Deus Necros

Chapter 628: Conflict

“THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!” Hiro roared out inside the barracks at the border of the desert kingdom.

The barracks swallowed his voice and threw it back in echoes off wood and iron, a harsh repetition that made the room feel smaller. Heat lingered even here, desert air bleeding into every seam, mixing with the smell of sweat, old oil, and tired men. Hiro’s anger arrived like a storm that refused to wait for permission.

Annoyance sat on faces like fatigue. Men who’d been awake too long, who’d heard too many declarations, didn’t bother hiding how little patience they had left. Even the fake prince’s expression tightened, but restraint held him still, too many eyes, too many delicate strings. The Holy Order’s pressure was a constant weight in the room, forcing the Imperial Army to swallow insults they would otherwise crush.

“We were informed that the Desert Kingdom has Demons in it. It is my duty to CLEANSE this world! Lend me the damned troops!” he howled at the high commander. He threw righteousness like a weapon, emphasizing “CLEANSE” as though volume could substitute for proof. The demand for troops wasn’t framed as strategy; it was framed as entitlement, as though the army existed only to amplify his personal crusade.

She wanted to rip his head off his torso as much as anyone in the room, this brash arrogant and far too unqualified being was deemed hero? The gods must be blind.

The high commander’s face remained disciplined, but her thoughts were less polite. Hiro’s arrogance wasn’t merely irritating, it was dangerous, the kind that spent lives to feed ego. The title “hero” sitting on his shoulders felt like a mistake carved into fate.

“You are a member of the Holy Order, we told you before, again and again, and I’ll tell you now. The Holy Order is responsible for fighting demons. We are not attacking the Desert Kingdom without approval from our own side. If you want to fight, go alone, we’ll even cheer you on.” She said.

Her answer was sharp with repetition, the kind of speech refined by saying it too many times. She drew lines of responsibility and approval, then ended with a barb that was almost generous: go alone, and they would “cheer you on.” It was the closest thing to permission she was willing to grant.

“Fucking cowards! You rather rot in here than seek glory!” Hiro spat the accusation like it was holy truth, as if caution was a sin and planning was weakness.

She sighed as she listened to his blabber. Her thoughts wandered to the people who are actually fighting the real enemies of the Empire in the depths of the west, while this man here wanted people to die for his own glory and fame.

“There is no glory in death, nor is there any to be found in dying for a reason unknown. Our spies in the Desert Kingdom are denying the existence of any form of demonic interference. You’re being fed lies,” one of the commanders said.

The reply came from experience rather than pride. The commander’s tone carried the dull certainty of someone who had watched “glory” rot into corpses.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to know? I received a revelation! A great evil is in the Desert of the Sand! We must stop it!” Hiro’s rage pivoted, searching for a target, and revelation became his shield again, unquestionable, convenient, impossible to verify. He insisted on “must,” on inevitability, on urgency that erased doubt.

“Then do it yourself, aren’t you the hero? I guess not since you couldn’t even handle one guy at that cave, you even had to be saved by the one you call traitor…” The second commander snorted.

The insult landed perfectly because it was anchored in memory. It dragged Hiro’s righteousness back into the dirt and made him taste the humiliation he tried so hard to forget.

Hiro mouth opened and closed, remembering one thing in this scenario, the fact that Ludwig was the one who saved him. Though he self-exiled and was branded a traitor, no one seemed to believe it. No one wanted to think he was a traitor.

The room’s silence sharpened, because everyone remembered too. Hiro’s mouth worked around the truth and found no words that could undo it. Even labeling Ludwig as a traitor had failed to stick the way Hiro wanted, because people didn’t like narratives that made them look foolish, and Ludwig saving them made Hiro look exactly that.

Not even Titania came out with a statement declaring such, and her right-hand nun denied him being a member of the Desert Kingdom.

Authority hadn’t backed him. That absence gnawed at the legitimacy Hiro tried to wear. Titania’s silence and the nun’s denial left Hiro with nothing but his own shouting, and shouting wasn’t proof.

Though they can’t confirm his allegiance right now, so far he has yet to do anything to harm the empire, and all he did was save it from an even greater danger when the so called ’hero’ ran away with his tail tucked behind his legs.

The practical truth sat heavily in the air. That contrast wasn’t a rumor; it was a remembered event, and it made Hiro’s righteousness feel like costume.

“You’re all in on this, aren’t you?” Hiro said, “You’re all a bunch of traitors!”

Conspiracy was easier than accountability. If they didn’t obey him, then they must be corrupt. It was the only way Hiro could keep himself central in his own story.

“Be very careful of the next words that come out of your mouth,” the fake prince said as he stood in front of Hiro. “To call the son of the Emperor a traitor isn’t something that can easily be forgiven.”

The fake prince stepped into the space between them with controlled menace. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the authority in his posture did it for him. The warning was precise, and it carried consequences heavy enough to silence even stubborn mouths.

Hiro held his breath; he tried his best not to show any worry or backing down. but it failed miserably. “You’re all a bunch of cowards. Fine, I’ll do this myself. Peter, call the Pope, we need to move the Holy Army!”

He moved with theatrical speed, boots loud, temper louder, as if the building itself had offended him. The door flap snapped behind him, and the room finally exhaled. Hiro stormed out of the barracks and went toward the fortress where the holy order resided in.

“You think he’ll be able to move the army of the church?” The commander asked the high commander.

The question was skeptical, spoken as much to confirm shared doubt as to seek new information.

But it was the fake prince who replied, “Not going to happen,” shaking his head.

He answered immediately, head already moving, certainty settled in him like stone. No drama. Just the plain dismissal of someone who knew more than Hiro did.

“How do you know, your highness?”

Respectful, curious, cautious, because the fake prince’s certainty implied hidden pressures.

“Not many know, but a beast tide is actually charging toward Solania right now. The Holy Order is in dire straits and is in desperate need of troops. When the Wrathful Death died, the barrier between the Empire and the Dark Continent disappeared with him. His presence alone was a deterrent to those beasts, but now that they’re gone, the Holy Order can barely move. Clementine chose the worst possible time to be a Pope. But also, if he somehow manages to stop the tide…”

The explanation unfolded into a larger crisis, shifting the room’s focus from Hiro’s tantrum to the shape of real danger. Clementine’s timing sounded like tragedy disguised as leadership. And yet the final clause hung there: if he somehow stopped the tide.

“Then he’ll be regarded as a generational hero,” the High Commander replied.

She spoke the consequence with a grim steadiness. The story would crown him if he succeeded, no matter the blood spilled along the way.

“Yes, it’s a deadly gamble, and I’m sure with his personality, tens of thousands of people will die for that gamble.”

The fake prince’s voice stayed cold. He wasn’t guessing; he was forecasting. Tens of thousands, spoken as a likely cost, and Hiro’s personality named as the blade that would cut them.

“The church’s power will rise to unprecedented levels…” the High Commander finished the thought.

She completed it with the weary awareness of politics: power gained through crisis did not fade when crisis ended.

“Indeed, enough to be a threat… to the Empire even.”

The fake prince’s final line settled the true fear into place. Not merely demons, not merely beasts, but the shifting weight of institutions, and the possibility that the church, empowered by victory could overthrow even the empire.

The thought was grim, and knowing Clementine, it was not grim enough. Lives would be lost like one was spilling water, and no matter the price the Empire would pay in lives, the victor would eventually be Clementine.