The chamber of Walpurgis, already weighed down by the earlier display of Osirion, fell silent once more. The scent of burned magicules still clung to the black stone walls, and yet the air grew heavier still as Atem's gaze shifted.
His golden eyes locked onto Leon Cromwell.
Leon, normally the picture of radiant composure, sat rigid. He had been trying to fade into the background ever since Atem's arrival, his golden hair a halo under the dim light, but his aura trembled ever so slightly—a lion pretending not to be seen.
Atem's voice cut through the silence, deep and deliberate.
"Leon Cromwell," he said, and the name rolled like thunder across the obsidian table. "I have a message from Shizu."
Leon's eyes flicked up sharply. A faint ripple of shock crossed his face—the first crack in his carefully maintained mask.
Atem stepped forward, his presence filling the room like a storm about to break. "You made her life a living hell. You twisted her fate, left her suffering, and walked away as if you bore no blame." His eyes narrowed, glinting like the sun over a desert of bones. "For that… you deserve punishment."
Before anyone could react, the ground beneath Leon shimmered with a deep, indigo glow—an endless abyss opening where there had been solid marble a heartbeat ago. Atem's hand rose, fingers curling like a judge calling for execution.
"Osirion's Mandate," Atem intoned.
The seal erupted silently, a vortex of golden and black glyphs spiraling outward, swallowing Leon whole before he could even draw breath to speak. His chair splintered into dust as he was pulled downward, vanishing into the glowing abyss like a sinner dragged to judgment.
The entire hall vibrated with the power.
Ramiris squeaked and darted behind Beretta, covering her tiny face.
Frey's wings flared instinctively, feathers raining across the floor.
Deeno's wine glass cracked in his hand, droplets falling like blood.
Even Guy's smirk faltered for a single heartbeat, his crimson eyes narrowing as he watched the impossible unfold.
Inside the Dimension....
Solarys's voice echoed faintly within Atem's mind.
"Master, the chamber is ready. The sinner will experience centuries of retribution for his sins within moments of your world's time."
Atem's eyes never left the swirling abyss.
"Good. Make it fitting."
Within the special dimension, Leon's proud visage was stripped away. Solarys had crafted a prison of judgment and memory—every scream Shizu had ever suppressed, every moment of agony, every flame of her suffering—reflected and magnified. For Leon, seconds stretched into decades of punishment, until even his will began to fray.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, Atem snapped his fingers. The sound was like a blade of glass shattering the silence.
The abyss sealed shut.
Leon Cromwell reappeared at the center of the hall, collapsing onto the cold marble floor. His once-bright aura was dimmed, his skin pale and damp with a sweat that had no time to form. His golden eyes were empty for a moment—vacant, as though he had wandered through hell and returned with its ash still clinging to him.
His hands trembled slightly as he braced himself against the ground, forcing himself to stand. But the proud, radiant hero who had entered Walpurgis was gone. In his place stood a man hollowed out by something beyond comprehension.
The other Demon Lords stared.
Milim's mouth hung open, the usual sparkle of mischief dulled by the sheer weight of what she'd just witnessed. Even she had never seen punishment executed so thoroughly, so cleanly, without a flicker of hesitation.
Luminous's lips pressed together, eyes darting between Atem and Leon. Shizu… he did this for her, she thought, a cold dread slithering down her spine. If he had unleashed that on me for Hinata… I would be no different.
Draguul exhaled slowly, a sound like boulders grinding together. So this is not just power, he realized. This is judgment incarnate.
Guy, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, one elbow on the armrest, hand curled under his chin. His crimson eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with a dangerous fascination. He tilted his head slightly, then smirked again. He's not bluffing. He's not posturing. He's exactly what he shows himself to be.
Atem lowered his hand, his expression calm, unreadable. "Consider this a warning," he said softly, though his voice carried like a thunderclap. "The next time one of you toys with those close to me, there will be no return."
The hall was silent except for Leon's ragged breathing. Every Demon Lord in the room now understood that Atem was not merely a new player at their table. He was a judge, jury, and executioner—wrapped in one will, one power.
And if Clayman's end had not convinced them, Leon Cromwell's hollowed form had made it absolute.
The two maids moved silently through the hall, their footsteps as soft as falling snow, carrying steaming tea to the gathered Demon Lords. The room, still vibrating with the aftershocks of Atem's judgment on Leon, seemed to shrink under the weight of tension. Every demon lord present felt the oppressive aura left behind by Osirion's Mandate. Even Milim, normally a whirlwind of chaotic energy, had settled into a watchful calm, her eyes glinting with curiosity and caution.
Frey, the Sky Queen, finally broke the silence. Her voice was measured, almost eerie, cutting through the hushed murmurs like a blade.
"First," she said, eyes flicking toward Atem and then Milim, "I have no objection to Atem being recognized as a Demon Lord. That battle… made the choice obvious. But what I am about to suggest concerns me personally. Or perhaps not just me."
Her gaze shifted to the other lords as if weighing their reactions. "I am weaker than I thought. Even if I fought Clayman, I would have barely matched him. My strength is nothing compared to someone like Atem, or even Milim here. But I cannot simply ignore my responsibilities—or her. Milim, I cannot leave you unchecked. I… have decided to serve under you. As your subordinate."
The chamber fell silent. Atem observed quietly, his golden eyes unreadable but ever-calculating. Even from across the hall, he could sense Frey's aura—she wasn't as weak as she claimed. There was something hidden in the calm of her voice, the subtle precision of her movements. Clayman may have been a straightforward strategist, but Frey was far more dangerous: a shadow lurking behind a mask of compliance.
Milim opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, another voice interrupted, smooth and confident, cutting through the tension like a scalpel.
"Hold on. If we are speaking frankly, I also have a position to declare. I too lost to Milim—not out of weakness, but circumstance. If I am honest, I cannot call myself a Demon Lord and maintain my pride without acknowledging defeat. Therefore, from this moment, I will serve under Milim as well. Consider me at your command, Chief."
The room seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. Atem's gaze sharpened. Even without speaking, the energy he radiated pressed down like a living weight. Milim's brow furrowed in confusion. Two Demon Lords voluntarily offering themselves as subordinates? It was unprecedented—and yet, nothing in this room was unexpected for Atem. He merely observed, letting the moment stretch, feeling the calculations of each lord ripple across the hall.
Frey tilted her head, a slow, deliberate smile tugging at her lips. "No, you misunderstand," she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. "We will always be together. Serving Milim doesn't mean we lose our freedom—it only means we gain the chance to do greater things. Think of the chaos we can create together. Surely that is… enticing, yes?"
Milim's response was frantic, more childlike than her usual persona. "E-even if you say that! If you become my subordinates, we can't—can't speak freely! Our evil plots… we won't be able to—!"
Frey interrupted, voice gentle yet commanding. "You misunderstand, Sky Queen. We are not limiting you. We are multiplying your reach. With my forces and his," she said, glancing subtly toward Atem, whose silent presence radiated absolute authority, "we can do far more than you ever imagined. More fun, more… power."
The room's tension thickened. Atem's presence was a silent command: everything here was being observed, measured, and noted. Every subtle flicker of fear, every twitch of pride—it all fed into his understanding of these Demon Lords, and how they would act under pressure.
Milim blinked rapidly, confusion and hesitation warping her usual confident grin. Her gaze darted between the two, trying to process the implications of this offer—and perhaps, she realized, the inevitability of acceptance.
"In the first place," Frey added, now leaning slightly forward, her voice teasing but sharp, "you're the one who razed my territory. You owe me. Don't pretend otherwise."
Milim's face flushed with frustration, her internal battle plain to see. Atem watched, calm and unyielding, allowing the power dynamics to unfold naturally. Karion's mind raced—he was more tactician than fighter, and yet even he found the manipulation here subtle, flawless, and overwhelming. Atem's mere presence shaped the room, bending their calculations even as they attempted to act independently.
Finally, Milim threw up her hands in exasperation, a rare break from her usual unshakable composure. "Eeeeh! Fine! Just… do as you like!"
Frey's smirk widened. Karion nodded solemnly, almost reverent in his obedience. Atem's gaze flicked briefly toward them, and though he said nothing, the implicit message was clear: the hierarchy had shifted, and he had orchestrated it without lifting a hand.
The chamber settled once more, though now with a new, fragile order. Frey and Karion, once independent Demon Lords, now served under Milim's chaotic command—but with Atem silently supervising, the balance of power had been irrevocably altered.
Atem leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, though golden eyes glimmered with the faintest hint of amusement. In this room of the most powerful, he had ensured that loyalty was no longer optional—and that every move from this point onward would be under his scrutiny.
The Walpurgis feast continued, but now the tension had sharpened into a blade. No one would forget the subtle but absolute assertion of authority they had just witnessed. Atem, the newcomer, had not merely joined the council—he had rewritten its rules.