A young Devil knelt respectfully before a crimson and gold encampment tent, his voice sharp and urgent.
"General Gremory, all forces have converged on the castle and have engaged at will. The caster brigades await further instruction."
A sudden gust of wind rippled through the area, sending the tent's loose ends fluttering. The entrance parted abruptly, revealing a finely dressed man in ornate crimson and gold armor. A black cape adorned with a crimson rose embroidered at its center billowed gently behind him. His face was striking—handsome and composed—framed by short, spiked blood-red hair. Teal eyes, hard with resolve, regarded the messenger briefly.
"Relay commands to the caster brigades: focus fire on the central portions of the castle. Keep the ground forces clear and secure the outermost walls from all stragglers. I want this castle stripped clean of Old-Satan extremists," he commanded coldly.
"Yes, my Lord."
With a flash of azure light, the messenger vanished, intent on carrying out the command.
The general ignored the stiffened salutes of his elite guards as he strode purposefully to the hill's peak. From there, the dark silhouette of the castle loomed in the distance. Flames and smoke poured from its blackened walls while multicolored arcs of energy shot across the sky—the signatures of magic volleys exchanged between his forces and the enemy.
A meager defense for such a massive castle...
He watched in silence as magical fire shifted inward, targeting the towering spires and deeper inner walls. A chorus of detonations followed, and the cascade of rubble soon crushed scores of black-armored knights below. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips before fading beneath a hardened expression.
It won't be long now.
Castle Halphes—so named for the once-noble Devil family who ruled it—had fallen into the hands of Old-Satan loyalists. Recently, troubling reports reached Sirzechs Gremory's desk: sightings of a meteor in nearby Malphes territory and unusual troop movements in Halphes itself. Yet now, as he watched the battle unfold, the size and strength of the enemy force didn't match the intelligence he'd received.
Before the siege began, Sirzechs noted a conspicuous drop in the number of defenders. His advisers confirmed the bulk of resistance came not from infantry, but from interrogator-class inquisitors linked to the Marax family and a few hundred higher-ranking officers. Meanwhile, his 3,000-strong force assaulted the front gate, with caster brigades positioned on elevated ground delivering relentless artillery fire. It was a well-orchestrated assault—yet the defense was far too thin.
Why?
A stronghold like Halphes, even this remote, should've been better protected, especially sitting atop a resource bed that could sustain Old-Satan forces for months. But instead, the castle was crawling with interrogators.
Interrogators usually mean prisoners.
Sirzechs' jaw tightened. His men could be inside.
Without a word, he made a subtle gesture. One of his elite guards, clad in black matte armor with a crimson fur-lined cape, stepped forward and knelt. His voice emerged distorted and deep through his imposing helmet.
"Your orders, General?"
"Join the main assault force and search the castle for dungeons. The interrogators inside likely have prisoners—our own. Break them free. No exceptions. Dead or alive."
The knight dipped his head. With a flare of crimson magic, he vanished. One by one, his twelve brothers followed, leaving Sirzechs alone on the ridge.
The general stood there for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the castle as magical fire pounded its inner sanctum. Enemy counterfire flared in response. A sigh escaped him.
He could let his forces handle the battle. He could wait. But he wouldn't.
He never could.
Sirzechs Gremory vanished in a flash of power, plunging into the heart of the conflict.
There was more to this operation than met the eye. And he intended to uncover it himself.
Within the heart of Castle Halphes, a fierce and brutal battle raged between two ideologically opposed forces, their clash echoing through the stone corridors and blackened skies. On one side stood the Anti-Satan faction, overwhelming in both number and unshakable resolve. Arrayed against them were the Old-Satan loyalists, a dwindling yet fiercely devout band of warriors who had turned the fortress into a bastion of resistance. Though they fought with unparalleled zeal, even they could not deny the inevitable—this battle was already lost.
The central courtyard had become a crucible of violence. As the main forces of the Anti-Satan faction closed in on the heart of the castle, they left a trail of ruin behind them. Every corridor was lined with bodies, every hallway scorched with the residue of spellfire. The defenders, knowing full well they were outnumbered, fought like cornered beasts, with nothing left but their principles to shield them.
Flames surged high into the night sky, only to be smothered by smoke and ash as the fires burned themselves out. Still, the Old-Satan defenders refused to fall quietly. From broken towers and shattered battlements, they launched desperate barrages of demonic magic—arcs of infernal flame, bolts of obsidian lightning, and walls of shadow-born energy. The courtyard glowed as if the heavens had cracked open, bathed in a kaleidoscope of unholy power. And yet, despite their defiance, the outcome was clear. For every Anti-Satan soldier that fell, three more took their place. For every spell cast in desperation, a dozen countermeasures met it in kind.
They died where they stood, each defender a monument to the ideals they cherished. Their sacrifice was noble, but in vain.
Then, without warning, the battlefield changed.
Twelve crimson magic circles ignited before the front lines of the Anti-Satan knights, searing the ground with arcane energy. Each one bore the insignia of a Gothic rose, blooming in blood-red radiance. From these portals emerged twelve colossal pillars of vermilion light, and out of them stepped the most feared warriors in the Anti-Satan army: Sirzechs Gremory's Praetorians.
Their presence brought a sudden, suffocating silence. Awe and terror gripped every soul on the field.
Each Praetorian was a titan of war, clad in armor so detailed it seemed sculpted by the gods themselves. Forged from the rarest metals, inscribed with ancient runes of resilience, and finished with blood-hued filigree, their armor exuded a menacing beauty. Weapons of varied forms—barbed spears, gleaming longswords, a thunderous warhammer—rested easily in their gauntleted hands. Their visors glowed with deep crimson light, like burning coals behind steel masks.
The air grew still.
Somewhere, far in the distance, the echo of a hammer striking a nail rang out, like the tolling of a final bell.
The Old-Satan inquisitors, faced with this incarnation of death itself, faltered. Their knees buckled, their spells failed, and their courage drained like blood from a wound.
Then the Praetorians moved.
Without a word or warcry, they surged forward. The lead knight, cloaked in a mantle of crimson fur, struck first. His double-headed warhammer crashed down like a meteor, obliterating two defenders in a single, bone-shattering blow. Their broken forms tumbled through the air before crumpling lifelessly to the blood-soaked ground.
The others followed. Each movement was surgical, each strike deliberate and merciless. They advanced as a single, disciplined entity, blades cleaving through flesh and armor alike. Desperate spells hurled at them shattered harmlessly against their wards, the aether recoiling in fear from their might.
One Praetorian leapt into a trench lined with enemy casters. What followed was a burst of screams—panicked, agonized, fleeting. When he rose again moments later, his sword dripped with gore, and his once-immaculate armor bore the proof of his slaughter.
Together, they advanced toward a final bunker positioned between a pair of grand marbled staircases. The last coordinated line of defense was swept aside like reeds before a storm. In their wake lay a trail of ruin—mangled corpses, smoldering rubble, and shattered weapons.
The plaza, once teeming with the chaos of battle, fell into an unnatural stillness.
The last of the resistance had been annihilated.
"Resistance destroyed. Scour the castle."
The lead Praetorian's voice cut through the silence like steel on stone—mechanical, emotionless, final. Without pause, the twelve knights moved onward, disappearing into the castle's shadowy halls, their synchronization as precise as ever.
Behind them, the soldiers of the Anti-Satan faction stood frozen, bearing witness to a force they could scarcely comprehend. For many, it would be a story they'd carry to their graves—the day they saw the wrath of Sirzechs Gremory's elite.
"Resistance destroyed, scour the castle" with barely a moment of pause, the twelve elite knights continued on, leaving behind a large number of stupefied devils in their wake.