"I understand. I shall relay the message to Ranga-san."
"Also… that man is leading five thousand soldiers. By the standards of the Freedom Association, several of them exceed Rank A."
"Perfect timing. I'll send Gobta and Gabil to intercept."
"Excellent. The chances of failure are minimal—"
"Rest assured. With me overseeing, handle it as you see fit."
"I am reassured. Then, I'll take my leave."
"Don't overplay your hand," Diablo added, his voice low, almost teasing.
With the briefing complete, Diablo could no longer restrain himself. The tension coiling in his limbs snapped, and he launched toward his target.
New King Edward froze. The daemon appeared suddenly before him, black wings folding and unfolding like a shadow against sunlight. Sare, who had been sipping tea nearby, nearly spilled her cup, taken completely off guard.
"Greetings," Diablo said smoothly, descending with measured elegance. "We have not formally met. King Edward, it's been some time. My name is Diablo."
He landed lightly, bowing courteously — almost politely — before straightening, eyes glinting with calculated malice.
"Spread out! Raise your guard! Protect the king!" The knight commander barked, cutting off any further greeting from Diablo.
The Imperial Knights moved swiftly, forming a protective wall around Edward, pushing forward to shield him. Pope's Imperial Guards shifted into position immediately, shielding their charge with disciplined precision.
Diablo remained calm, almost casual, allowing the human panic to play out. He had identified his target; now it was only a matter of timing. No need to rush.
The camp was set, military tents marking the area. Diablo stopped in front of the lavish tent reserved for Edward. Sare and her subordinates quickly surrounded their monarch, but Diablo's subtle grin did not falter. No one noticed the simmering fury in his eyes, the lethal patience behind that smile.
Reporters nearby trembled with a mix of fear and fascination. Diablo's calm gaze swept over them. "I have no intention of harming you, provided you remain still… like dolls."
He snapped his fingers crisply. A soft shimmer enveloped the reporters — a protective barrier that would keep them untouched, yet warned them against foolish action. They, blissfully unaware, thought themselves safe, which Diablo found amusing.
Preparation complete, Edward regained his composure. He adjusted his posture, trying to radiate authority.
"Ah… if it isn't the envoy of Demon Lord Atem. To what do we owe this… unexpected honor?" Edward asked, his voice attempting haughtiness, though it faltered under the tension.
Diablo's laugh rolled, dark and measured. "Kufufufufu… nothing complicated. I have come with a warning."
"A warning?" Edward sneered, though uneasily. "What sort of warning?"
"Retreat your army," Diablo said calmly, almost politely. "Make peace with Youm-san. Do so, and you may spare yourselves the fear you cannot yet comprehend."
His words carried formality, but the subtext was clear. Diablo did not wish for peace; he wanted to provoke. If Edward willingly submitted, the game would be over before it began — and that would be disappointing.
Edward's chest swelled with indignation. "Hahaha! Strange words, indeed. This… conflict began because my brother embezzled your reparations. My march here demonstrates our sincerity and the return of what was ours. You have no right to interfere!"
Diablo's grin widened, sharp as a blade. "I see. So you presume the treaty protects you?"
Edward stiffened. "It should!"
"Perhaps… but that is no longer necessary,"Diablo replied smoothly, tilting his head. "I've seen through your deception."
Edward's eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself!"
"Oh, spare me the lies," Diablo said, stepping closer, wings folding behind him in perfect control. "You and your brother — no, you colluded with Edmalis and his accomplices, hoping to extort double reparations. I've already unraveled your schemes."
Edward faltered, unable to respond immediately. Diablo's aura radiated quiet menace, the deadly composure of a Demon Lord under Atem's command.
"You have nothing to say?" Diablo pressed. "Atem's name is not a toy for your petty schemes.
Edward faltered, unable to respond immediately. Diablo's aura radiated quiet menace, the deadly composure of a Demon Lord under Atem's command.
"You have nothing to say?" Diablo pressed. "Atem's name is not a toy for your petty schemes. You try to plant war to fill your coffers. Do you really believe it will end as you imagine?"
Edward opened his mouth, hesitated, swallowed — no words came. Diablo's gaze bore into him, cold and precise. The field around them was silent, every soldier, every knight frozen by the presence of the Demon Lord's envoy.
"Consider your next move carefully," Diablo whispered, almost casually, yet every word dripped with lethal intent. "Because the moment you step out of line, there will be no treaty to save you."
The tension radiated across the camp, palpable as steel. Edward's haughty façade faltered under Diablo's controlled, intimidating calm. This was no ordinary messenger — this was Atem's judgment, precise and merciless. And the king knew, deep down, he could neither win nor bargain with such force.
These were demons of Noble rank, beings of immense power and deep knowledge. Such creatures often led vassals of their own, commanding respect and fear wherever they appeared. They could never be underestimated.
And yet, the leader of the demon slayers still believed there was a chance to win. He had fought archdemons before. His pride and experience told him this was no different. His conclusion was certain: this demon will fall here.
"Are you ready now?"
The leader froze. That question—calm, almost casual—came from Diablo, who remained eerily composed despite the chains binding him.
"W-what?" the man muttered.
"Nothing," Diablo said smoothly. "Simply give me the signal when you are properly prepared."
The words sank into the leader like poison. The demon acted as though he controlled the pace, mocking them by offering patience.
"…Oh? Does it mean you won't interfere, no matter what we do?" the leader pressed, trying to regain footing.
"Why would I?" Diablo's smile stretched, his golden eyes glinting like molten fire. "It is rare to see humans struggle with such conviction. I will watch. After all, fear shines brightest when it flickers with hope."
The provocation was unbearable.
"Don't underestimate us, demon!" the leader roared. "You'll learn the price of arrogance when we turn you into ashes!"
"Kufufufufu…" Diablo chuckled. It was not loud, but it crawled under the skin of everyone present.
Even the reporters, who had gathered from across the nations to witness king Edward's "proof," felt their pens tremble in hand. Some tried to scribble notes, others kept their eyes glued to the scene, hearts pounding. Cameras and crystal recorders captured every movement. Their careers—and perhaps their lives—hung on what unfolded.
For Edward, it was perfect. This was his stage. He wanted the entire world to see this moment. That the Church and the Empire had cornered a monster. That Eterna and its ruler, Atem, were to be branded as allies of such a creature.
"—Then, repent in the next world! Sextuple Thunder Strike!"
A cascade of thunder erupted. Six bolts of pure lightning slammed down from the heavens.
Reporters shielded their eyes, some screaming at the blinding flash. Others gasped as they scribbled furiously, writing that the monster was being purged before their very eyes.
The demon slayers shouted proudly over the crash of thunder:
"How does it feel to be struck by a natural thunderbolt instead of a magical one?"
"Demons can hide behind barriers all they like—but the Empire forged weapons to tear straight through them!"
"Without your flesh, you're nothing! Your end has come!"
Their voices were confident, sharp, cutting through the storm as though victory was already sealed.
King Edward clapped his hands together in delight, laughing. His smug voice rose above the chaos:
"Wonderful! As expected of the warriors of the East! This will spread across every nation! The world shall know the truth!"
The plaza filled with noise—crackling thunder, the hurried scratching of pens, and the trembling whispers of onlookers.
But then… something strange.
The lightning blazed and roared, and yet… Diablo's silhouette remained. His form did not waver. His clothing did not burn.
Sare's sharp eyes narrowed. Glenda's smile faltered. Even the leader of the demon slayers felt a chill run down his spine.
Why aren't his clothes burning?
"Y-you—!" the leader gasped, realization clawing at his throat.
And then, amidst the thunder, Diablo's smile widened.
"Kufufufufu… how weak. Too weak. You dare challenge me with this? How pitiful. After all your years of research, all your desperate preparation… is this what you bring against me? Truly… disappointing."
The reporters froze. Some dropped their pens. The crystal recorders quivered in the hands of those too terrified to breathe.
Diablo slowly raised his arm.
The sacred chains binding him shattered like glass, recoiling in terror.
"UHH—!"
"WUHH—!"
The slayers stumbled backward in disbelief. Their formation broke.
A silence swept the plaza. The thunder faded, and in its place came a crushing weight, a pressure so heavy it squeezed the breath out of every throat.
Diablo's voice dropped to a whisper, smooth as velvet, cold as death.
"Come then. Prove your courage. Stand before me… and I shall teach you the taste of despair."
His eyes gleamed like fire in the darkness, locking onto king Edward, onto the slayers, onto the terrified reporters who bore witness.
The charade of proof was over.
Now, it was judgment.