Page 30 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

“Excellent point,” I said, leaning over the map and hoping I looked thoughtful rather than completely lost. The city center was a mess of tiny streets and symbols that might as well have been hieroglyphics.

I was about as qualified to redesign urban planning as a hamster was to perform brain surgery.

“The city center is too congested for efficient distribution, and most of the housing is uninhabitable anyway. What we need is a temporary relief camp—somewhere with open space where we can set up the shelter tents, water stations, and food distribution points.”

Relief camp? Where had that come from? Oh right, that post-apocalyptic survival game I’d binged last summer during a particularly depressing weekend.

I was literally basing life-or-death decisions for thousands of demons on a game I’d played while eating microwave burritos in my underwear.

If there was a prize for most unqualified leader in the history of leadership, I was a shoo-in.

General Smashington leaned his massive frame over the table, causing the wood to groan under his weight.

His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “The Ashen Fields to the east of the city would serve well. It is a large open area, easily defensible, with natural wind barriers from the eastern cliffs, and close enough to the city for convenient access.”

I nodded sagely, as if I hadn’t just learned about the existence of the Ashen Fields three seconds ago. “Interesting suggestion. Tell me more about the terrain.” There. That sounded leader-like, right? Ask for more information when you have absolutely no clue what’s going on—Management 101.

Lady Shadowfax’s form rippled. When she spoke, it sounded like multiple voices whispering in unison, which was disconcerting to say the least. “My scouts report the area is clear of bandit activity. The ground is stable, despite recent rains.”

“Perfect.” I nodded, as if I’d been considering the soil stability all along and hadn’t just been thinking about whether demon bandits wore tiny masks or just had naturally sneaky faces.

“We’ll establish a relief camp there. Now, we need teams for setup, registration, security, distribution, and medical care. ”

The words were coming out of my mouth, but I felt like I was watching someone else speak—someone who actually knew what they were doing. Meanwhile, my internal monologue was a constant stream of “What are you saying? Stop making promises! You’re going to get everyone killed with your incompetence!”

Lord Taxman adjusted his spectacles again. “My accountants can establish a registration system. We have experience cataloging souls for the annual tax collection.” He paused, then added hastily, “Though, of course, this would be for aid distribution, not… extraction.”

Wait, what? Tax collection involved soul extraction? I made a mental note to look into demonic tax reform at the earliest opportunity, right after “prevent mass starvation” and “figure out why I’m here.”

“Good,” I said, ignoring the whole soul-extraction thing for now.

“I want a system that accounts for family size and special needs. No one gets left behind, especially the vulnerable.” I was basically quoting the mission statement from a charity commercial I’d seen while half-asleep, but the demons were nodding.

“Family size?” Duke Splashypants gurgled, water droplets forming and falling from his webbed hands. “Many demons in the lower districts live in communal nests rather than traditional family units. How shall we account for them?”

I hadn’t considered that. Of course demon social structures would be different.

Why would I assume demons lived in nuclear families with two point five kids and a mortgage?

This was why I was wildly unqualified for this job—I knew less about demon sociology than I did about quantum physics, and my knowledge of quantum physics was limited to “something about cats in boxes.”

“Excellent point,” I said, trying to sound like this was a minor detail rather than a fundamental oversight in my hastily constructed plan. “We’ll need to adapt our registration to account for various living arrangements. What’s the largest communal group size we might encounter?”

“The Murk Marsh immigrants live in pods of up to thirty individuals,” Duke Splashypants replied. “They share resources communally and would be distressed if forced to register individually.”

Thirty demons in one pod? That sounded less like a family unit and more like a college dorm room after the apocalypse. “Then we’ll register them as pods,” I decided, making it up as I went along. “Each living group, whether family or communal, gets supplies proportionate to their size and needs.”

Magister Wiggles nodded enthusiastically, causing the swirling magic beneath his skin to form complex patterns that made me slightly dizzy.

“Most innovative, my lord! I propose we use magical markers for each registered group. My acolytes can create tokens that glow when the bearer approaches the correct distribution point, preventing duplication and confusion.”

Magic tokens? That sounded way more sophisticated than the “take a number” system I’d been vaguely imagining.

“Excellent idea,” I said, grateful that someone in the room actually knew what they were doing.

“And speaking of distribution points, we should organize them by type of aid. Food, water, shelter, hygiene—separate stations for each, with clear pathways between them.”

I was basically describing a mall food court, but with emergency supplies instead. And the demons were eating it up like I was presenting revolutionary concepts in logistics management.

General Smashington nodded, the bone ornaments in his armor clinking together like macabre wind chimes. “My warriors can maintain order. I suggest we establish a perimeter with controlled entry points.”

I had a sudden vision of terrified demon families being herded through checkpoints by armored brutes with skull-adorned weapons. “Just don’t make it look like a prison camp,” I cautioned. “These are citizens in need, not prisoners or enemies. Your soldiers should project safety, not intimidation.”

The general looked momentarily confused, as if the concept of nonthreatening security was entirely foreign to him, then nodded slowly.

“As you command, my lord. We shall… smile?” The word seemed foreign in his mouth, like he was trying to pronounce a particularly difficult word in a language he’d just started learning.

“Maybe just don’t scowl actively,” I suggested, trying not to laugh at the mental image of General Smashington’s troops practicing smiles in a mirror. “And no weapons unless absolutely necessary.”

Lady Shadowfax’s form condensed slightly, becoming almost humanoid. “My agents can circulate through the crowds, identifying troublemakers before conflicts arise. We can also identify those with special needs who might be too proud or afraid to come forward.”

Great, so we’d have secret police mingling with the refugees. That didn’t sound dystopian at all. But I supposed in a realm where the previous administration’s management style involved “motivational disembowelment,” this was probably considered progressive policy.

“Perfect,” I said, trying to focus on the positive aspects of her suggestion. “What about the most vulnerable? The children, the elderly, the sick? They shouldn’t have to wait in long lines.”

Duke Splashypants gurgled thoughtfully, the gills on his neck flaring like tiny underwater fans. “The Moist Dominion can establish a separate distribution line for them, ensuring they receive priority care. My subjects are naturally nurturing to the young and infirm.”

I tried not to focus on the phrase “Moist Dominion,” which sounded like the world’s least appealing spa retreat. “Good.” I nodded. “And we’ll need a medical tent for those too weak to feed themselves. Who has healing skills?”

A small, timid-looking demon with moth wings and antennae raised her hand. Her voice was soft but clear. “I am Healer 47, my lord. My team specializes in malnutrition and physical deterioration. We have been… quite busy in recent years.” Her wings drooped slightly.

The understatement of the century, judging by what I’d seen in the city. “Excellent, Healer 47. Set up a medical area in the center of the camp. You’ll receive special nutrition supplements designed for the severely malnourished.”

Her antennae perked up like a cat spotting a laser pointer. “Truly, my lord? Such specialized remedies would be… miraculous. Our current treatments are limited to diluted blood broth and shadow fungus.”

I tried not to grimace at what sounded like the world’s worst soup kitchen menu. “Yes, truly. You’ll have proper medical supplies by tomorrow.”

Mistress Pokey stepped forward again. “My workers can assist with food distribution. They understand portion control and have experience with rationing from the… recent difficulties.” She glanced nervously at Azrael, who remained impassive.

“This won’t be rationing,” I clarified, trying to sound confident rather than terrified that I might be overpromising. “Everyone gets enough. But your experience will be valuable in organizing the distribution efficiently.”

As the planning continued, I noticed something remarkable happening.

The demons were… collaborating. Departments that apparently hadn’t spoken to each other in centuries were now coordinating efforts, offering resources, volunteering personnel.

The energy in the room had transformed from fearful deference to purposeful excitement.

Lord Taxman was deep in conversation with Duke Splashypants about creating waterproof registration scrolls for the amphibious citizens.

Lady Shadowfax and General Smashington were marking security routes on the map, while Magister Wiggles demonstrated his glowing tokens to Healer 47, who suggested color-coding them for medical priorities.