Kufufufufu…
The daemon's low, wicked chuckle cut through the tense air like a blade. He descended in front of the paladins, crimson hair whipping in the wind, his great bat-like wings stretching wide as shadows pooled around him. His very presence oozed malice and command—the embodiment of evil itself.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies and gentlemen," the daemon purred, his voice dripping with mockery. "But let us not waste time with pleasantries. I will now conduct a test. A test to see whether you are worthy of standing as my opponents."
The paladins instantly shifted into formation, weapons drawn, armor shining with the faint glow of their protective blessings. Their instincts screamed danger, and there was no luxury to carefully erect their barrier. The enemy had landed right before them. The Archdaemon, one of the greatest threats they had been warned about, stood alone.
Yet even in the face of this overwhelming presence, their discipline did not falter.
For them, there was no retreat.
And in that grim reality, Arnauld Baumann—captain of the strongest paladin squad—stepped forward with confidence gleaming in his sharp eyes. His lips curved into a bold smile as he shouted encouragement to his comrades.
"Do not fear! There is only one enemy! Archdaemon or not, he will fall before the might of our order!"
His voice rang with unshakable conviction, steadying the hearts of his men.
Indeed, they had faced Archdaemons before. Rogue heretics had summoned such creatures through Upper-Tier Daemon Summoning, and though those battles had cost blood and effort, the paladins had never lost. Not once.
Arnauld's confidence was not unfounded.
"Scatter, all of you!" Arnauld barked, sword raised. "The two adjutants will support me directly. The rest of you—form the holy barrier! Quick, begin!"
The paladins reacted at once.
Their bodies moved with the precision of countless drills and bloody campaigns. No hesitation, no wasted motion. They spread swiftly into a five-point formation, encircling Arnauld, his adjutants, and the daemon within their tightening ring. Their chants wove together, summoning the holy light that would shape the barrier meant to bind the fiend.
And yet…
The daemon did nothing.
He only stood there, arms crossed, watching them with gleaming crimson eyes and a grin that twisted ever wider. The malicious curve of his lips mocked every swing of their blades, every chant of their voices, every drop of their sweat.
"Oi," Arnauld growled, his sword pointing at the daemon like a challenge. "What's the matter? Aren't you going to try to stop us?"
The daemon tilted his head, feigning curiosity, and then gave his reply with chilling nonchalance:
"Why would I? You're working so hard… I would hate to interrupt."
His laughter—dark, hollow, cruel—echoed across the battlefield.
The paladins' grip on their weapons tightened, their hearts hammering, but not one of them broke formation.
For they all knew—this was only the beginning of their trial.
Although Arnauld stood with calm composure, staring down the fiend before him, rage churned in his chest like a storm. His training and discipline as an expert-class warrior kept that anger in check—he would not lose himself so easily. But the daemon's words, his mocking tone, his very demeanor—it was clear how deeply he despised them.
To Arnauld, this was unforgivable.
A mere Archdaemon, daring to look down on the Paladin Order.
And yet, unlike Arnauld, the other paladins did not share his conviction. To them, this opponent was more than an insult—he was a threat that radiated palpable dread. Arnauld knew his comrades well; he had trained them, guided them through battle, honed their discipline with his own hands. He believed in their strength. Under normal circumstances, these five paladins together would be able to vanquish even an Archdaemon.
But the one standing before them… was no ordinary Archdaemon.
Arnauld had been watching closely from the very moment this daemon landed. His movements, his aura, the way he carried himself—it all spoke volumes. The garments he wore were ornate, impossibly refined for one of his kind. His presence was heavy yet elegant, the manifestation of his will so powerful it warped the air around him.
This was not a creature that crawled its way up from the abyss.
This was someone who had been elevated. Named.
Arnauld's jaw clenched as the truth settled in. A Named daemon—at the highest tier of their kind—stood before them. To underestimate him even for a heartbeat would be suicide.
Suppressing his anger, Arnauld drew his blade. His mind was clear, sharp as steel.
"Oya?" The daemon's mocking tone rang out again. "Have you finished your preparations?"
"Yeah," Arnauld replied flatly, raising his weapon into stance. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Shall we begin? But before that… I would ask something first. What is your name?"
It was a test. If this daemon truly was Named, then his response would reveal the truth. If he was not, silence—or hesitation—would betray him just as easily.
The daemon's lips curled into a delighted smile.
"Ohh! My sincere apologies. How rude of me. My name is Diablo. To think I nearly forgot to introduce myself… with the name bestowed upon me by the great Atem-sama. It seems I still have much to learn."
The moment the name left his lips, a chill stabbed down Arnauld's spine. His instincts screamed—*maximum danger*.
He had given his name freely. Without hesitation.
That meant only one thing: Diablo already belonged to a master. A stray Named daemon would never disclose their true name so easily; to do so was to risk being bound, enslaved. Naming was power, and in their world, power was survival. Which meant… Atem, the Demon Lord of Eterna, had truly named him.
The implications were staggering. Could a new Demon Lord really command the authority to name an Archdaemon of this caliber? Such doubts flickered at the edges of Arnauld's mind, but he forced them away. Questions meant hesitation, and hesitation meant death.
What mattered now was the enemy before him.
Arnauld steadied his grip, blade shimmering faintly in the light. He was a paladin of the highest order, Hinata's right arm and confidant. He had long prided himself on being second only to her, the strongest beneath her command. And though terror gnawed at the edges of his being, that pride remained unbroken.
He smiled fearlessly, his eyes never leaving the daemon's crimson gaze.
"Diablo, is it? Then let us see whether Atem's pet can withstand the full might of a paladin."
From within Arnauld's mind, Solarys stirred.
<
Arnauld inhaled deeply, steadying the tremor in his chest.
"I know, Solarys. But if this is the trial before me, then I'll cut through it with my own blade."
Diablo's grin widened at those words, eyes glowing with amusement.
"Good. That's the spirit I expect from the right arm of Hinata. Show me, paladin—show me your worth."
And so, with steel drawn and words sharpened, the battle began.
"My name is Arnauld Baumann. I am the strongest paladin. Carve the name of the one who will destroy you into your soul as you depart this world!"
As he declared that, Arnauld released his spiritual power, and the holy armament roared to life.
At once, five-colored light surged from his body—earth, water, fire, wind, and space. Attributes rarely found even in pairs among ordinary people now danced in perfect harmony around him. Truly, the title of strongest paladin was not mere boast.
In response to his voice, the paladins surrounding him also unleashed their spiritual force. One by one, their bodies became encased in radiant armor of elemental light. Their coordinated release formed a glowing five-pointed star, brilliant and terrible to behold.
A Holy Field had been completed.
Though hastily constructed, shortened from its true ritual, it was still woven by five skilled paladins, enough to bind and weaken even the most fearsome of foes. And within this sacred cage stood Arnauld himself—the strongest paladin—flanked by two veterans he trusted with his life.
Against a "Named" Archdaemon, they would not falter. Fear had no place here.
Arnauld's hand tightened around his weapon, the Daemon Slayer. Forged by the "Seven Days Elders," it was the pinnacle of anti-monster craft, a blade able to sever not only flesh but also the very essence that composed daemons. With each stroke, it could consume and steal away an enemy's magical essence. Designed to slay even dragonkind, it was the twin to the sacred weapon Hinata herself bore.
Yes, he thought. This sword was the right choice. With this, he would end the daemon.
Light cascaded across the battlefield as Arnauld drew back, ready to unleash his fastest slash, the culmination of his conviction and pride. His confidence was absolute, his spirit unshaken.
And then, the daemon spoke. Calmly. Casually. As if the crushing weight of the Holy Field meant nothing at all.