The Imperial Army—meant to be nothing more than a decoy—had been wiped out.
Not routed.
Not defeated.
Erased.
In the most literal sense of the word.
That was what unsettled me the most. This was not exaggeration or interpretation. It was fact. An entire army reduced to nothing because I had issued a single command.
Give it your all.
I stared at the battlefield reports in silence. For a moment, I wondered if this was some kind of mistake—an illusion created by faulty intelligence. But no matter how many times I
reviewed it, the conclusion did not change.
This result was real.
Frankly speaking, it was absurd.
I never imagined things would spiral this far just because I demanded full commitment. And to make matters worse, Benimaru was looking at me with an expression that felt far too knowing.
"My king," he said calmly, though his words carried weight, "your strategy became unnecessary the moment the battle began. May I ask—what exactly were those intelligence officers?"
His tone was respectful.
His eyes were not.
So this was coming.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my composure. A king does not lose control just because his expectations are exceeded.
"…They were under my authority," I answered. "That much is true."
Benimaru smiled. Not mocking. Not defiant.
Simply amused.
I wanted to protest. I wanted to say that I was the one demanding an explanation here. But the room was already turning its attention toward me, and I could feel the pressure mounting.
I glanced toward Veldora, hoping—against reason—that he might intervene.
He looked away immediately.
Useless.
Ramiris was no help either. I already knew that.
"…I told you before," I said carefully. "They were individuals recruited by Diablo and brought under our banner."
"Yes," Benimaru replied. "I understand that. They are Diablo's subordinates."
That was the moment I realized there was no escaping it.
Half-truths would no longer suffice.
Very well.
If they were going to know, they would hear it from me.
"Do you all know what a Primordial is?"
The room stilled.
"Primordial?" Shuna echoed softly, setting down the cup she had been preparing. "You mean the Seven Monarchs—the original demon kings? The ones said to be the origin of demonkind?"
She tilted her head gently, smiling as if discussing the weather.
"I looked it up after overhearing your earlier conversation. I was surprised to learn that Diablo-sama was one of them."
…So she already knew.
And she said it that casually?
The tension in the control room eased, almost mockingly, as the aroma of coffee filled the air.
Benimaru blinked.
"…Wait," he said slowly. "You're telling me you already knew?"
"Oh yes," Shuna replied cheerfully. "Not just Diablo-san. Testarossa-san, Carrera-san, and Ultima-chan as well. They're Primordials too, apparently."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
"…Is that so," Benimaru said at last.
Shuna smiled.
And that smile alone ended the discussion.
Benimaru—who had stared down Demon Lords and battlefield calamities—found himself unable to press further. Watching this, I couldn't help but acknowledge it again.
Shuna is terrifying in her own way.
I had prepared myself to reveal a truth that could shake nations.
Instead, it landed like a casual remark over tea.
"…Diablo," Benimaru said at last, turning toward him. "Explain it. Properly."
"Yes," Diablo answered smoothly. "As you have been informed, I am indeed a Primordial."
I took a sip of my coffee as he spoke.
It was excellent.
"I see," Benimaru said after a moment. "That explains your strength. Still—I would have
appreciated knowing from the start."
"I refrained intentionally," I said firmly. "Not out of deceit, but consideration. I did not want unnecessary fear among my commanders. Power without trust is meaningless."
Ramiris crossed her arms. "Hey! I wouldn't have been scared either!"
"Perhaps," I replied evenly. "But my responsibility is not to gamble with your peace of mind."
Benimaru laughed softly.
"You worry too much, my king."
Geld nodded. "As long as Atem-sama accepts them, so will we. Strength and origin mean nothing compared to loyalty."
Shuna, too, showed no discomfort. No hesitation.
The atmosphere returned to normal.
And just like that, my concerns evaporated.
"…I'm relieved," I admitted. "I spent more time worrying about this than I care to admit."
"You should trust us more," Benimaru said.
He was right.
Shion, of course, had never doubted it.
"I get along with Diablo just fine," she declared proudly.
Diablo smiled. "I am honored."
They glared at each other immediately after.
Some things never change.
Once the briefing concluded, we moved on to the post-battle review.
"I deployed Testarossa and the others as insurance," I said. "In case the Empire fielded Demon Lord–class assets. I did not expect… this."
"Fufufu," Diablo chuckled. "They were rather enthusiastic. I will instruct them to exercise restraint."
"Do," I said firmly. "Moderation is not optional."
That settled that.
Next—damage assessment.
The battle had lasted less than two hours.
"All injured personnel have fully recovered!"
The report echoed through the room.
High-grade potions produced in Eterna had been distributed—ten per combatant. Wounds that should have been fatal vanished in seconds.
Even those believed dead were revealed to be decoys, their bodies restored by full potions.
Zero casualties.
An outcome that defied logic.
However—
I turned my gaze to Gabil and the Hiryuu.
They were not unscathed.
The backlash from Dragon Body had rendered them completely immobile. Total paralysis. Not injury—exhaustion at a fundamental level.
Potions had no effect.
Their bodies, swollen with forcibly absorbed magicules, were rejecting recovery effects entirely.
"This condition will last approximately twenty-four hours," Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom, reported.
So there it was.
A limitation.
Once every two days at most.
A powerful tool—but a double-edged one.
I regarded Gabil silently.
This was the price of recklessness.
"You were fortunate," I told him later. "Power must be mastered, not abused. Remember that."
This time, victory had been absolute.
But misuse of that strength could have cost them everything.
And as King—
It was my duty to ensure that never happened again.
Changing focus, I turned my thoughts to the situation on the Imperial side.
According to Gadra's confirmed intelligence, the enemy forces were divided as follows:
The Magic Tank Division, led by Lieutenant General Gaster — 200,000 soldiers
The Air Assault Division, led by Major General Farage — 40,000 soldiers
This was the full strength of the Imperial contingent assigned to this front.
There were no prisoners of war.
Because there were no survivors.
Roughly 240,000 Imperial soldiers were dead.
Not routed.
Not captured.
Erased.
A complete massacre.
I would be lying if I said it did not weigh on me. But hypocrisy had no place here. I had already taken twenty thousand lives with my own hands at the moment of my awakening. Compared to that, I had no right to avert my gaze now.
War does not allow selective morality.
What mattered was the consequence.
Not long after the battle concluded, I felt it clearly—
my soul was swelling.
The sensation was unmistakable. A violent, accelerating accumulation, as though something vast and invisible was pouring into my very core.
This, I understood, was what it meant to collect souls through subordinates.
Through this sensation alone, I could tell the exact number of enemy deaths. The tally etched itself into my being without error.
And yet—
I had absorbed an absurd number of human souls.
Only ten thousand sacrifices were required to ascend from a Demon Lord Seed to a True Demon Lord.
So what would happen after absorbing nearly two hundred and forty thousand?
The answer was simple.
Nothing.
No change.
No evolution.
No further ascension.
Once one becomes a True Demon Lord, that path reaches its limit.
That truth alone explained much.
If it were otherwise, Guy Crimson would have long since driven humanity to extinction. He had clearly realized, instinctively, that further slaughter would gain him nothing. That was why he restrained himself.
Power without purpose is meaningless—even for monsters.
Just as I settled on that conclusion, an unexpected voice echoed within my consciousness.
«Report. The number of souls acquired has exceeded the threshold.
Activation condition fulfilled.
Awakening of individuals within the Soul Lineage is now possible.»
I narrowed my eyes.
"…Explain."
«By transferring a sufficient quantity of collected souls, it is possible to forcibly awaken qualified subordinates.
Required amount per individual: 100,000 souls.»
So that was it.
The excess souls, meaningless to my own evolution, could instead be used to elevate others.
This was no trivial matter.
To awaken a subordinate to a level comparable to a True Demon Lord required ten times the souls needed for my own awakening.
No wonder this knowledge was scarcely known.
Even if Guy and the other ancient Demon Lords were aware of it, the cost was prohibitive. Slaughtering an entire city for the sake of empowering one subordinate was not something done lightly.
Perhaps that was why gatherings like Walpurgis existed—not merely as political assemblies, but as a means to identify those already worthy of standing among Demon Lords, rather than forcibly creating them.
At minimum, that interpretation made sense.
At present, I possessed roughly two hundred and fifty thousand surplus souls.
Enough to awaken two individuals.
The list of those who qualified was immediately presented:
Ranga.
Benimaru.
Shion.
Gabil.
Geld.
Diablo.
Testarossa.
Ultima.
Carrera.
Kumara.
Zegion.
Adalmann.
«Inquiry: Do you wish to establish a Soul Corridor and initiate subordinate evolution?
YES / NO»
I understood at once what this meant.
Through a Soul Corridor, distance and time would become irrelevant—just as with Veldora. The bond between king and subordinate would be absolute, permanent, and unbreakable.
From a purely strategic standpoint, it was ideal.
If my commanders evolved, Eterna's military power would become untouchable.
There was no question of loyalty.
No question of worth.
And yet—
I did not answer immediately.
The term Soul Lineage lingered in my thoughts. It clearly referred to those bound to me through naming.
Naming was not a harmless act.
It was an intrusion into the soul itself.
I had abused it because I could—but I was fully aware that, under normal circumstances, naming could kill. Failure could result in death, irreversible weakening, or complete loss of power.
The only reason I could act without hesitation was because of Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom.
She calculated the margins.
She ensured safety.
She turned a forbidden act into a controlled one.
Without her, even I would not dare attempt this repeatedly.
Others were not so fortunate.
Even Guy Crimson rarely named subordinates, precisely because it cost him his own power. That was why true soul-bound followers were so rare—and so valuable.
Those listed before me were not tools.
They were irreplaceable.
I would not gamble their existence, no matter how confident Solarys sounded.
There were too many unknowns.
Why was Souei excluded, despite his power?
What exact criteria governed awakening?
Would they enter dormancy, as I had during my Harvest Festival?
And most importantly—
The war was not over.
The main body of the Imperial Army—seven hundred thousand troops—was still advancing on Eterna itself.
This was no time to invite uncertainty.
A king does not risk the foundation of his realm for additional power when victory is already within reach.
After a long silence, I made my decision.
"…No."
«Command acknowledged.»
The opportunity would remain.
When the battlefield was quiet.
When Eterna was secure.
When every variable was under my control.
Only then would I decide who would ascend beside me.
Until that time—
These souls would remain sealed within me.