Awareness cast outward through the medium of plague, the man encased in dark armor sat upon his throne of rubble and slowly tilted downward toward a sour, brooding mood. The most recent handful of decades had seen his attitude shift from jovial to stern. His speculative musings, ever his focus during that time, had grown progressively darker. He was not to the point of taking action, not yet, mostly because imposing his particular version of dark-armored certainty upon events stripped all the enjoyment out of them.

There was little point in endlessly watching the world churn through the ages if you controlled everything that was going to happen.

This truth, one long experience had taught him to take as absolutely foundational, meant that the world still retained the capacity to surprise him. This was most commonly welcome, but sometimes not. Current trends were moving toward the latter.

He monitored such things with great interest.

Scoria Scorn's acquisition of a new body for herself had been a most welcome surprise. He'd not expected her to manage that, and certainly not in little more than a decade. Nor had he anticipated the spark of power her renewed presence had carried across the skein of the plague almost from the very start. It did not take all that much deduction to determine how she'd managed such a feat, in the general contours, but he'd been impressed all the same. He'd not thought any demonic cultivator would cache an egg and food supply like a spider wasp.

Spider wasps were marvelous creatures. Emulating one represented a genuinely impressive bit of planning. He almost wanted to congratulate her in person. Not that he would, of course. Doing such a thing would reveal far too many secrets. He'd have to murder her to conceal them, and that cost was not worth a single conversation, no matter how riveting.

Later, perhaps, he mused, after certain veils fell away. It would be a rare treat indeed to share unguarded speech with one who grasped at least the most essential truth.

That she continued to grow in power by wandering about served as steady confirmation of that decision. Such a precocious little digger she'd become, slaughtering her way through the little bulbs buried down deep in the vain hope that spring would come. Bloody Roam had known about such cached survivors for a long time, sensitive to even tiny gaps in the plague's reach. They were neither a threat nor any use to him and he ignored them accordingly.

Watching as Scoria Scorn scuttled about through increasingly intricate caverns like some sort of cannibalistic metallic mole was hilarious, a far more amusing end to such pointless remnants than anything he'd ever planned or expected. He was glad he'd left them there for her. Give matters a century or so and she might properly cleanse the bowels of the earth of cultivator wastage.

He chuckled inside his helmet at the image.

That much was satisfying, a more than suitable repayment for her failure to sacrifice herself on the altar of vengeance and reveal the location of the Twelve Sisters. After all, he'd taken steps to eliminate that lingering risk in due course without her participation. There was no need to rush.

And then everything unexpectedly went wrong.

Bloody Roam had not liked Rust Reaper. He didn't really like anyone, after all. However, he had tolerated the man. Subservient and toadying though he had certainly been, he'd managed to fill the role of malleable yes-man without being overly annoying about it. He'd also turned his talents, however limited they might be, towards the appreciation of good quality armor. It was a rare trait among senior demonic cultivators, and one that the armored statue of a man truly admired. Their interactions had always been formal but functional, which was far above the average for dealings with his nominal comrades.

Tolerated, certainly, but never respected. The former soldier turned demonic champion was a servitor, a man who'd turned to the plague out of obedience to his master's order. When that man perished, he'd shifted his allegiance to the strongest entity available, with no thought for personal preference. It was, truthfully, a rather pathetic approach.

Bloody Roam remained amazed that the man had been able to achieve immortality at all, even with the plague's help.

Still, Bloody Roam was a warlord, and a good one. He understood the value of useful pawns more than sufficiently to bury any personal feelings regarding their deployment. Rust Reaper had been useful. Weak to be sure, but also loyal and thorough. He would sit in the distant east forever and when, in the fullness of time, the plague gathered another horde, then the demonic host would ride to war one last time.

It was a simple, patient plan, the best kind. He'd loaned Rust Reaper the shield as insurance. It should have forestalled any effort by those young ladies to produce a countermeasure against his stodgy sentry. At worst, he might have sacrificed a moderately useful minion in order to reveal the location of his greatest remaining enemy. An acceptable price to pay, one might even call it a fair trade.

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The seemingly spontaneous and distressingly complete disappearance of the demonic cultivator was neither expected nor acceptable. It was, rather, completely unanticipated, a possibility Bloody Roam had not considered at all. That such a thing should happen stood in defiance of all his long-formed beliefs.

He could replay the impression in his mind perfectly and had done so hundreds of times. The signature of Rust Reaper suddenly wavered, vibrating through the plague. Then, moments later, it was completely snuffed out. Nothing, seemingly, was responsible. No spike of qi, no rush of hunger from the plague, no reaction from Snow Feast – a powerful demonic cultivator who ought to have sensed any battle between immortals in that region – nothing.

It had been such an unbelievable event that he'd almost jolted to his feet in shock.

Further consideration had ameliorated that impulse, but only slightly. The Turtle's Echo ought to have prevented any assassin, no matter their skills, from easily eliminating Rust Reaper. Similarly, the subordinate soldier had a very martial sort of cowardice. He would always flee any fight he was not confident of winning. Still, that was not a foolproof set of countermeasures. Two enemies, striking from ambush, could have overcome him. One to immobilize the shield, the other to launch the killing blow. It was a well-established tactic; one he'd taught his often outnumbered subordinates to be cautious of during the Demon War.

But ambushes took time, and clear intelligence, to enact. No protection ought to be capable of concealing an immortal from the plague's probing touch long enough to manage such a thing. Rust Reaper was quite thorough in his vigilance; it was one of his many endearingly bland obsessions.

Had the Twelve Sisters made a breakthrough in the design of concealing formations?

It was possible. He had never been much of an artistic innovator. He preferred strength and experience, solidity to overcome youngsters who overvalued the new and innovative. Still, it was a plausible explanation.

A very frustrating one, if true. It had been a very nice shield, despite its ridiculously shiny surface. And, he conceded, losing any additional demonic cultivators, even weak and vaguely pathetic ones, was a blow.

It seemed the sisters had tricks he had not anticipated. Bloody Roam considered that he might, possibly, have underestimated them.

Annoying, he decided. That was an annoyingly possible scenario.

So were the inevitable outcomes.

With Rust Reaper gone Snow Feast would assert control of the territory. Bloody Roam knew that imposing his will twice in a row would not be accepted. He could use force, of course, but that would inevitably cause additional deaths; a counterproductive solution.

Instead, the mountain dweller would follow the next horde into the hidden land manufactured by Orday and perish there. Only a civil war among the demonic cultivators could prevent that. There was no chance of the mountain-dwelling warlord succeeding. Snow Feast was formidable, but not even a match for the Fuming Shade.

Still, he could utilize that death. After Snow Feast fell, he could reveal the truth of the Twelve Sisters, claim some new revelation. One last great hidden realm, an opportunity for vengeance and plunder alike. It would serve to rally a force, no, a crusade.

If the Twelve Sisters proved to be stronger and possessed of more tricks than he expected, so much the better. It had been so long since he'd had a decent challenge. A final invigorating bout would be both a worthy prize and a good chance to remind any subordinates who survived exactly why he was the one in change.

He'd heard too much rumbling of coups. Twenty-five hundred years, apparently, could make even immortals forgetful.

A simple plan, slow and steady until the moment came to smash through all obstacles, exactly the kind he liked. Complex tricks and schemes were the choice of weaklings seeking to overcome the strong.

Despite that, he found himself unsatisfied at the prospect. He did not accept not knowing how Rust Reaper had died. Gaps in his understanding were unwelcome.

Eyes on the region would be helpful. Unfortunately, that plan had already failed. It could not be easily implemented again.

But there were other methods of detection, ones that tracked forces and energies ignored by the plague. Devices existed that had no other purpose than to monitor such things, and his treasure trove, though rarely utilized, was unparalleled. It did not take more than a few days of contemplation to decide upon a suitable implement.

Bloody Roam would wait. A horde would gather. Snow Feast would launch a doomed assault. If the unexpected should occur, he would be watching, and it would not escape his understanding this time.

A most appropriate move, one that almost made him feel like a general once again. Destroying the Twelve Sisters was a party game compared to a proper war, but it managed to offer a measure of invigoration all the same. He rather hoped they did have some marvelous new trick to make things more interesting. It would be nice if the last defiant gasp of the defeated remained memorable.

He might even, in a most welcome diversion, need to raise his blade himself. That would be a wonderful amusement indeed. He'd not had cause in so very long.

He wondered if Scoria Scorn would manage to regain her immortality before the time came. Presenting her with the head of whichever sister had managed to kill her would serve as a suitable gift for the day of her execution.

That prospect brought a chuckle to the motionless armored form. A tiny moment, one that did not even shift his lips, but it was the first in many years. The rush of demon qi this action unleashed shocked birds into the air for a full kilometer in all directions. A mouse, burrowing beneath the piled rubble, dropped dead from the pure potency of the discharge.

Inside his helmet, Bloody Roam smiled.

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