Demon armor, I discovered, is not designed for comfort.
It's not designed for functionality either, or for stealth, movement, or sanity. It's designed purely to make you look like a war crime in progress. Black metal plated over sinew-strapped bone, covered in spikes, goo, and the faint but undeniable scent of wet dog and hatred.
I stood there in the middle of a jagged rock alcove, wrapped in a chestplate that gurgled when I adjusted it, staring at my reflection in a pool of poisoned water and whispering:
"This is how I die. Looking like a rejected collectible from Demon Wars: Slime Tactics."
Behind me, the rest of the party was suiting up too—very reluctantly.
---
Velis was actively arguing with her breastplate.
"This texture is illegal. This odor is illegal. Armor should not be porous."
Silas already had his gear on and was adjusting the shoulder spikes for "maximum flair."
"You have to wear the role, Vel. They smell fear. And probably soap."
Lyra was holding up a helmet between two fingers like it was a cursed relic.
"This thing has three eyeholes. I only have two. What do they think demons are shaped like?"
"It might not be for eyes," I said.
"Don't finish that sentence."
Iria, meanwhile, had refused to take off her usual armor. Instead, she'd strapped the demon shoulder guards over her pauldrons and kept her chestplate—the crest of her order shining like an offended sunrise through the black sludge.
"If challenged, I will declare trial by combat," she said.
"No one's surprised," Silas muttered.
---
We crept along a cracked ridge overlooking one of the hive's many lower entrances—an opening flanked by two horned statues and patrolled by what looked like... well, a mix between humanoid guards and very angry pine trees.
Demon sentinels. Perfect.
Silas scoped it out first.
"They're not checking passes," he said. "Just nodding people through."
"So," I said, swallowing my pride and adjusting my helmet again, "we're doing this."
"No," Velis muttered. "*You're* doing this."
We approached the gate at a perfectly natural, casual pace.
I tripped twice on my own spikes.
The demon guards looked at us. Growled something guttural.
Silas answered back. With confidence.
"Hkkthar… dred'nox."
I blinked. "What did you just say?"
"I think I told them we're late for organ shift rotation."
"Organ shift rotation?"
Velis hissed, "Don't ask questions in Demon."
The guards stared.
Then nodded.
We walked in.
Just like that.
I was sweating in eight different emotional languages.
It was worse inside.
The corridors pulsed. The walls weren't stone—they were alive. Fleshy. Breathing.
Slime dripped from the ceilings. Echoes of footsteps came from nowhere. Runes glowed faintly beneath the ooze.
Demons wandered in groups—some armored, some crawling, some floating ominously while discussing tactical logistics in growls and screeches.
We walked fast. Silas led the way. I tried to copy his posture.
My helmet wobbled.
Lyra's tailbone spike snagged on a hanging tendon. She almost fell into a vat of teeth. Velis caught her.
"You're welcome."
"I hate this place."
"Same."
---
Then we hit our first snag.
A demon lieutenant—eight feet tall, tusks, half a jaw missing—stepped into our path.
"Squad. ID hail."
Velis froze.
Silas opened his mouth.
I raised my hand and saluted.
Like an idiot.
Not even a good salute. Not even symmetrical. It was crooked and too fast and I might've included a little wave at the end.
The demon stared.
"What... formation?"
"Uh," I said, "Flesh... Ridge. Unit... Five. Maybe."
"...Designation?"
I was about to panic.
But Silas beat me to it.
"Hellcode 3X-LN-Vermilion."
He said it fast. Confident. Just enough syllables to sound real.
The demon blinked slowly.
Then growled. "Processing…"
A pause.
Then he stepped aside.
"Move. Sector Four's behind. Reporting center's up two levels."
We nodded.
Walked.
Kept walking.
Tried not to run.
We found it by accident.
A glowing glyph over a doorway labeled—somehow—"Inventory & Organ Allocation."
Inside: a massive pit of desks, scrolls, screaming demons, chain-bound clerks, floating ink-devil drones, and piles—literal piles—of paperwork being set on fire for approval.
"This place," Velis whispered, "runs on pure chaos."
"I think that one's crying," Lyra added, pointing to a demon locked in a cube of noise who was slowly rocking back and forth while repeating numbers.
"This is my favorite place," Silas said.
Kaname—me—tried to step back.
And that's when it happened.
I slipped on a mucus rune.
Fell through the wrong door.
And landed inside a reporting office.
A demon scribe looked up at me.
"Designation?" he barked.
I panicked. Stood straight.
"3X-LN-Vermilion, sir."
The scribe blinked.
"…Late, as usual," he muttered, and shoved a clipboard into my hands. "Update the supply burn."
"I don't know what that means."
He pointed to a glowing diagram of the hive's siege reserves.
I randomly adjusted a lever.
The diagram turned red.
"Oh," I said.
"You just cut the central gate's supply line to the forward meat-forge," he said.
"...Yup."
"Smart. We're overfed anyway."
Then he nodded.
"Promoted. You're in charge of spine logistics now. Get out."
We left.
We ran.
Down corridors. Past demons arguing about ration deliveries. Past a gnoll-shaped beast screaming about promotion fraud.
Back through the gate.
No one stopped us.
They were too busy arguing about form 7-C and the fleshgate not receiving enough "moisture allotments."
By the time we were outside, I was shaking.
"You promoted yourself?" Lyra asked.
"I tripped and told the truth. That counts as a diplomatic win."
Silas clapped my back. "Spine logistics, huh? Moving up in the world."
"I want to move down. Into the earth. Forever."
Velis just sighed and looked at the hive.
"They have a central command. Beneath it. We need to find a map."
"I vote we don't go back in," I muttered.
"Oh, we're definitely going back in," she said.
"…I hate this job."