Chapter Five: Henchmen for Hire
1256 Words
Krok approached the crumbling ruins of the abandoned church on 6th Street, his boots crunching against broken glass and loose gravel. The air around the building felt heavier, not with magic but the desperate stench of humanity. Faint candlelight flickered through shattered windows, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
“This better not be a waste of time,” Krok muttered.
“Hey, it’s not like you’re swimming in options,” the ghost replied, floating beside him. “You’re the one who wanted to check out the local flavor. Let’s see if these weirdos know anything about demon tech.”
Krok snorted and pushed open the half-rotted double doors, stepping inside.
The interior was exactly what Krok expected: dark, smoky, and theatrical. Dozens of candles lined the walls, their wax dripping onto makeshift altars covered in crude carvings of pentagrams. A group of men, all wearing black robes, stood in a circle chanting something unintelligible.
Krok’s entrance wasn’t exactly subtle. His horns scraped against the doorway, and the clinking of his armor echoed through the chamber. The chanting stopped immediately, and the robed men turned to face him.
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then the tallest of the group, a wiry man with a scraggly goatee and far too much eyeliner, stepped forward.
“Who dares interrupt the sacred gathering of the Infernal Order of the Crimson Flame?” he demanded, his voice trembling between outrage and fear.
Krok crossed his arms, towering over the man. “I am Kroktathax, Foot Soldier of Hell. I seek those who claim to commune with the dark forces. Are you they?”
The group exchanged glances. A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Is this some kind of joke?” another man asked, stepping forward. He was shorter, rounder, and looked like he’d barely survived the stairs leading up to the church. “Are you mocking us? Who sent you?”
“Mocking?” Krok echoed, tilting his head. “I am a demon. I do not mock. I demand answers.”
The goatee man narrowed his eyes, his tone sharpening. “That’s a costume. It has to be. You think it’s funny to show up here dressed like that? To make a mockery of our sacred rites?”
Krok blinked. “You think I’m wearing a costume?”
“Well, yeah,” another man piped up from the back. “Nobody actually looks like that.”
Krok burst out laughing, his voice booming through the room. “You mortals are more foolish than I thought! To accuse a demon of Hell of blasphemy—what irony!”
Goatee man scowled. “Enough! If you refuse to show respect for the Order, we’ll remove your costume ourselves!”
Krok smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”
The men hesitated, clearly unnerved by Krok’s confidence. But goatee man, determined to save face, barked, “Seize him!”
Two burly members of the group lunged at Krok, their hands reaching for his chest plate.
Krok didn’t flinch.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent one of them flying across the room, crashing into a pile of broken pews. The other froze in place, his face pale.
“What… what the hell?”
“I am Hell,” Krok said with a grin, his sharp teeth glinting in the candlelight.
The rest of the group charged at him, shouting a mixture of curses and panicked prayers. It was over in seconds.
One by one, Krok tossed them aside like ragdolls, his supernatural strength and reflexes making the encounter embarrassingly one-sided. By the end of it, the men were sprawled across the floor, groaning in pain.
Krok dusted off his hands and turned to goatee man, who was cowering behind an altar. “You were saying something about removing my ‘costume’?”
Goatee man stammered, “Y-You… you’re really a demon?”
“Yes,” Krok said flatly.
“You don’t look like the devil!” one of the men shouted from the floor, clutching his ribs.
Krok sighed, his patience wearing thin. “I am not the devil. I am a foot soldier. The devil does not concern himself with minor affairs.”
The group exchanged wary glances, their bravado crumbling.
“So… what do you want with us?” goatee man asked, his voice trembling.
“I came seeking knowledge,” Krok said, his tone turning serious. “You claim to commune with the forces of Hell. Do you know how to repair a Rift device?”
“A… what?”
Krok groaned. “Useless. You mortals are all useless.”
“Wait, wait!” goatee man said quickly, raising his hands. “We might not know what that is, but we can help! We swear! Just… don’t kill us.”
“I wasn’t going to kill you,” Krok said, exasperated. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be ash.”
“That’s… comforting,” one of the men muttered weakly.
The ghost, who had been watching the whole scene in amusement, floated up beside Krok. “Y’know, Big Red, you could use these guys. They’re already worshipping the devil, and they seem desperate enough to do whatever you say.”
Krok frowned, considering it. “Henchmen?”
“Sure,” the ghost said. “Think about it. You need information, resources, maybe even a few extra hands to help with whatever insane plans you cook up. And they’re already scared of you, so they’ll be loyal.”
Krok turned back to the group, who were now huddled together like frightened sheep. “You,” he said, pointing at goatee man.
“M-Me?”
“You and your… Order… will serve me now. Your rituals and chants are pathetic, but your devotion could be useful. Do you agree?”
Goatee man hesitated, then nodded quickly. “Yes! We agree! Whatever you say!”
“Excellent,” Krok said, his lips curling into a wicked grin. “From now on, you are my henchmen. Your first task is to gather information. I need knowledge of this world’s technology, especially anything related to dimensional rifts or portals.”
The men nodded fervently, too terrified to do anything but agree.
“And if you fail,” Krok added, his voice dropping to a menacing growl, “I will personally ensure that your souls experience torment unlike anything you’ve ever imagined.”
Goatee man swallowed hard. “Understood.”
The ghost clapped its hands together. “Well, congrats, Big Red. You’ve officially got your first minions. I’d say this was a productive night.”
Krok glanced around the room, taking in the quivering men, the flickering candles, and the crude altars.
“This world,” he said, shaking his head, “gets stranger by the minute.”
As Krok left the church, his new henchmen scrambling to follow his orders, the ghost floated beside him, chuckling.
“You know, you’re starting to fit in here,” it said.
“I don’t want to ‘fit in,’” Krok replied, his tone curt. “I want to return to Hell and resume my duties.”
“Sure, sure,” the ghost said, smirking. “But in the meantime, you’ve got a crew, a laptop, and a cult at your beck and call. You’re practically living the dream.”
Krok didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he tightened his grip on the laptop bag and marched into the night, determined to turn his ridiculous situation to his advantage.
- Writer
