Diablo let his aura surge, the immense force of his presence alone snapping the special alloy chains that bound him. The sound of the holy-metal links breaking rang like a death knell.
"M-monster!" the leader of the demon slayers spat, his voice cracking in astonishment.
Diablo smiled, tilting his head as if the reaction amused him.
"Well then, next test. Let's see what else you have to offer."
"H-hold on! Isn't this too abnormal?! How could the Thunderbolt be ineffective?!" the leader demanded, his voice rising in desperation, clinging to reason that had already shattered.
Diablo's smile widened into something calm and cruel. His answer came with chilling gentleness.
"You wish to know why? It's simple. I have resistance to every natural element—lightning, fire, ice, earth. All of them. Even your vaunted Thunderbolt barely stung. I didn't bother to deploy a barrier. It was… a tickle."
"Are you satisfied now?" he added, as though explaining to a child.
The leader began to tremble, unable to hide his fear. But at least he still stood, unlike the others.
The rest of the demon slayers—their comrades who had fought countless battles—collapsed into disgrace.
"W-WOAH! Stay away! Don't come near me!"
"KYAAAA! HELP! HELP MEEEEE!"
Men screamed like children. Veterans who once claimed to be humanity's shield now wet themselves, writhing in incomprehensible terror.
Even the reporters, who were safely protected within Diablo's barrier, felt the cold sweat dripping down their backs. Their pens shook as they wrote, their crystal recorders trembling in their hands. They were safe, but the crushing pressure bleeding into the air made them question whether they were witnessing history or their own deaths.
King Edward, the one who had brought them here to display "proof," had fainted outright. Foam leaked from his mouth as his eyes rolled back, his bodyguards collapsing beside him like puppets with cut strings.
The leader finally understood what was happening. His vision blurred, his lungs struggled to draw breath. This was no trick.
This was simply the demon's aura.
Diablo's voice came, rich with amusement, laced with dread.
"Ara… only three of you passed my test? Fine then. You have my applause. Even with me being merciful, most of you couldn't endure. But you three… you endured my Demon Lord's Haki. You may face me in combat."
The oppressive aura coiled tighter, suffocating the air itself.
The leader turned his head, gasping. Only two others besides him still stood.
A sharp-eyed youth—Sare, calm despite the storm.
And a wild beauty with deadly grace—Glenda, smiling faintly in defiance.
They were the ones Diablo acknowledged.
Seeing them, the leader clung to a shard of hope. His heart steadied.
It's fine. These two are Martial Sages. Together, we can stand against this monster.
He exhaled, forcing his resolve to harden. He sneered at Diablo, putting on the mask of composure.
"Hehehe… impressive. As expected from a demon who serves under a Demon Lord. But you're quite the poser."
Diablo tilted his head, his eyes gleaming crimson.
"Are you implying I am bluffing?"
"Yes. Bluffing," the leader said sharply. "You mentioned 'Demon Lord's Haki'? Impossible. That skill belongs only to monsters who possess a Demon Lord Seed. A demon's highest stage is archdemon. You cannot evolve beyond that. You're spouting empty threats!"
This was the Eastern Empire's secret. Knowledge gleaned from research and centuries of struggle. Demons had limits. There was a ceiling to their magicules. The ancient breeds only gained power through experience, not endless growth. To claim otherwise was to bluff.
"If you know their limits, demons aren't so frightening," the leader said with false confidence. "Knowledge cuts through fear. Your tricks cannot shake me."
"…I see." Diablo chuckled, his tone dipping into something cold. "Half of what you say is true. Demons do indeed have a maximum magicule capacity. But we can evolve, given the right conditions."
"Huh?"
"For example," Diablo said, his eyes narrowing, "you know of Rouge, don't you? He's famous in your lands."
The name pierced the leader's thoughts like a blade. His body stiffened. Rouge.
That name belonged to a demon of legend, one of the few exceptions that humans whispered about even in hushed tones. Too famous, too powerful, an existence the Empire itself feared.
The reporters, sensing the weight in Diablo's words, leaned forward unconsciously, pens scratching, recorders glowing.
And then, the temperature of the air seemed to drop even further, the shadows thickening.
The thought struck the leader with terrible clarity.
This demon… he is no ordinary archdemon.
And in that instant, all courage he had tried to rebuild collapsed once more.
Diablo spoke as if he were lecturing a child, but the weight behind his words was anything but casual.
"Moreover, it's actually not impossible to meet the criteria for becoming a Demon Lord," he said, voice smooth and cold. "You simply raise your power to the limit and endure for over two thousand years. That's all."
The leader of the demon-slayers heard the sentence and felt the ground shift under his feet. On paper, Diablo's explanation sounded simple. In truth it was a feat so brutal and rare that it belonged to myth.
Demons were astral lifeforms that feasted on war. They fought in the spirit world as easily as breathing. Lose a war there and your capacity for magicules could shrink. Worse—you could regress. To raise yourself to your maximum and stay there for two thousand years meant never losing, never faltering. No battlefield slip-ups, no missteps, no defeats. It was an endurance beyond mortal comprehension.
The leader hadn't yet fully processed the implication. What gnawed at him instead was Diablo casually invoking a name no one in the West dared call aloud: Rouge.
He had spoken the overlord's name as though mentioning a neighbor. That was impossible. The whole rank structure of demons—Master Gadra's hierarchy from the Eastern Empire—made such a thing unthinkable. Demons of lower rank did not name their betters. To do so was sacrilege, as absurd as claiming the sun rose in the west.
Diablo went on, and the leader's mind began to supply the missing pieces like a nightmare assembling itself.
"If you were born in the east, the name 'Blanc' would matter more. I felt her Demon Lord Haki a while back," Diablo said casually.
The leader's face hardened. Blanc. The Primordial White that had almost incarnated—the Lake Shore Dyed in Scarlet—a near-catastrophe the Empire had buried with prestige and lies. That thing had nearly produced a second Guy Crimson. They had barely escaped chaos. To hear Diablo place himself in the same breath as Rouge and Blanc was to hear a rope thrown over a cliff's edge.
How could this be? How could a single demon dare to speak as if equal to the greats?
His thoughts slid into panic. His training, his pride, all of it collapsed. The rational choices he had always made shouted at him—this was beyond his duty. There was little honor in bleeding out in a foreign field because he had overreached.
He dropped to his knees.
"Please—mercy! Spare my life, I beg you!" he cried. The leader's voice was raw with terror and pleading, not rhetoric. He flailed for a bargain. Money, service, betrayal—anything he could offer to keep his breath.
Diablo's smile softened into something almost indulgent.
"Ara, what's wrong?" he purred. "Don't you want a reward after passing my little test? Don't you want to see for yourself whether I bluff?"
The leader, shaking, tried to bargain more desperately. He knew Diablo's words were not idle. He could not rationalize this away. The aura that had rolled out from the demon earlier—that crushing pressure—had been real enough to break men. There was no bluff.
"Please forgive me—spare me! I'm only in this for the pay. I won't oppose you again. I'll do as you command. I'll even—" he choked on the thought. "I'll kill the fainted king for you, if you so demand. Just—please, spare me!"
Diablo's eyes glittered, amused but calculating. He leaned in a fraction, the air around him drawing colder.
"You will beg," he said softly. "But first, you will see what I promised."
Without caring about the disgusted stares, the leader of the demon-slayers continued his pitiful begging. Pride, dignity, honor—none of it mattered anymore. Only survival. His trembling voice cracked as he groveled, his forehead nearly pressed to the dirt.
And then, at last, his efforts were rewarded.
Diablo's tone shifted, laced with the sharp dismissal of a predator who had grown bored with his prey.
"Very well. Get lost, then. Crawl to that barrier set up for the reporters. Take everyone blocking my sight in there with you."
The demon's voice rang like a verdict, absolute and undeniable.
The leader, still shaking, looked up as though he had just been handed his life back by a god. He bowed repeatedly, muttering thanks through sobs, and wasted no time in obeying.
"Move—quickly! Get the knights up, all of them! Carry the king, now!" he barked at his bewildered subordinates, his voice cracking between fear and desperation.
The fainted king Edward was lifted onto the shoulders of the knights, still pale and unconscious. The demon-slayers, their pride shattered, stumbled to their feet and followed their captain's frantic orders. Not one of them dared to glance back at Diablo.
Like ants scurrying before fire, they made their way toward the shimmering barrier where the reporters were trapped. The leader all but shoved his people inside, dragging the wounded and urging them onward with trembling hands. Finally, he entered himself, slipping into the safety of the barrier as if salvation itself lay within.
The reporters, however, said nothing. Not a word escaped their lips.
Their hands trembled over their recording crystals, the light flickering unsteadily. The scene was too bizarre, too unnatural, too suffocating. They dared not even whisper among themselves.
Under such abnormal circumstances—when a demon's mercy looked more terrifying than his wrath—all they could do was watch in silence.
The air itself felt frozen. Every breath inside the barrier was shallow, nervous, the reporters' eyes flicking between the retreating soldiers and the towering shadow of Diablo outside.
They could only wait.
And hope that silence was enough to keep them alive.