Chapter 77: Devouring One's Own Corpse for Power
"So you've hidden even that? Did you think that what was given could be so easily claimed?"
The sponsor showed no concern that the thirteen beings had fallen entirely under Beelzebub's control. Whether or not Beelzebub was willing to hand them over, it would all eventually be his.
Eyes narrowed to slits, he turned toward the second figure in the projection—Solomon.
A mere human, yet he had managed to develop magic and touch the very source of creation itself. Calling him clever wouldn't suffice. The urge to dissect his brain, his soul, gnawed insistently.
Maybe… just maybe, that chance wasn't too far away.
Silence.
The audience in the coliseum fell deathly still, stunned by the unfolding scene.
Moments ago, the seventy-two demon gods were pummeling Beelzebub's forces. Now? The tide had turned. Thirteen beings known as the Sixth Day Demon Kings, all bearing the name "Prajna," were butchering the seventy-two demon gods.
How did the audience know their name? They introduced themselves—with unsettling flair.
Initially, they even attempted to rebel against their master Beelzebub, aiming to commit regicide. But their bodies froze mid-defiance. Clearly, Beelzebub had tampered with them—locking them into obedience and unleashing them upon his rivals.
The results? Cataclysmic.
Lesser demon gods crumbled within three or four strikes. The stronger ones lasted a mere ten exchanges. Even Baal—the first among the Four Pillars—held out through nearly a hundred clashes before—
"Splurt—!"
Prajna's blade pierced through Baal's chest, its tip morphing into barbed hooks that tore his heart out. A moment ago, there had been no hooks—the blade had reshaped mid-thrust. Prajna could morph his body into weapons: swords, axes, even bone-forged instruments of death.
Though the duel lasted near a hundred moves, in human perception it was over in mere breaths. The weaker demons had been slaughtered in an instant.
Their defeat defied imagination. Not just the mortals—even the gods watching were left aghast. Some deities weren't even a match for the seventy-two demon gods—yet they were annihilated effortlessly.
Beelzebub's creations were terrifying. Worse yet, they had shown signs of rebellion. If they ever broke loose completely...
"Pointless."
"Pointless."
"Pointless..."
A haunting chorus rang from Prajna's thirteen mouths as Baal's body shattered into motes of light. With his demise, cracks spread across the artificial realm beneath their feet. The energies below surged in fury.
"BOOM—!"
The pocket world collapsed, releasing a pillar of aurora-like energy that rocketed skyward, threatening to tear the heavens asunder.
The audience at the edge of the arena gasped—the transparent walls surrounding them began to groan ominously. Had those barriers not deployed in time, the entire coliseum would have been consumed.
Was this a trump card from the seventy-two demon gods? A final act of mutual destruction?
But that meant Solomon was caught in it too.
All eyes fixated on the shrinking pillar of light. When it vanished, what they saw left them reeling:
The arena floor had been gouged out—forty to fifty meters deep. But this wasn't ordinary earth; the battleground was a divine artifact itself. To inflict such damage would've taken someone like Zeus.
Yet not all had been destroyed.
Solomon stood untouched at the center of a column ten meters wide—a lone spire amid devastation. Beelzebub remained as well, surrounded by his thirteen demon kings. They'd survived, but their wax-like bodies were scorched and grotesque.
Then came a collective gasp—Prajna's bodies began to regenerate.
"They've run. Only you remain."
The demon kings locked gazes on Solomon like predators.
The seventy-two hadn't truly perished. That world was strange—almost as if it had granted them extra lives.
"He's mine."
Prajna spoke again, but this time the voices clashed with each other—staking claim to their prey.
Then they grinned—grins twisted with cruelty. In the blink of an eye, thirteen Prajna apparitions flanked Solomon.
Had their numbers doubled?
Not exactly. The gods saw through the illusion—the Prajnas had simply moved so fast that afterimages lingered on the human retina. By the time one shadow faded, another had already arrived.
And then—attack.
A shriek. Blood sprayed across the air.
Solomon's chest had been impaled—his body mangled. One Prajna held a fresh, pulsing heart.
"Hehehe! I was fastest."
The Prajna laughed as the heart squirmed in his grasp—still beating, unaware it had been torn from its host.
Gasps turned to horror among the humans.
"Why—"
A girl named Gray choked on her sob. Brunhilde stood tense, cold sweat on her brow.
"That was... horrifying!"
Even Heimdall, the broadcaster, seemed shaken.
But the heart twisted—its color deepened to black, its texture warped.
Wait—was that Solomon's heart?
No. That heart belonged to a Prajna.
The mangled body wasn't Solomon's—it was a Prajna.
Somehow, Solomon had swapped places with one of his enemies. It looked like a magical illusion... or maybe something more.
"No—wait."
Heimdall adjusted his glasses, noticing something odd. The pillar on which Solomon stood had subtly shifted position compared to the arena wall.
It wasn't Solomon who had moved—it was the image that had.
No—Solomon hadn't budged at all. His true location remained unchanged. The shifting view had been a trick.
An illusion. A mirage.
Using principles of light refraction and reflection, Solomon had masked his presence and cast a decoy image. Not only had he disguised a Prajna as himself—he'd lured the others into attacking their own.
"A mirage created by manipulating light itself?"
"Not just that—he veiled an enemy in his likeness so precisely that it stepped into a kill zone. Incredible."
"Everyone in the arena—gods and mortals alike—was deceived."
Even seasoned warriors were floored.
"When did he set it up? I never saw any sign!"
Ares, god of war, was baffled.
"Likely during the explosion," Loki surmised.
"Or perhaps even earlier. While everyone's attention was on the collapsing world... he quietly blanketed the arena in this illusion."
Rather than a simple magical glamor, this was a full sensory manipulation—physics masquerading as sorcery.
Had it been magic-based alone, the illusion might've failed. A difference in mana density would've betrayed it. But this spell had altered light itself—concealing mana changes across the arena.
"Hahahaha… fascinating. Absolutely fascinating!"
The Prajna kings, grinning once more, twitched with a manic edge.