Besides, the Five Elders seemed to be plotting something in the shadows.
Damrada was curious—deeply curious—but his instincts screamed that getting too involved would be suicide.
I'd better get away before I get caught up in anything irreversible, he thought, his mind sharpening.
He made his plan quickly.
"Damrada-sama, what is going on?"
One of his subordinates had noticed him muttering to himself. The man's cautious tone betrayed the tension in the room.
Damrada slanted his eye toward him, lips curling into a grin.
"Hehehehe… how dangerous. I can't continue this charade. I've already messaged our men to stay put. Now… we will have to be truly cautious."
"…?" The subordinate tilted his head, uncertain.
"Withdraw," Damrada ordered, his voice firm. "Leave two men behind to observe the situation. Everyone else, clear out of the country immediately."
"Understood, sir. But… what about you?"
Damrada leaned back, folding his arms, his grin widening.
"I'll pay my respects to the new king—and then I'll take a look at the Monster Kingdom of Eterna."
His subordinate frowned. "But weren't we planning to act cautiously?"
"Hmm? Hehehehe… of course we are." Damrada's voice carried both amusement and menace. "I'm not doing anything reckless. On the contrary—using my cover as a merchant, I'll request an audience with Demon Lord Atem himself. I intend to gain his favor by any means necessary. Becoming a partner in his nation's rising power… that's an investment worth the risk."
"…I see. I understand now," the subordinate said, his voice stiff. "Then what should we do about the six contractors from the Contract Association we hired from the Empire?"
Damrada's grin sharpened, his eyes glinting.
"They are the reason I'm paying a visit to the new king. They will be my greeting gift."
"I see… so you're pushing the rest of the duties onto King Edward?"
Damrada chuckled, the sound low and dangerous.
"What a bad way to phrase it. I'm simply doing him a favor—while carrying out the deal I made with the Five Elders."
The so-called Contract Association was no mere guild. It was like the Freedom Association of the West, but far deadlier. They raised specialists—professional demon slayers who had earned their licenses by surviving countless battles against monsters. These were hardened killers, the best of the best.
Damrada had spent a fortune hiring six of them from his home country, intending to showcase their strength on this land. But plans had changed. After sensing the storm brewing around Atem, Damrada revised everything.
"But… is there really a need to be so alarmed?" his subordinate asked nervously. "We won't recover our investment this way…"
"Hell if I know," Damrada cut him off sharply, his smile cold. "Maybe I'm just overthinking. But I trust my instincts. And I'm not stupid enough to lose my life over a maybe."
The subordinate bowed his head immediately.
"My apologies, sir. I didn't mean to offend. I'll prepare for our departure right away."
"Good," Damrada replied with a dismissive wave. "I'll prepare another gift for the new king. Something that ensures he remembers my name."
With that, the subordinate left the room, leaving Damrada in silence.
He looked around the chamber once more, his grin fading into a pensive scowl. The Five Elders plot. The new king gambles. Atem moves like a storm no one can control… This land is cursed already.
When all the preparations were complete, Damrada slipped out of Earl Nedler's territory.
Yes, it was the right decision.
At this crucial time, Damrada escaped the jaws of disaster—the deadly gaze of a Demon Lord whose wrath could annihilate kingdoms in a heartbeat.
And unbeknownst to him, Atem's attention had already brushed across the land, like the eyes of judgment searching for the guilty.
Damrada had only just avoided those raging eyes.
King Edward could hardly contain his excitement.
With noble after noble pledging their loyalty, sending men, gold, and supplies, his military might was swelling by the day. For the first time, the dream of true power seemed within his grasp.
At first, he had thought everything would collapse. The Hero Youm's decision to shelter his elder brother Edmalis, and then the unthinkable—Demon Lord Atem sending forces from Eterna to reinforce Youm's army. Edward had nearly abandoned hope, convinced his fragile schemes would shatter before they had even begun.
But fate had dealt him a card he never expected.
The murder of Archbishop Reyhiem changed everything.
Saint Hinata herself had mobilized. The moment Edward heard the whispers—that she was marching with the Holy Knight Order, blade in hand, to confront Atem—his chest burned with wild anticipation. And as if destiny favored him, the heroes of the Holy Empire of Lubelius had also come to his side.
Among them were the Pope's Imperial Guards, the legendary Three Martial Sages—second only to Hinata herself. They had even rallied the Templar Knight Order to join Edward's banner. Their presence was enough to embolden any man.
Though the Church had yet to officially proclaim Atem as the Nemesis of God, Edward could see the truth in their eyes. Their mission was clear:
form a grand alliance of the Western Nations, a United Army forged under holy banners, to bring down the terrifying Demon Lord of Eterna.
Edward gave them permission without hesitation. Whatever they wished—military operations, authority within Farmus, full use of his lands and supplies—he granted it all. He cared little for the details.
"Let them fight Atem," he whispered to himself in his chambers. "Let them bleed for me. When he falls, I will stand as the one who guided it all."
In truth, Edward held no desire to face Atem himself. Even the bravest fool could see the difference in strength between a fledgling king and an immortal Demon Lord who commanded powers beyond comprehension.
But Hinata could not lose. With her blade, her saints, her martial sages, and an army of knights—she could not lose.
And with such a mighty host, surely even Atem's Eterna would crumble.
Only one matter troubled him: Veldora, the Storm Dragon. If the rumors were true, and that beast still walked freely beside Atem, then it was the Church's duty to bind it once more. That much, at least, was certain.
The final piece Edward needed was justification. Without it, even victory would taste hollow.
And then—deliverance came.
A powerful merchant from the East arrived at his court, carrying a sealed letter from Earl Nedler. The contents were simple: a desperate plea for rescue.
It was perfect.
A holy war against the Demon Lord.
A righteous campaign to save a loyal earl.
A united front of faith and steel.
Now, with reinforcements pouring across the border and the excuse of Nedler's "rescue" in hand, Edward saw no reason to hesitate.
He rose from his throne, his heart pounding, and gave the order without a flicker of doubt:
"March. Show the people the will of their king."
This was not a true war, not yet. But the sight of his army pouring into the streets, armored and gleaming beneath banners of gold and white, would be enough. Enough to inspire his people. Enough to terrify his enemies. Enough to make the name of Edward resound across the Western Nations.
But it was his misfortune that no one was there to advise him.
No one to remind him that arrogance blinds.
No one to whisper that he was not rallying men to victory, but leading them toward judgment.
The plan had changed drastically, Glenda thought.
That was the battlefield's nature — things would twist and turn, and the strong adapted fastest. She shifted her mind toward opportunity. It wasn't perfect, but it was workable.
Reporters had flocked from every kingdom; the whole world was watching. That, too, had been folded into the design. Even Atem had split his forces while dealing with Hinata — a move that, Glenda decided with cold satisfaction, weakened him instead of strengthening him. He had made a mistake.
In her view, things held together. Damrada had fled, but he'd left six elite demon-slayers as a "gift" to King Edward. Fierce, expensive soldiers above Rank A — excellent fodder. If the king wanted to parade hired muscle in the street, so be it. Glenda could use them as disposable pawns and sharpen her advantage.
She waited for the order with casual confidence. She believed she would sweep the demon aside.
That confidence would not last long.
"Kufufufufu."
Diablo's laugh rolled like thunder across the battlefield.
The daemon circled high above, wings like tattered bats, his grin vicious and bright against the sky. He had come to find who had dared to shame him. Diablo had never known fear — never until the thought of failing Atem. The dread of facing his master's disappointment hit him harder than any blade; the idea of being told, You may go back now, again was a torment he would not endure.
Those who had caused him such humiliation would learn his true nature.
His laughter sharpened into hunger when he spotted the new king tucked in the rear of the formation. Edward stood surrounded by a handful of notable figures — officers and holy knights who tried to look imposing. To Diablo they were insignificant street trash. Yet marked men and women stood before them; their banners and bearing told Diablo they might be the ten great saints or something similar. Worthy enough to test.
Had Atem not issued instructions that his force avoid harming the innocent, Diablo thought, this would be far simpler. He was not alone in that feeling. Even Hakurou — tasked with supervising Diablo's excesses — smirked at the thought. The difference was blunt: Diablo would not slaughter those who didn't resist, but those who attacked him without thought deserved no mercy. Fools who gambled with their comrades' lives for glory earned special contempt from him.
Suppressing the urge to "greet" the formation with fire and fangs, Diablo tapped into the Telepathy Net and sent a crisp voice to Hakurou.
"Hakurou-san," he said, amusement weaving through the transmission. "Someone odd is heading your way. Send Ranga to slow him down."
Hakurou's reply was even-toned, practical. "Understood. Must we kill him?"
"No," Diablo answered, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Take him alive. He's tied to the Lubelius rumor — he might fetch a high price."
Below, the battlefield had already turned chaotic. The paladins and knights shuffled frantically, trying to make order of the mess that had been seeded into their ranks. Glenda scanned the field, eyes narrowing as she tracked Diablo's shadow across the sun.
"Captain Glenda!" a junior shouted, interrupting her concentration. "Sir, that demon — the one circling — he's targeting the king's flank."
"Good," she said, voice cool. "Keep the soldiers in formation and hold the line. If the demon wants theatre, we give him a stage. But watch the contractors — the hired demon-slayers. They're expendable and they know it. Push them forward when the chance comes."
Her subordinate hesitated. "We could try to strike Diablo while he's in the air."
Glenda's lips thinned. "You underestimate him. He is not a simple king-slayer. He's a named daemon under Atem's command. Don't be foolish. Your job is to make sure our forces outlast their arrogance. We will not be reckless; we will be decisive."
Meanwhile, Diablo swept lower, lone shadow and prowler. His eyes found Edward. He tasted the man's fear like a scent in the wind. The king, puffed with pride and blind to danger, walked as though he'd already won. Diablo's snarl was barely a whisper in Hakurou's ear.
"Bring him to me unharmed," Diablo said. "A living king makes finer leverage than ash."
Hakurou, watching the ground below, flicked a hand. "Ranga, move."
The great wolf erupted from the trees in a blur of black muscle and golden lightning. The field contracted around him, an eye narrowing to a focus. Ranga's leap was clean and precise; he struck into the formation that sheltered Edward, fangs and claws barely controlled, a living battering ram meant to displace and terrify rather than butcher.
Edward's retinue froze. The hired demon-slayers — the contractors — stiffened, their expert faces creasing into concentration. They had been brought here to perform, to be displayed. Fate had just handed them a real test.
Glenda watched the exchange with a clinical calm that would have unnerved ordinary soldiers. The plan had evolved; she, too, would evolve in turn. If Diablo wanted a bargaining chip, she could use one of her own. If Ranga was there to harry, perhaps a small, clean skirmish would let her observe the enemy's limits. She sent one of her captains a terse thought over the lines.
"Keep those contractors boxed. Let the wolf run — but if he moves to kill, cut him down. No mercy for the idiot who wastes our strategy."
The captain saluted with a stolid nod and moved his men into positions. The field hummed with adrenaline and cold order. Every move was a calibrating step, a push to see how far the demon lords had stretched their threads.
Below, soldiers fell into the choreography of violence. Ranga collided with the forward lines and the scene rippled outward. Paladins braced; spears met fang and flesh. Men with holy armaments stabbed and cast, and for a second the world narrowed to the roar of combat.
Diablo watched it all from above, amusement and malice playing over his features. He loved theatre, loved the tiny, priceless moment when mortals realized how small their plans were. He loved being the instrument of that realization.
"Hakurou," he said, low enough that only the two of them could hear. "Remember, I wanted him alive."
"Understood," Hakurou replied. "Bring him to us, and make it tidy."
Diablo's wings beat once, twice, and he rose, a black comet against sunlight. He swept forward to the spot where Edward now struggled with the unexpectedly deadly display of monsters and contractors. The laughter slid from his lips like oil.
"Such a charming king," Diablo purred. "So eager to be important. You will be useful."
Edward's face blanched and he tried to tighten his line of guards, to hide his panic inside a façade of command. Somewhere in the crowd, the hired contractors readied themselves to sell their courage for coin. Nearby, Glenda's men moved with the cold efficiency of trained soldiers, a net tightening around both wolf and king.
The battlefield had become a proving ground. In the sky, judgement circled — not the calm, distant judgement of an old god, but the hungry, sharp judgement of one of Atem's fiercest subordinates. Down below, men and monsters danced, each step a question asked and answered in the language of steel and blood.
Glenda's grin didn't falter. She had expected to move pieces, not be moved by them. But the game was still hers to play — provided she did not misread the final hand.