

“You have been given much,” Zurrotan whispered. “And much more shall be yours. But all gifts carry cost. Surely you have felt it building inside you. The anger. The hunger to destroy.”

Diyu’s hands tightened.

“Zurrotan, what have you done? Am I not your chosen one?”

Anger began to boil inside him, and with it came the old sting of betrayal. The same feeling he had felt when he believed the Anunnaki had deceived him.

Zurrotan’s voice seemed almost pleased.

“Even now, your anger builds. Good. Yes, Diyu, you are chosen. What you will become is written into destiny. There is no changing it. With every passing moment, his essence becomes more a part of you.”

Diyu’s breath slowed.

“Whose essence?” he asked. “What will I become?”

“Let me show you.”

Pain split Diyu’s mind.

The room vanished.

He saw himself, yet not himself.

He sat upon a fiery throne overlooking a battlefield swallowed in devastation. His people fought below, locked in brutal war against otherworldly creatures armed with technology far beyond anything the Kreegans possessed. Blue light cut through the air in deadly streaks, dropping his soldiers where they stood. The enemy wore unfamiliar armor and carried weapons that resembled bows only in shape, not purpose. Their attacks were silent, precise, and merciless.

Diyu watched the battle from the throne, unable to look away.

Then he saw someone standing among the enemy leaders.

A Kreegan woman.

His mother.

No.

The vision ended.

Diyu returned to his room with a sharp breath.

Zurrotan’s voice lingered.

“You have glimpsed a future destined to unfold. Some parts may still be altered. Others are already set in stone.”

“This cannot be,” Diyu said. “I saw my mother. She was with my enemies.”

“She will betray you,” Zurrotan replied. “She does not accept your power. She thinks as your old chief thought. She should meet the same fate, or she will help bring about the future you have seen.”

“I will not kill my mother,” Diyu growled. “She will see that my methods are for the survival of our people.”

“Say what you wish. Think what comforts you. You have seen what will happen if you do nothing.”

Then the voice left him.

Diyu remained in the silence of the room, haunted by what he had seen. The vision replayed through the night and into the next day. His mother beside his enemies. His people dying beneath blue light. The throne. The battlefield. The feeling that some future version of himself was waiting to be born.

A knock finally interrupted his thoughts.

“My lord,” Varok called from outside. “I have returned.”

Diyu opened the door.

Varok stood there covered in filth, mud on his legs, grime on his arms, and satisfaction on his face.

“Come inside,” Diyu said. “Give me the details.”

Varok entered and took a seat only after Diyu motioned for him to do so.

“My lord, I did as you asked. Most of their stored food supplies are already spoiled. The rest will spoil before they can correct the problem.”

“Excellent,” Diyu said. “What exactly did you do?”

“I sabotaged the refrigeration system to look like neglected maintenance. With luck, the crowd will blame Chief Yorlee for failing to manage the stores. If that is not enough, I introduced a healthy rat population into the supply rooms. They are feasting on what remains. By the time the doors open today, nearly everything should be ruined.”

Diyu’s smile widened.

“Oh, Varok. You have outdone yourself. Well done. When I need a task handled with a delicate touch, I will come to you.”

“I am glad you are pleased, my lord.”

“Go quickly to the mess hall,” Diyu said. “Tell them to prepare. We should be expecting new soldiers soon.”

Varok left at once.

Diyu wanted to witness the result himself.

By the time he reached the market, chaos had already taken hold. Shopkeepers shouted at one another. Hungry customers demanded answers. Workers blamed poor standards, broken systems, neglect, and corruption. The ruined stores had become more than a supply failure. They had become a public accusation.

The crowd had already gathered outside Yorlee’s residence.

Anger rolled through them, directed at the chief who had allowed food to spoil while famine crept closer. Yorlee stood near the entrance, surrounded by guards and officials, his face tight with controlled panic.

For one brief moment, his eyes met Diyu’s.

Diyu smiled.

Then he turned and walked back toward the barracks.

As he approached, he saw a crowd outside the gate. At first, concern stirred in him. Then he heard Emo’s voice rising above the others.

General Emo stood before the people, passionately declaring the cause of the War Machine. He spoke of survival. Of strength. Of food for those willing to serve. Of children who would not starve if their parents dared to act.

The crowd answered him.

Diyu’s plan had worked.

Relief should have followed.

Instead, trouble settled in his chest.

If Zurrotan had been right about this, then perhaps he was right about the vision as well.

In the distance, another large group approached the barracks. Diyu turned, watching as a caravan moved along the road. At its front sat his mother, weary from travel, leading the remaining villagers from their old home into Noxeer.

The sight stirred something uneasy inside him.

He instructed Emo to prepare food and shelter for the new arrivals, then ordered him to establish another training area for incoming soldiers. He also told Emo to personally escort his mother to his quarters and ensure she had her own dwelling as soon as possible.

Diyu did not go to her himself.

Not yet.

Instead, he took his seat above the training grounds and watched the War Machine grow.

Over the next few days, the barracks became a living engine. His villagers were absorbed into the capital. The hungry enlisted. The loyal were armored. The able-bodied were sorted, trained, and organized. Smiths worked without pause. Cooks fed soldiers from Zurrotan’s impossible abundance. Emo moved through the chaos like a true general, giving shape to the flood of bodies now entering Diyu’s service.

Within days, the War Machine swelled to nearly one hundred seventy-five thousand soldiers.

Diyu stood beside Emo, overlooking the training field.

“You have done excellent work,” Diyu said. “Each of them is ready to fight for the greater good of the Kreegan race.”

Emo dropped to one knee.

“Your will be done through me, my lord.”

“Gather all soldiers in full armor and armed before our gate,” Diyu said. “It is time to stop playing games.”

Emo rose.

“Your will be done, my lord.”

While Emo gathered the soldiers, Diyu made his way to the top of the gate separating the training grounds from the rest of Noxeer. From there, he looked out over the gathering army. He signaled two men to follow and instructed them to bring the war drums.

“Meet me at the gate,” he said. “Play them for the gathering.”

The drums began soon after.

Their rhythm rolled across the barracks, deep and commanding. Soldiers lined up beneath the sound, armor catching the light, weapons held ready. Their spirits rose with each beat. More and more formations settled into place until the full weight of the War Machine stood before him.

One hundred seventy-five thousand soldiers.

It was a sight worthy of awe.

Diyu raised one hand.

The drums stopped.

The army fell silent.

“I have called you here for a task of great importance,” Diyu said. “But before we undertake it, you must remember why we are here.”

His voice carried over the gathered ranks.

“We are here to save our people. We will show the universe that Kreegans do not simply roll over and submit to the demands of a dying planet. No. We will rise. We will unite. We will leave this rock behind.”

The soldiers erupted into cheers.

Diyu lifted both hands, calming them.

“There are those too stubborn to see the truth and those too cowardly to act. They would surrender to extinction and call it peace. Let me make one thing clear. If anyone stands in our way, they are no better than this planet itself. If they choose to perish with Hadawon, then we will gladly oblige them. We will not be held back.”

The crowd exploded again, louder this time. The soldiers were hungry for direction, eager to be given an enemy.

Diyu let the noise swell before speaking over it.

“Today, we march. But we do not march far. The chief of this very capital and those who still cling to his weakness are now obstacles in our path. When we reach the heart of Noxeer, do not kill those willing to join us. Safeguard them. Let them enter our ranks. But those who stand against the survival of our people will be treated as enemies of the Kreegan race.”

He turned toward the city.

“Now we march.”

A battle cry tore from the soldiers as one.

“ERRA!”

Diyu looked to Emo.

“Lead them to the meeting hall.”

The War Machine moved.

Drums thundered through Noxeer as the army marched from the barracks into the city proper. The sound drew citizens from their homes and shops. Doors opened. Windows filled. People stared as ranks of armored Kreegans advanced through their own capital beneath Diyu’s command.

Yorlee emerged from the meeting hall before the army reached it.

His face showed shock first.

Then defeat.

Diyu commanded the soldiers to halt.

The entire formation stopped.

Diyu walked forward alone.

“I will be taking over from here,” he said. “This capital now belongs to the War Machine.”

Then he raised his voice so every citizen nearby could hear.

“Anyone who wishes to join us will be welcomed. Anyone who stands in our way threatens the survival of the Kreegan people and will face death.”

He turned his attention back to Yorlee.

“Is that clear?” Diyu asked. “If it is, kneel before me in front of everyone. Then take your place at the back of the ranks.”

Yorlee looked from Diyu to the army behind him.

There was no clever path left.

No beast in a pit.

No crowd to manipulate.

No chief authority was strong enough to survive what now stood before him.

Yorlee lowered himself to one knee.

The citizens watched in stunned silence.

Then he rose quietly and walked to the back of the formation, joining the War Machine ranks.

The Kreegans who witnessed their chief submit quickly followed his example. One by one, then in clusters, then in waves, outsiders and residents bent the knee. The act rippled through Noxeer like fire catching dry grass.

By the end of the day, the capital had submitted.

Diyu was hailed as Chief of the Anoxe Clan.

And Lord of the War Machine.