The Scumbags Guide to Enslaving Demon's

Ahead, the route to Grand Meridian burned white beneath a darkening sky.

The court vessel reached the city before dawn. Grand Meridian’s outer lamps were lit in every quarter, but the usual movement around the gates had changed in ways that were hard to name at first glance. People stood in small groups beneath white ledger marks, hands visible, ration bags counted openly for anyone to see. Medics moved between them with water and thin broth. No one was shouting, and that quiet made the tension worse than shouting would have.

Elena met Austin Veyron’s team in the Freehold lobby with the transfer book open under one arm.

”South quarter is stable for the moment,” she said. ”Marcus has food routes visible. Nahlia is tracking the fever reports. But the lobby lines are flickering, and the basement pantry doors keep calling to people.”

”Calling how?” Nyra asked.

”Not with words. People smell food that is not there. Then they start thinking the person beside them will take it first.”

Austin Veyron felt the dark mark on his wrist itch again.

Veyra noticed immediately. ”Witness line,” she said.

Elena looked at the mark, then at Nyra’s heart shard, weighing something before she spoke again. ”We set a rule before you go below,” she said. ”No one enters the pantry alone. No one eats anything from the basement. No one touches a marked crate without stating why.”

”Agreed,” Austin Veyron said.

Nahlia arrived from the side corridor carrying pages of reports, moving fast. ”The fever is not pure Maw influence,” she said. ”It has court claim patterns and market scarcity clauses layered into it. Someone built it to travel through ordinary food logistics.”

Ceryn studied the pages closely. ”That is deliberate,” they said. ”The court part turns protection into control. The market part turns rationing into private debt. The Maw part turns hunger into forced taking.”

”Vordessa,” Sable said.

”Or a piece of Vordessa’s work,” Austin Veyron said. ”She said she sent a taste.”

Marcus came down the stairwell from the south wing, coat stained with flour and rain. ”The pantry doors are sealed,” he said. ”We have three adult volunteers holding the hall, but the smell is getting stronger. Two people tried to break the lock. We got them out before they hurt anyone.”

”Where are they now?”

”Medics. They are terrified of what they almost did.”

Austin Veyron looked out across the lobby. The Freehold hadn’t turned the fever victims into prisoners. The medics were giving them water, food, and witness space instead, a slower approach than simply locking every door and hoping for the best.

It was also holding, which mattered more than speed did right now.

They descended together.

The basement stairs smelled wrong before they even reached the pantry level, though it wasn’t rot and it wasn’t spoiled food. It smelled like a feast after a long famine, rich enough to make the body hurt with wanting something it couldn’t name.

The pantry corridor was lined with old supply rooms, and white ledger marks had been painted across the floor, but black residue crawled beneath them in thin branching lines that hadn’t been there before.

Rin crouched near the nearest mark. ”The residue is moving toward the central pantry,” she said.

Orena tested the air with her sea lantern, and its blue flame turned red at once.

”Claimed scent,” she said. ”Someone is trying to make the stores own the people who need them.”

The pantry doors were heavy wood reinforced with old iron, black hunger marks covering every seam. Behind them, something shifted among the crates, slow and patient.

A whisper slid through the wood.

TAKE BEFORE YOU LOSE. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

Veyra’s jaw tightened at the sound of it.

Austin Veyron felt DEVOUR rise in response. The fever source was close enough now that it had noticed the dark mark on his wrist, and the black residue below the door reached toward him like a hand recognizing another hand it had been waiting for.

Nyra caught his sleeve before he could move any closer.

”It knows you,” she said.

”It knows the Maw trace.”

”It may try to make you its strongest hunger.” she replied

”Then it picked the wrong target.”

Veyra looked at him sharply, unconvinced. ”Careful,” she said.

He corrected himself, hearing how it had sounded. ”Then it picked someone who will not take the bait.”

Ceryn opened a fresh record sheet, pen ready. ”Target terms before entry?” they asked.

Austin Veyron nodded. ”We preserve the food. We free anyone caught in the command. We consume only the forced-taking clause. No one reaches for a source without saying it.”

”Witnessed,” Veyra said.

”Witnessed,” Sable added.

Marcus unlocked the outer iron bar while Elena opened the transfer book and wrote the present roles into the white route: food keeper, medic, scout, shield, witness, attuned, record keeper, choice.

The doors opened.

The pantry had become a maze. Crates of grain, dried fruit, broth powder, and preserved meat stood stacked to the ceiling on every side. Black lines had crawled over every label, turning ordinary inventory counts into red promises no one had asked for. At the center of the room, a mound of spilled flour and broken jars moved like a living body, breathing in slow, wet pulses.

Hunger-fever constructs rose from it, one after another.

They had no faces, only mouths filled with black teeth, and each one carried a ration tag clutched in one hand.

NOT ENOUGH.

The first construct lunged at Marcus without warning.

Rin’s arrow struck its tag dead center. The construct split into two smaller shapes, each reaching for a different crate at once. Orena drove her spear into the floor between them, pinning the black residue long enough for Veyra to cut the mouths away entirely.

The mouths grew back within seconds.

”They are using the food labels,” Nahlia said from the doorway. ”Every count is becoming a claim.”

Ceryn tore a stack of old ledger slips from a shelf and began reading the original inventory aloud, voice steady and clear over the noise.

”Two hundred grain sacks. Thirty broth tins. Forty fruit crates. Shared reserve for south quarter.”

The white route marks on the floor brightened as the numbers were spoken.

The constructs hesitated, confused by something they couldn’t quite process.

The original records weren’t a command. They were simply information, and the fever had hidden its scarcity lie inside them, but it couldn’t erase the plain fact that the supplies were real and visible to anyone willing to count them.

The central flour mound rose higher, gathering itself.

A black shape formed inside it, taller than a person, with a mouth shaped like the Hunger Emperor’s old crown. Red-black mist streamed from its shoulders into the marked crates around it.

HUNGER MUST TAKE.

The Maw trace on Austin Veyron’s wrist flared bright.

The shape reached for him across the room.

For a moment, he saw the pantry as a map of every hungry person in Grand Meridian laid out at once. He could pull the hunger toward himself, consume it whole, and end the fever in a single act. The thought was horrible.

It was also effective, and that was exactly the problem.

Veyra stepped into his vision, blocking the sight of it.

”Target?” she asked.

Austin Veyron stared at the central shape.

”Forced-taking clause in the fever core,” he said. ”Not the food. Not the people. Not the Maw trace.”

”Witnessed,” she said.

”Witnessed,” Sable echoed.

Austin Veyron walked into the flour storm and opened DEVOUR.

The fever core fought him with the city’s own fear, throwing it back at him in pieces. Empty shelves. Children crying over ration lines. Workers hiding food under beds. Friends looking at friends as competitors instead of neighbors.

HUNGER MUST TAKE.

Austin Veyron found the single word that made need become violence.

MUST.

He consumed it, and nothing else.

The pantry went silent all at once.

The black shape collapsed into ordinary flour and spilled broth powder. The red marks on the crates turned gray, then faded entirely away. The smell of false abundance vanished, replaced by dust and old wood, plain and unremarkable.

The Maw trace on Austin Veyron’s wrist burned once, then dulled again.

Nyra caught his hand before he could hide it from her. ”It tried to use you as a route,” she said. ”But it did not finish.”

”Will it again?”

”Yes,” she said. ”Anywhere Vordessa seeded this logic.”

Elena stepped into the pantry with the transfer book, checking the lines as she came. ”The lobby routes are steady,” she said.

Marcus let out a slow breath, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. ”South quarter food lines are calming,” he said.

The city had eaten enough fear to start recovering from it.

Then the flour residue on the floor moved.

Not into another construct this time.

Into a map.

Black lines spread across the pantry stones, branching outward from Grand Meridian toward trade roads, caravan stops, port stores, and distant markets none of them had ever visited. Red dots pulsed wherever food was counted, moved, or rationed anywhere in the wider world.

Nahlia knelt beside the map, tracing the branching lines with one finger. ”There are dozens,” she said.

Ceryn’s face hardened as they took it in. ”Vordessa did not send one fever,” they said. ”She seeded a hunger network through trade routes.”

At the far eastern edge of the flour map, one red dot burned brighter than all the rest.

It lay beyond the Bone Coast, beyond Kharos, near a place marked with a black mouth.

Austin Veyron looked at the map for a long moment, then at the people holding the pantry door open behind him, waiting to hear what came next.

The fever in Grand Meridian was contained.

The plague was only beginning.