Page 39 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Azrael

A s the day progressed, more and more citizens arrived from the city, and with them came unexpected refugees from the forest. The goblin scouts returned with reports of not dozens but hundreds of displaced forest dwellers—goblins mostly, but also a small clan of cave dwarves driven from their underground homes and a handful of reclusive forest elves whose groves had been destroyed.

“We’re going to need more supplies,” Lord Lucien mused, watching as Sir Formalitee’s assistants struggled to register the influx of new arrivals. “And we should find out what exactly is driving them from the forest.”

“Lady Shadowfax’s scouts report unusual shadow activity deep within the Howling Forest,” Azrael informed him. “They dare not venture too far, but they describe disturbances consistent with the goblins’ accounts—large entities consuming both physical matter and magical essence.”

Lord Lucien frowned. “That doesn’t sound good. Keep the scouts at a safe distance for now, but I want regular reports. If whatever’s in there decides to come out…”

“I will ensure we are prepared, my lord,” Azrael assured him.

The thought of some unknown threat endangering Lucien sent a cold fury through his veins.

Whatever lurked in the forest would face the full extent of his power if it dared approach his master.

He would rend it limb from limb, would bathe in its blood, would craft trophies from its remains to adorn his lord’s chambers.

As evening approached, the transformation of the Ashen Fields was complete.

What had been an empty gray plain that morning was now a sprawling encampment housing thousands.

Tents stretched in orderly rows, water stations operated continuously, and the food distribution centers served a steady stream of citizens.

Sir Formalitee approached with a clipboard, bowing deeply before Lord Lucien. “My lord, I have the preliminary census figures as requested.”

“Let’s hear it,” Lord Lucien said, accepting a cup of something steaming from a passing server—a new beverage called “hot chocolate” that had rapidly become popular among the camp’s children.

“We have registered thirty-six thousand four hundred and twelve citizens from the city proper,” Sir Formalitee reported, consulting his clipboard.

“This represents approximately ninety-one percent of Iferona’s total population.

The remaining nine percent consists primarily of noble households, merchant families, and various professionals who have elected to remain in their residences in the western districts. ”

“So, basically the whole city’s here except for the rich folks,” Lord Lucien summarized.

“Precisely, my lord,” Sir Formalitee confirmed.

“Additionally, we have registered four hundred eighty-seven goblins, thirty-two cave dwarves, and fourteen forest elves. The total camp population stands at thirty-six thousand nine hundred and forty-five individuals, organized into seven thousand three hundred and eighty-nine family units or communal pods.”

Azrael observed his lord’s reaction carefully. Such numbers would have overwhelmed any conventional relief effort, yet the camp functioned with remarkable efficiency. The void provisions continued to arrive at regular intervals, each delivery met with reverent awe by the citizens.

“And the medical cases?” Lord Lucien asked.

“Healer 47 reports one thousand seven hundred and forty-two cases of severe malnutrition, of which one thousand two hundred and thirteen have already shown significant improvement after consuming the void supplements. There have been…” Sir Formalitee hesitated, adjusting his spectacles.

“There have been no deaths since the camp opened, my lord. Not one. This is… unprecedented.”

Lord Lucien smiled, a genuine expression of satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear. And the food supplies?”

“Sufficient for current needs, my lord, though Magister Wiggles suggests increasing the variety. The ‘cup noodles’ are popular, but he believes additional options would improve overall nutrition and morale.”

“He’s right.” Lord Lucien nodded. “I’ll arrange for more diverse meals. Something heartier for dinner especially.”

As darkness fell, the camp transformed once again. Bonfires were lit between tent clusters, creating warm pools of light where citizens gathered. The atmosphere had changed dramatically from the morning’s fearful uncertainty. Now there was cautious joy, quiet conversation, even occasional laughter.

Azrael followed Lord Lucien as he walked among his subjects, stopping occasionally to speak with families or check on the distribution of evening meals.

The dinner offering had expanded beyond cup noodles to include what Lord Lucien called “bento boxes”—compartmentalized containers holding rice, roasted meat, and vegetables.

These were received with even greater enthusiasm than the earlier provisions, many citizens weeping openly at the abundance and variety.

“This is… real meat?” one elderly demon asked, poking at a slice of roast pork with reverent disbelief.

“Yep, genuine pork,” Lord Lucien confirmed. “And those are actual vegetables, not shadow fungi or whatever you guys usually eat.”

“But… for everyone?” The demon gestured at the thousands gathered around the fires. “Even the lowborn?”

“Everyone eats,” Lord Lucien said simply. “That’s the rule now.”

Word of this declaration spread through the camp like wildfire, repeated in hushed, wondering tones. Everyone eats. The dark lord has decreed it.

As they continued their circuit of the camp, Azrael noticed figures at the perimeter—well-dressed demons observing the proceedings with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright envy.

The nobles and merchants who had remained in their comfortable homes had come to witness the phenomenon that had emptied their city.

One particularly bold noble approached, his expensive robes marking him as a member of the western district’s elite. “My lord.” He bowed deeply before Lord Lucien. “I must say, this is quite the… charitable endeavor.”

Lord Lucien regarded him coolly. “Lord…?”

“Superiore, my lord. House Superiore of the Obsidian Quarter.” The noble straightened, his gaze drifting to the food distribution area. “I wondered if perhaps I might sample these remarkable ‘void provisions’ I’ve heard so much about? For purely academic interest, of course.”

Azrael tensed, anticipating his lord’s reaction to such presumption.

The previous Lucien would have flayed the noble for his impertinence.

Azrael’s fingers twitched with the memory of previous punishments he had administered to nobles who overstepped their bounds.

Lord Superiore’s intestines would make an interesting addition to his collection of noble organs, preserved in crystal and labeled by family name.

This Lucien merely raised an eyebrow. “Did you register as someone in need of emergency food aid, Lord Superiore?”

The noble blinked, clearly taken aback. “Well, no, my lord. As I said, merely academic?—”

“Then no,” Lord Lucien interrupted. “These supplies are for those who need them. Your ‘academic interest’ can wait until everyone in this camp has had their fill. If you’re genuinely hungry, feel free to register like everyone else.”

Lord Superiore’s face flushed with indignation. “But surely, as a noble of the realm, I am entitled to?—”

“To what?” Lord Lucien’s voice remained calm, but something in his eyes made the noble take a step back. “To special treatment while others starve? That thinking is exactly why we’re in this mess. So no, you don’t get to cut in line because you have a fancy title.”

The noble retreated, muttering under his breath, and rejoined the other wealthy observers at the perimeter. Azrael noted their expressions with interest—shock, outrage, but also a new wariness. The message was clear: the old order was changing.

Azrael was oddly… impressed. Lord Lucien had put the noble in his place without a single drop of blood being spilled.

No screams, no pleading, no creative use of entrails—yet the effect had been just as powerful.

Perhaps there was something to this new approach after all.

Though he couldn’t deny a twinge of disappointment at the lost opportunity to add to his collection.

As the evening deepened, Lord Lucien finally allowed himself to rest, accepting a seat by one of the larger bonfires.

Citizens gathered at a respectful distance, watching their dark lord with a mixture of awe and newfound hope.

Children, their strength returning after proper nourishment, played nearby, their laughter a sound rarely heard in Iferona.

Azrael stood vigilant behind his lord, scanning constantly for threats. The scene before him was so unlike anything in his centuries of service that he struggled to categorize it properly. This was not a court, not a military encampment, not a festival… it was something entirely new.

A community, perhaps. United not by fear of their dark lord, but by gratitude toward him.

A small goblin child, bolder than its peers, approached Lord Lucien with hesitant steps. In its hands, it clutched a crude drawing made on the back of a food wrapper. The camp fell silent, many expecting the child to be punished for its presumption.

Azrael tensed, his body coiling like a predator preparing to strike.

The goblin was within arm’s reach of his lord—close enough to harm, if it harbored ill intent.

His hand drifted to the concealed blade at his hip, ready to separate the creature’s head from its shoulders at the slightest provocation. He had killed for less. Much less.

Instead, Lord Lucien smiled and accepted the drawing. “Is this for me? Thanks, kiddo.”