While we conversed, a sudden distortion in space caught my attention. Those sent to fetch us had arrived. An ominous, black-edged doorway materialized before our eyes. From it emerged a woman in a perfectly tailored black maid outfit. She gave a deep, formal bow.
"I have come to escort you, Ramiris-sama. If it is all right with you, your companions may join as well," she said, her voice composed, restrained, and precise.
She waited politely by the door, radiating the kind of disciplined control that only comes from relentless training. I could feel it—the same overwhelming pressure emanating from her as one would sense from a Daemon Lord like Diablo. This was no ordinary maid; she was a force to be reckoned with.
"Oh, it's Misery. Long time no see! How's Guy?" Ramiris greeted warmly.
"With all due respect, ma'am, someone such as I is unworthy to concern myself with my master," Misery replied, tone deferential but carrying a subtle edge of strength.
"Ah… still the same as ever, I see. Well, that's fine," Ramiris said, smiling lightly before turning toward the door.
Without hesitation, she flew through the doorway, and we followed. I understood that being left behind here could mean we'd never reach the destination. Misery's presence confirmed one thing: Guy Crimson was a demon lord of immense power, and antagonizing him would be unwise—though the situation might demand otherwise. It was time to act decisively.
Beyond the door lay Walpurgis.
I stepped through, bracing myself. There was no fear—after all, I was now among the strongest in this world. The hall was vast, circular, and detached from the outside world, a realm made for beings far beyond human understanding.
Nine demon lords had already arrived, and one empty seat awaited—the one prepared for the "new demon lord," the centerpiece of this gathering. The attendees, seated by the order in which they had ascended to their current status, were:
Guy Crimson, the "Lord of Darkness," Daemon
Ramiris, the Pixie of the Labyrinth
Milim Nava, the "Destroyer," Dragonoid
Dagruul, the "Earthquake," Giant
Luminus Valentine, the "Queen of Nightmares," Vampire
Deeno, the "Sleeping Ruler," Fallen Angel
Frey, the "Sky Queen," Harpy
Clayman, the "Marionette Master," Undead
Leon Cromwell, the "Platinum Devil," Human-Magicker
A temporary seat had been prepared for me. The air in the hall was still, charged with a power that made even time seem to pause.
Guy, Leon, and Luminus were already seated, their presence commanding the hall. Then, the remaining demon lords arrived, breaking the quiet tension with their personalities.
"Yaho, how's everyone doing?" Ramiris chirped, flying to her seat, her tone deceptively light but filled with underlying authority.
"It's been a while!" Dagruul's deep voice reverberated through the hall as he seated himself with casual ease.
"Yo—ssu. Don't always look so sullen," Deeno said, turning to the silver-haired vampire beside him. Luminus's response was a glare sharp enough to cut steel, her displeasure clear—but she said nothing.
And then, the moment arrived. The final seat, the one designated for the new demon lord… the place I was destined to occupy.
I stepped forward, every movement measured, calm, and deliberate. Eyes turned toward me—curious, cautious, calculating. The hall seemed to lean in with anticipation. The stage of Walpurgis was set, and the players were ready.
This was no mere gathering of demon lords. This was a battlefield of intellect, power, and unspoken challenges.
And I—Atem, Sovereign of Wisdom, Master of Strategy, and wielder of powers capable of unmaking worlds—had entered.
The feast had begun.
As I entered the grand hall of Walpurgis, the eyes of the three seated demon lords immediately locked onto me. Each reaction was distinct: one's gaze was fascinated, another's disinterested, and the last one burned with barely restrained contempt. None spoke a word. I was guided to the temporary seat, taking my place with measured calm. Only three more demon lords remained to arrive.
The atmosphere was oppressive, thick with power and anticipation. Behind the seated lords, attendants stood at careful attention. Three of the attendants behind Deeno and Dagruul bore the unmistakable marks of punishment, their postures slumped, but no one reacted. It was clear—this was routine here, and no one dared comment.
Moments later, the remaining demon lords arrived in unison: Clayman, the instigator of this gathering, and the two lords who sanctioned it. With all attendees present, the tension in the hall thickened. Then, abruptly, something happened that shattered the fragile calm.
Clayman, in a display of shocking audacity, struck Milim while barking orders.
"Hurry up and take your seat, you half-wit!"
The hall froze. Milim, the feared "Destroyer," did not retaliate. She did not flinch. Calmly, she moved to her seat, ignoring the assault entirely. The absurdity of the act left all present astonished. That Clayman was not summarily executed in response only deepened the unease.
I observed silently, noting the reactions of each demon lord. It was evident—something unusual had transpired behind the scenes. The feast, chaotic from its very start, had begun.
◉
As Deeno settled into his seat, his sharp mind dissected the events and the people around him. The presence of a true power fascinated him. Atem—the one newly arrived, the one who carried the aura of absolute authority—radiated an energy unlike the petty ambitions of Clayman. This was a force equal to his own, precise, controlled, and intimidating.
Dagruul, the "Earthquake," sat beside him, his unique skill, "Lazy One," a subtle threat to those who underestimated him. The skill could corrupt, manipulate, and drain the strength of others. For centuries, Dagruul had toyed with ambitious foes, subtly twisting their hearts until they were nothing more than pawns in his intricate games. His sons were nearly ready to inherit his mantle, and he almost saw them as tools to accelerate his own legacy.
Yet Atem's arrival changed everything. A single, quiet phrase from Veldora, whispered under her breath, revealed a potential for greatness in Dagruul that "Lazy One" could not touch. The giant's heart stirred with ambition and self-improvement, rendering him immune to Deeno's manipulations.
That shift—so subtle, yet so profound—caught Deeno's attention, though he did not immediately acknowledge it. His skill, sensing the change in potential and energy, began to evolve subtly, feeding on the tiny disturbances in the hearts of those present.
Then the final scene unfolded before Deeno's eyes: Clayman, the instigator, brazenly striking Milim.
Deeno's perception sharpened. Milim was not just another demon lord; her presence rivaled that of Guy Crimson himself. Her magic reserves were near-infinite, her aura commanding. That a mere "small fry" dared to strike her was inconceivable. An emotion—anger, frustration, disbelief—surged within Deeno.
"Impossible…" he muttered under his breath, feeling his skill, "Lazy One," respond. It absorbed the intensity of his emotion and evolved, transforming into something more potent, more complete. Through this surge, Deeno's heart unlocked a nascent ability, born of centuries of experience, yet awakened by an unforeseen catalyst.
And through it all, I—Atem, Sovereign of Wisdom, Master of Strategy, and wielder of powers capable of unmaking worlds—sat silently, observing. My eyes swept the hall, calculating, analyzing, anticipating. Every glance, every gesture, every heartbeat was data. This feast of demon lords was no mere gathering—it was a battlefield of intent, power, and unspoken threats.
And I had arrived not to participate, but to dominate the field of strategy from the shadows.
The hall was silent, save for the distant hum of magic circulating through the enormous chamber. Every demon lord present had taken their seat, yet tension coiled like a living thing around each of them. Clayman, oblivious or arrogant, rose to speak.
"I thank you all for responding to this Walpurgis…"
His words barely left his lips before I turned to Solarys, the Sovereign of Wisdom, whispering my question like a knife in the dark:
"What is the best way to make them understand? To show them they cannot defy me?"
Solarys' calm voice resonated directly in my mind, measured but absolute.
"With your Absolute Ultimate Skill Osirion Master. Judgment of Osirion will see through all lies, all tricks. You will force Clayman — and any who oppose — into inescapable judgment. Their souls, their defenses, even their immortality… all devoured with divine precision. Then, Osirion's Mandate: seal, weaken, erase, or corrupt at your discretion. Nothing survives resistance. Nothing can withstand your will."
A small smile touched my lips. Then let us begin.
"Enough," I said, and the word dropped like a blade. "Your accusations, Clayman, are nothing more than lies. Present evidence, or remain silent forever."
The hall froze. I didn't shout. I didn't summon fire or storms. Instead, I extended a hand, tracing a single motion through the air. Light erupted, forming a vast seal that locked every demon lord and attendant in place. Not harmed, not attacked, simply held immobile, incapable of movement. Every eye turned toward me, and the weight of inevitability pressed down on their minds.
Then, I invoked Osirion. My eyes glowed with divine light, seeing through every fabrication, every lie, every hidden scheme. Clayman's nerves snapped. He sputtered, reaching for his small arsenal of tricks, but I had already seen through them. Every attempt to hide, every false witness, every fabricated memory: nothing could escape my gaze.
I spoke, calm, deliberate, divine authority echoing with the force of inevitability. "Clayman, you claim subjugation, yet your accusations are lies. I will judge you, and your soul will be devoured for deceit. All others, you are bound. Attempt nothing, move nothing, speak nothing, until judgment is complete."
The air around me condensed, pressure increasing like gravity itself had taken form. I rose, and in a single motion, extended my hand. Instantly, a web of golden and black seals erupted across the hall, spreading outward in fractal patterns of judgment and predation. The seals locked around every demon lord, their attendants, every creature in the room. Motion, magic, and speech were paralyzed.
The first to feel the weight was Clayman. His smirk faltered as the intricate tendrils of Osirion wrapped around his soul.
I activated Judgment of Osirion.
Horus' Eye of Eternity pierced his illusions, revealing every secret and lie. Duel of Destiny forced him to confront his failures, his weaknesses. Anubis' Predation ripped at his defenses, and Soul Consumption devoured his very essence with precise, inexorable inevitability.
His body twitched. His eyes widened. He screamed silently as his soul began to unravel, every fragment consumed in divine precision.
Around him, the other demon lords realized the scale of the threat.
Guy Crimson felt it first. Even the absolute ruler of the frozen continent, lord of ice and darkness, could sense the impossibility of resisting this divine judgment. Crimson's crimson eyes narrowed, his usual composure strained under the weight of Atem's will. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging a power even he could not challenge outright.
Dragruul's enormous form stiffened. His Lazy One instinctively tried to resist, to corrupt or delay the judgment, but Osirion's Mandate penetrated his very essence. He felt the pull of inevitability constrict his thoughts, stripping him of the freedom to act. A rare chill of fear ran down his spine, muscles tensing as he considered the consequences of a failed resistance.
Luminus Valentine, the vampire queen of nightmares, felt her magical defences collapse one by one. Her centuries of mastery over mind and body could not bypass Osirion's absolute sight. Pride and fury warred inside her, but she was trapped, powerless to interfere, unable even to call her servants to action.
Leon Cromwell, normally untouchable and calculating, experienced an unfamiliar tightening of chest and mind. Atem's divine precision could see through every artifact, every spell, every contingency he might summon. He remained frozen, forced to contemplate the inevitable: any defiance would be obliterated before it could begin.
Frey, the harpy, thrashed in defiance, wings scraping against the invisible seals. Her chaotic energy, usually uncontrollable, was stilled. Every instinct screamed to flee or strike, but she could not. Atem's judgment isolated her, dissected her intentions, and removed the possibility of interference.
Deeno, Fallen Angel and manipulator of others, felt the stirrings of his Lazy One corruption twist against him. The subtle influence he had over others, normally insidious and unstoppable, was blocked, recalibrated. Atem's presence forced him to consider his own vulnerability — for the first time in centuries, he could not act with impunity.
Milim Nava, brash and unstoppable, flared with instinctive pride. Her aura burned around her like fire, but it could not break the seals of Osirion. She wanted to lash out, to test the limits, but instinct screamed warning: her strength was visible to Atem, and Atem's will could erase her in an instant. She paused mid-smile, calculating risk in a way she had never had to before.
Ramiris, flitting above the chamber, felt her illusions collapse like fragile glass. Her cleverness, her speed, her mischief — all neutralized. Atem's gaze had not even settled fully on her, yet she understood: she could be erased with a thought.
I let the devouring light of Judgment sweep through Clayman completely, leaving him nothing but a husk, a reminder of what defiance cost. The hall fell silent — every being there now understood the absolute authority of Osirion.
I spoke, my voice low but resonant, each word heavy with divine certainty:
"Judgment has been passed. Resistance is futile. Lies, deceit, defiance — all will be met with the same end. Any attempt to challenge me will result in obliteration. Understand this, demon lords. Any who test my will will vanish as Clayman did."
The seals contracted, compressing the room in a suffocating aura of inevitability. Magic, strength, and even immortality itself seemed to quiver under my gaze. The air was thick with tension, fear, and awe.