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"No one fires until I say so," Lance barked out an order. "Listen to your instructor, just like in your classes."

Frey glanced back to find that the students weren't even looking at Lance. 'Damn it,' he thought. 'Mana may have been wasted but it can be regained if we stall. That, however, is merely an inconvenience compared to the mental damage.'

Students bit their lips and cursed. "I'll hit them next time," the flash of bloodlust in their eyes said. The battle's momentum, barely noticeable, tilted against them. It wrapped around their chests, shortening their rhythmic breaths. Fight or flight reactions narrowed their thinking. If Lance were to jump up and down waving his arms about, they wouldn't bat an eye at him. That is what happens to newbies when they fall for a single, simple bluff. Frey knew that well after all the practice matches against Doevm's squad.

To restore the balance a drastic measure had to be taken, which is exactly what Glenin Ostroch did. He cleared his throat and bellowed, "Lance, if another student disobeys orders, cut them down where they stand."

By reflex, Lance leapt up from a meditative state straight to a bow. "Yes, master," he said, before pausing. "Sir, excuse me? What did you want me to-"

"Cut them down," Glenin barked. "You are supposed to be the example but since you have been so disobedient as of late, I need to set a different example."

Lance looked over at his current and former students with wide eyes. He swallowed. Particles of pure energy floated from his bruised hands to form a green magic circle. "Please listen to your instructor."

Scoffs and cocky retorts were muttered by the brats as their prepared magic circles dissipated. Frey sighed.

"Guys I think he's serious," a white-robed student said as he rubbed the scar across his face.

"Do you think so, Travis?" one spat. "Stupid first year. I only fired because you fired."

Signs of movement brought Frey's attention back to the south. 'They still aren't charging? What is it now?'

Shining through the cloud of dust, a remnant from the barrage of spells, was a collection of enchanted wood which formed into a phalanx. The demons had torn the academy's magic-resistant doors off their hinges to use them as improvised shields. Minimal gaps, synchronized steps, and a steady approach made it seem as if the ramshackle cluster of mages had incurred the wrath of a mountain. Glenin cursed under his breath. "Clever bastards."

"Is there another way to disable those enchantments?" Frey asked.

Lance shook his head. "We would have to use an Allpass but it won't reach that far. We just have to hope the Watchmen will deal with them. Where are those reinforcements?"

"I don't know," Frey resisted the urge to yell. 'Is he waiting for something?'

Beyond the phalanx echoed a clang of metal, followed by a second. Hope was brief, quickly stomped out by the rhythmic beating of hundreds slamming their weapons against the ground in a thunderous drumroll. Frey's own heartbeat was drowned out. The sounds seemed to punch through his chest. The students bordered on panic.

"Hold steady," Lance bellowed.

The phalanx stopped a dozen feet before the first hurdle, where a skinny noble lay in hiding - carefully taking supplies out of his spatial ring. It wasn't as if the phalanx couldn't advance, they simply stopped. A path opened through the center for a being of prophesied origin to make his long-awaited approach: Zolgon Angrar, the king of the demons.

One of the students who had spoken out earlier, Travis, knelt down, clutched a figure of the Goddess around his neck, and recited a desperate prayer: "Goddess, this servant humly offers his body to you in this time of strife and conflict. May I serve as a vessel for your judgement?"

The demon king approached. A barbed tail covered in geometric scar tissue dragged behind his clawed feet. A combination of dragon leather, animal fur, and metal plates covered his imposing form. Four jeweled horns wove into a crown atop his head.

"Can we fire yet?" One of the students insisted.

"Hold on," Lance yelled, his words barely reaching their ears. He expanded his magic circle in an unspoken threat.

Glenin nodded. "Don't you hesitate, Lance. Kill one to save the rest if you must."

Travis continued: "I will not protect the good as the good will always be protected by your mercy. Goddess, you are good and can do no evil. You created humans as your weapons because we can only sin while staying in the light. I-" His voice gave out as the setting sun finally escaped the clouded valley. "Please save us."

"Zol-gon." The rhythmic drumroll accelerated into a discordant fervency. Chants evolved into yells and screams not unlike that of cult worship. "Zol-gon. Zol-gon! Zol-gon! ZOL-GON! ZOL-GON!" In the sudden dark, the only remaining light was of the enchantments which highlighted Zolgon's illustrious form. He raised his hand into the air and snapped.

Silence.

Zolgon took one look at the overturned tables which served as the first vanguard and snarled. "This?" His voice carried throughout the mess hall. "Did I organize an army to have a food fight with mages?" As he laughed and laughed at the pathetic whelps shivering before him, there was one who seemed unabated - Thomas.

Slinking through the shadows with his back against a line of thin tables, he kept his head down and his hands moving. From east, heading west, he navigated through bladed grass carefully so as not to knock a single piece of dining ware over. Every human in the room could see both him and the sacks of black powder he periodically placed along the way.

'Of course,' Frey thought, a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. 'Black powder isn't magic. It should work yet why do I have a bad feeling about this? You should never put yourself in the open as a commander but why did Zolgon do it? Doesn't he know that stalling is exactly what we want? Unless he does know…'

"Pathetic," Zolgon continued to berate the mages. It was like a switch. One moment he was laughing and the next moment he was plain-faced. "I mean seriously, the enemy commander is standing right in front of you and yet you won't even do anything. I feel more threat from the dining ware." He craned his neck to get a better look at the "trap" behind the first vanguard.

Thomas froze, having only gone halfway across the room, right where the demon king looked. In one of Thomas's pale hands was a sack of gunpowder and in the other was an unlit match.