"Kufufufufu. I see, that was a wonderful technique. That sudden acceleration when the strike landed—brilliant. The past me would have been cut down without realizing it. And to weave multiple attributes into a single blow… rare, truly rare! Excellent, absolutely excellent!"
The daemon's mocking praise echoed across the battlefield.
Arnauld's face hardened. There was no pride in his chest, no satisfaction. Those words, instead of encouragement, were salt in an open wound. The daemon stood before him without a scratch. That strike had been everything—a perfect blow—and it had achieved nothing.
"Oi… don't tell me… you didn't take any damage at all?" Arnauld spat, though he hated himself for asking.
"Oya? Does it look that way to you?" the daemon tilted his head mockingly. "You overestimate me. I did feel a sting. I used my barrier to cancel out the holy attribute, but still… I lost a sliver of magic power. That sword you carry—it drains magic, doesn't it? Hah, I admit, that was an oversight on my part. But…" His golden eyes gleamed as his grin widened. "Including that… you did well."
Arnauld's knuckles turned white as he gripped his blade. That strike—his surest, strongest technique, sharpened through countless battles—should have pierced through any defense. No ordinary barrier could have resisted it. And yet here stood this creature, his words dripping with casual cruelty.
Then came the words that made Arnauld's blood run cold.
"Oh yes… if you were to hit me with that exact attack… perhaps four thousand more times, I'd finally be destroyed. However, if you can only manage, say, forty in an hour, my recovery will keep pace. Isn't that delightful? That means there's still hope! Now then…" he spread his arms wide, his smile turning into a devil's sneer, "shall we continue?"
Beside Arnauld, Bacchus' breathing was ragged. His friend and right hand, usually a mountain of steel resolve, let out a weary sigh.
"Arnauld… this is impossible. That thing isn't even flinching. It won't buy us time. But doing nothing is worse. I'll hold him back… you go. Find Captain Hinata. Only she can match that monster."
Arnauld's eyes widened. "Then I'll buy time, and you—"
"You idiot!" Bacchus roared, shoving Arnauld aside. "You're faster than I am! More than that, only you and the captain together might have a chance! Me? Against that thing? I'll be nothing but dead weight!"
Arnauld's chest tightened with rage and guilt. His teeth ground together as he turned to run. Bacchus was right—yet every step away felt like betrayal.
But reality was cruel.
"Kufufufufu. Oya oya… and where do you think you're going?" the daemon's voice lashed like a whip. "I was given one task: to detain you here. Do you really think I'd let you slip through so easily?"
"Detain… us?" Arnauld faltered, the meaning gnawing at his mind. But before he could question further, he froze.
His fallen comrades—those broken by fear, those who had collapsed earlier—now stood upright. Their movements were stiff, unnatural. And they stood in his way.
"What!? Out of the way! Don't block me, you fools!" Arnauld bellowed, fury and disbelief colliding in his voice.
But the daemon's words revealed the cruel truth.
"Oya oya… it seems your comrades are eager to keep fighting. When I whispered to them—when I asked if they would rather stand with me—they answered with their hearts. And so, they rose."
Arnauld's gaze darted to their faces. Their eyes were hollow, their expressions twisted with rapture. They were not themselves. They were enslaved.
Arnauld's breath shook, his rage boiling into his sword arm. "You… bastard…"
"So—Sophia! Snap out of it!"
Bacchus shouted, his voice strained as if he were bleeding from every word. Arnauld spun around, only to see his other adjutant—the one who had been crying just moments ago—now standing before him, sword drawn, eyes glazed with blissful devotion. She was facing Bacchus as if he were the enemy.
"You wretch—! What have you done to my comrades!!" Arnauld bellowed, glaring daggers at Diablo.
The daemon's crimson hair fluttered as his grin widened.
"Kufufufufu. What did I do? Well… I simply invited them, as I said before. They were terrified, so they accepted. This is what we call the 'Enticement.'"
Arnauld's eyes widened as realization struck him. Daemons of the higher tier could possess the Enticement skill—a charm so potent that it could twist the minds of ordinary monsters and mortals alike. But a daemon capable of bending paladins? That was unheard of.
The options before him were nightmarish: either defeat Diablo while avoiding attacks from his own entranced comrades, or kill the paladins himself. There was no middle ground. Even trying to incapacitate them would be futile—they could act despite unconsciousness under the Enticement's sway.
"This… this is impossible…" he muttered under his breath. The daemon before him wasn't just strong; he was calamity-class, a threat on par with a Demon Lord.
Bacchus, struggling against the entranced Sophia, was suddenly grabbed from behind by two paladins and slammed down. He fainted, leaving Arnauld completely alone. Survival seemed hopeless.
Then Diablo's gold-and-crimson eyes fixed on Sophia. He raised his hand over her head, and her golden hair began to darken to crimson, as if dipped in blood. Sophia's face twisted in rapture. The color returned to gold as she collapsed, unconscious.
"Don't tell me…" Arnauld whispered in horror. But before he could react further, Diablo spoke again, his voice carrying a casual, unnerving confidence.
"Kufufufufu. That was close. I almost made her into a Fallen without realizing it. Such carelessness would have reduced my chances of attaining the first seat."
Arnauld's mind reeled. The daemon had almost turned Sophia into one of his own. She had been spared only by Diablo's obscure principles—a cruel mercy. But relief was premature.
"Well then," Diablo said, turning to face Arnauld directly, "let us begin again. Attack as many times as you wish. I am willing to be your opponent until I grow bored."
Alone, surrounded by five entranced paladins who blocked every escape, Arnauld braced himself. His only hope lay with Captain Hinata, whose strength might yet arrive to turn the tide.
Clenching his sword, he inhaled deeply. The hopeless battle had begun.
And so, with no allies, no escape, and a calamity-class daemon before him, Arnauld's desperate stand against overwhelming odds commenced.