Grigori was covered in wounds.
At this point, thinking about victory was nothing short of delusion.
He had the ideal skill, Immovable, an ability that granted him an indestructible body. To most opponents, it made him an unstoppable wall, a fortress that could never be broken.
But to Ranga, he was nothing more than a tougher toy.
Every blow, every claw strike, every whip of that massive tail shook Grigori's frame, bending it to inhuman angles. Worst of all, Grigori couldn't faint. His body wouldn't allow him the mercy of unconsciousness. Instead, he was trapped in a spiral of endless torment.
"Hold on! Ranga-san, this isn't good! You'll kill him if you keep going like this!"
Gabil shouted, flying in.
"Right! We have to treat his wounds before it's too late!" Gobta added, running up with potions in hand.
Hearing their voices, Ranga finally paused, halting his assault. The black wolf's glowing eyes dimmed, and for the first time, he looked at the ground around him. The earth was cratered, broken weapons lay scattered, and in the middle of it all, Grigori's half-ruined body twitched weakly.
Ranga's ears drooped. His tail lowered. His enormous frame began to shrink slightly, and he muttered, almost like a sulking child, "—Hmm. But… could I at least play a little more with this one…?"
Grigori, still clutching the remains of his shattered halberd, looked more corpse than man. And yet, Ranga leaned forward, poking him with one of his giant paws, as if still testing whether the fortress could endure more punishment.
Gobta and Gabil winced. They couldn't just stand by. Putting themselves in Grigori's place, the thought alone was unbearable.
"No, no, no, no, no—you can't!" Gobta waved both arms frantically.
"T-that's right!" Gabil added quickly. "If you don't stop here, Atem-sama will be furious!"
At that name, Ranga froze. His golden eyes widened, then narrowed with reluctance.
"That… would be bad. I'll be scolded if I keep going, wouldn't I…?"
He looked at Gobta and Gabil with a pained expression, like a loyal hound denied his prey. Finally, with a deep sigh that rumbled through his chest, Ranga stepped back.
The torment ended.
But Grigori was unrecognizable. His body was drenched in Ranga's sticky drool, his limbs bent at unnatural angles—bends that exceeded anything a human body could endure. It was a miracle he still drew breath.
Gobta and Gabil immediately set to work, pouring high-grade healing potions down his throat and over his wounds. Miraculously, the concoctions restored him, knitting bone and flesh back into place. His body, against all odds, returned to normal.
But his mind…
That was something no potion could heal.
Later, Grigori would become known as the Dog-hating Immovable Fortress, a man who would freeze at the sight or sound of a wolf. No one would ever know the reason why.
As Gabil finished applying the last potion, he turned sharply to the enemy forces. His voice carried firm authority.
"If you retreat right now, we will not pursue you further!"
General Caston didn't hesitate. His armor rattled as he shouted, "Fall back! All units, retreat at once!"
The men obeyed without question. Even those who had been storming the town gate pulled back, their morale completely shattered.
"How can we win this!? We don't stand a chance—!"
Those words spread like wildfire through their ranks, sealing the truth of their defeat.
And so, the battle of the Nedler region ended without ever officially beginning.
A (in)famous incident etched into history, marked by fear, awe, and the shadow of Atem's Eterna.
Sare prayed desperately.
"Come back soon, Grigori… please…"
Right now, Grigori was being carried back on Ranga's back. Sare clung to that hope, waiting for his companion to return. Yet even as he wished, somewhere deep inside, he knew—when Grigori came back, things would never be the same.
Still, it was better than facing this.
Because before him stood Diablo.
The black demon regarded him with amusement, as if Sare's frantic defense was nothing more than the flailing of an insect.
Now that I think about it—Sare thought bitterly—this demon… he's not just strong. He's beyond belief. Even I, who was hailed as one of humanity's rare prodigies, cannot see where his limits end.
Sare remembered the moment he had doubted Diablo's words, the arrogance of trying to measure him. That arrogance had already been crushed. Diablo was a monster greater than even Valentine, the Demon Lord whose shadow had loomed over human kingdoms for centuries. And unlike Valentine, Diablo had no reason to hide, no reason to restrain himself. With just a flicker of intimidation, he could bring any ruler, any army, any archbishop to their knees. He hadn't needed to kill Reyhiem at all. His presence alone was tyranny.
So then—how had Sare ended up here, forced into a duel that was already lost before it began?
His body was screaming. Every tendon, every muscle fiber strained with the effort to keep his sword raised against the demon's playful onslaught. He wasn't just reaching his limit—he was already past it.
"Kufufufufu…" Diablo's laugh rang out, elegant and cruel. "You should try harder, boy. Show me something interesting. Surely you've got some trick worth entertaining me with?"
The words crushed Sare's spirit. His arms trembled. His heart wanted to break. He wanted to throw the sword aside and run, to escape this nightmare. He wanted to go home.
He had been called a genius. The prodigy born from an elven bloodline that granted longevity and heightened gifts. Through sheer will and endless training, he had awakened a Unique Skill: Omnipotent One. With it, he could analyze and learn an opponent's techniques with a glance, absorbing their secrets into himself. A gift not unlike Hinata's Usurper. And he had honed it ruthlessly, mastering martial arts, swordsmanship, even merging spells with fighting spirit to unleash techniques that most knights could not even dream of attempting.
The "Qi Slash."
His proudest accomplishment. An ultimate art born from blending magic and battle aura, capable of cleaving through even the most resilient monsters by striking at their elemental weakness. A blade meant to be instant death to all who stood against him.
And yet—
It was worthless.
Diablo had shredded it apart before it even reached him. Not by strength, not by speed, but by understanding. The demon's mind had unraveled the structure of Sare's technique, stripping it to pieces until the slash dispersed into nothingness.
If one could not rewrite the laws of the world, Diablo had proven, then one could not call forth a miracle. Sare's miracles meant nothing to him.
So Sare abandoned magic entirely. He fought now only with his sword, his ki, his flesh. He forced every ounce of training he had into precise slashes, into a dance of refined arts that blended body and spirit into a single edge.
"Dammit…" Sare muttered, his voice thick with frustration.
What enraged him most wasn't that Diablo countered him. It wasn't even that he was losing. It was the realization—the humiliating truth—that Diablo wasn't even serious.
The gap in magic was overwhelming, like a child standing before an adult. Their physical power? Also incomparable. Only in the refinement of technique, in the art of form and motion, did Sare stand as an equal. And even that, even the one pillar he could cling to, was slipping away.
Because Diablo was learning.
Every move Sare made, every feint, every stance—Diablo absorbed them. And then he improved them.
Within minutes, the demon displayed growth at a rate that defied belief. His blade danced with stolen grace, his steps carried borrowed precision, until the teacher realized he had given his student the tools to surpass him.
Had Diablo wished, Sare understood, he could have ended him at any moment.
And yet he did not.
Why?
The truth cut deeper than any sword.
It wasn't mercy. It wasn't hesitation. Diablo didn't spare him because he valued his life. He spared him because Sare's suffering was more valuable. Because his desperation, his crumbling pride, his terror—these were far more entertaining than simply killing him outright.
To Diablo, Sare's existence had been reduced to a pastime.
And as Sare staggered under the weight of that truth, his stomach turned with rage and despair.
This was the true cruelty of the demon. Not the strength, not the speed, not even the sorcery that unraveled miracles.
It was the choice.
Diablo did not wish to kill Sare.
Because killing him would be merciful.
Sare's heart froze as the pieces clicked together.
Then… the culprit who killed Archbishop Reyhiem was not Diablo.
The timing of the Archbishop's death, the way the chaos in Farmus spiraled out, none of it lined up with Diablo's actions. No… this wasn't part of Diablo's "Boss's" plan at all. The expedition had only triggered the timing. It was too clean. Too calculated.
There was only one answer.
The Seven Luminary Clerics.
Sare clenched his teeth, bile rising in his throat. "So that's it… those bastards…"
And then—
"Sare, we've come to aid you!"
The air distorted behind him, and three figures stepped through space itself. Their robes shimmered with holy enchantments, their presence commanding like priests who had long hidden behind altars of authority.
"Be grateful," one of them said, voice smooth and sharp as a blade. "We shall eliminate this demon together."
"Suppress him," another ordered. "Keep him contained, and we'll strike him down with our magic."
Their words should have brought relief. Reinforcements—sages of the Seven Luminaries themselves. But Sare's blood ran cold.
No. Something was wrong.
Their eyes were not on Diablo. Not truly. Their movements didn't align with their words. He recognized the hand gestures, the faint incantations weaving through their lips. They weren't preparing purifying magic to banish a demon.
They were weaving destruction.
The realization hit him like a hammer. They're not here to save me. They're here to erase me.
The "Seven Luminary Clerics" were silencing witnesses. He was the evidence. The reporters scattered across the field were the evidence. And this entire confrontation, this entire bloody display, had become too dangerous for them to leave unchecked.
Sare's breath caught in his throat.
"They're—! These damn snakes—!"
He wanted to scream at the reporters, to shout the truth: Diablo didn't kill Reyhiem. It was them! It's always been them! But he didn't have time to explain.
Because he saw it forming.
A searing sun of flame ignited between the hands of the three sages. A fireball so large it bent the air, so hot the ground beneath it blackened to glass before it even fell.
The journalists—nervous, pale, already muttering at the tension—were the real target. The holy sages had decided to burn everything, everyone, until no one remained who could speak the truth.
Sare's throat tore as he shouted:
"Dammit—ALL OF YOU, RUN AWAY NOW!"
The reporters froze, eyes wide. Some finally broke into panicked screams, scattering for their lives. Quills, papers, and magic tools clattered to the ground as they bolted.
But it was already too late.
The fireball swelled, expanding beyond any ordinary spell. Its light devoured shadows. Its heat clawed at lungs and skin. It was destruction incarnate, rolling outward to erase not only evidence, but history itself.
And Sare, battered, bloodied, barely standing, raised his sword one last time—not to fight Diablo, but to stand against the betrayal of his own kind.