Calgurio awoke wrapped in warmth.
It was not heat, nor pain, nor fear—but something deeper. A sensation that reached past flesh and bone, straight into the core of his existence. It felt as if his very soul were being held in firm, absolute hands.
W–where am I…?
His thoughts came slowly, scattered and incomplete. Panic rose instinctively. He tried to move, to rise, to reach for a weapon that was no longer there.
Then he realized—
He was lying inside a vast chamber.
The ceiling soared high above, carved with ancient geometric patterns and glowing sigils that pulsed faintly, like stars bound into stone. The air itself felt heavy with authority. Not pressure—judgment.
And there, standing at the center of the chamber, was Atem.
Not a child.
Not a boy.
A king.
Though his form appeared youthful, his presence was overwhelming—older than empires, heavier than history itself. Crimson eyes glowed faintly beneath dark lashes, calm and absolute. His posture was straight, unyielding, as if the concept of kneeling had been invented for everyone else.
Behind him unfolded a vast golden magic circle, layered with countless sigils rotating in perfect harmony. It was not chanting, not calculation.
It was authority given form.
This was Solarys — Sovereign of Wisdom.
Not a being.
Not an external will.
It was Atem's Ultimate Skill.
The embodiment of omnidirectional judgment, dominion over souls, causality, and remembrance.
Atem raised his hand.
From his palm descended divine light, prismatic and impossibly pure. It did not burn. It did not blind.
It commanded.
The light flowed downward, touching the bodies laid across the chamber—Calgurio's comrades. Officers. Strategists. Warriors.
All dead.
All intact.
Their chests did not rise. Their hearts did not beat.
They were corpses.
And yet—
Atem spoke, his voice quiet, steady, and final.
"Return."
The word was not sound.
It was law.
Solarys responded instantly.
Golden runes flared, forming a three-layered structure:
First Layer — Soul Recall
The scattered remnants of their souls were summoned back, drawn from beyond death itself. Not dragged. Not forced. Death released them.
Second Layer — Causality Reversal
The moment of death was overwritten. Fate itself rewound, restoring the soul-state to just before annihilation.
Third Layer — Divine Reconstruction
Flesh, spirit, and memory were re-aligned perfectly. No corruption. No error. No loss.
This was not healing.
This was resurrection through dominion.
Calgurio felt it.
A tug deep within his chest.
A pressure around his very identity.
His soul responded before his mind did.
I am being allowed to exist.
One by one, breath returned to lifeless bodies.
Color flowed back into pale faces.
Krishna gasped sharply, his body jolting as his soul snapped fully into place.
"…!"
His eyes met Calgurio's.
Both froze.
I saw you die.
I died.
Atem did not look at them yet. His hand moved with perfect precision as Solarys completed its process. When the final soul was restored, the golden circle behind him slowed… then stabilized.
Atem lowered his hand.
For the first time, he turned his gaze to Calgurio.
"You're awake," Atem said calmly. "Good."
His voice carried no mockery. No warmth either.
"How do you feel? Do you remember your name?"
Calgurio swallowed hard.
Every instinct screamed at him to kneel.
"…C–Calgurio," he answered hoarsely.
Atem nodded once.
"Memory integrity confirmed."
Behind Calgurio, even Bernie and Jiwu—the feared Single Digits—stood frozen, unable to speak. Warriors who had challenged demon lords could not muster a single word.
Atem tilted his head slightly.
"…Is something wrong? The reconstruction was flawless."
It was said plainly. Clinically.
Calgurio's heart pounded.
Reconstruction?
No—
Impossible.
There was only one explanation, and it terrified him beyond reason.
"…Excuse me," Calgurio forced out, voice trembling.
"Shouldn't we… shouldn't we all be dead?"
The atmosphere shifted.
A familiar presence emerged from the shadows.
"Kufufufu… how impolite."
That voice.
Calgurio's blood ran cold.
Diablo stepped forward, crimson eyes gleaming with amusement.
"How dare you address His Majesty so carelessly."
Calgurio's body stiffened in pure terror.
That demon… the one who killed us.
Before panic could erupt, Atem raised a single finger.
"Diablo."
The word alone carried command.
"…My apologies," Diablo replied instantly, retreating a step.
Atem exhaled softly and returned his attention to Calgurio.
"There seems to be confusion," Atem said. "I'll clarify."
He spoke plainly. Firmly. As a king delivering an unavoidable truth.
"You were all dead. Completely. Your army was annihilated. No survivors."
Calgurio's vision blurred.
"So no—I did not save you."
Atem's eyes glowed faintly gold.
"I revived you."
Silence crashed down on the chamber.
The meaning crushed them.
Resurrection.
A miracle denied even to gods.
"…W–Who are you…?" Calgurio whispered.
Atem straightened.
The space itself bowed.
"I am Atem," he declared.
"King of Games. Sovereign of Judgment. Ruler of Eterna."
The name carried inevitability.
Calgurio's legs gave out.
This was not a demon lord.
This was something beyond.
"And now," Atem continued, his voice calm and absolute,
"you belong to me."
Calgurio's breath caught.
"N–Not slaves…?"
Atem's gaze sharpened—merciless, unwavering.
"Pawns."
The word fell like a divine verdict.
"You invaded. You lost. Your lives were forfeit."
Golden sigils briefly flickered around their souls—not chains, but marks.
"Your deaths had value," Atem said.
"So I returned you."
He stepped forward, his presence alone forcing heads to lower.
"You will serve. You will witness. You will learn what it means to stand beneath a true king."
No anger.
No cruelty.
Only judgment.
Calgurio finally understood.
They had not been spared.
They had been claimed.
I stepped outside, leaving Calgurio and the others behind to drown in their confusion.
They needed time. Every one of them had been a pillar of the Empire's invasion—high-ranking officers, tacticians, commanders who had once believed the world bent to their will. Now they were alive again, stripped of power, stripped of certainty. Let them think. Let them break themselves trying to understand what had happened.
My reason for reviving them was exactly as I told Calgurio.
They were pawns.
This was not mercy.
This was strategy.
And yes—this entire design had already been calculated and perfected within Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom.
Resurrecting the dead was not a miracle born from emotion.
It was inevitability, refined through understanding.
Ever since Shion's death, Solarys had been analyzing the nature of souls at a fundamental level. Souls were not vague spiritual concepts—they were structured existences, composed of quantifiable units known as Information Particles.
Life, memory, identity, power—all of it was encoded there.
If one could control those particles, then life and death ceased to be absolutes. They became states.
Animals and plants possessed weak soul structures—too fragile, too diffuse. Humans, however, were different. Their souls were dense, layered, filled with immense potential. Monsters could be quantified. Humans could be reforged.
Every soul possessed a core, a convergence point where all "selves" overlapped. That core defined identity. The crystallized energy around it formed the soul itself.
Power did not come from flesh.
It came from information.
For this resurrection, I did not return their original souls.
I had no intention of doing so.
Instead, I used Emulated Souls—artificial vessels originally created for the Labyrinth. Empty containers, capable of housing a core, but lacking innate power.
I extracted the core identity from each soul, severed it from its energy, and transferred it into an Emulated Soul. The original soul power—the fuel, the authority, the potential—was taken by me.
What they received back was existence, nothing more.
This was deliberate.
A soul without power cannot activate Skills.
A soul without energy cannot awaken.
Their memories remained. Their personalities remained. Their sense of self remained.
But their power was gone.
Permanently.
Even if their cores still contained the information of Skills, those Skills were now unusable. Magic, too, would be crippled. Only by drawing ambient magicules and relearning control as an Art, not a Skill, could they ever regain even a fraction of their former strength.
They could grow again—slowly, painfully—but never beyond a ceiling.
That was acceptable.
They were not revived to be warriors.
They were revived to be useful.
I did not resurrect the Empire's soldiers out of kindness.
I did it because reputation matters.
The Empire attacked Eterna first. Their deaths were the natural consequence of their choices. I owed them nothing.
But annihilating nearly a million soldiers without leaving survivors would stain how the world perceived my rule. Hatred festers. Fear spreads. Wars multiply.
Resurrection neutralizes that.
The Empire would not see me as a butcher—but as a ruler who decides who lives and who does not.
That distinction matters.
And if their citizens harbored resentment, reviving their generals would dull it. Confusion would replace hatred. Awe would replace defiance.
Solarys confirmed the outcome.
Acceptable losses. Optimal result.
Not all would be returned.
Of the 940,000 soldiers who invaded the Great Jura Forest, only around 700,000 were suitable for revival.
Some were vaporized beyond recovery.
Some were erased by nuclear magic.
Some were crushed into nonexistence by gravity itself.
And some—those who died in absolute fear and despair—lost their ego at the moment of death. Their Information Particles scattered irreversibly.
A broken self cannot be restored.
Even Solarys cannot create information from nothing.
Men like Kansas, whose mind shattered
completely at death, were beyond saving.
I felt no regret.
War does not reward weakness.
We moved the bodies into the Labyrinth.
Floor 70—Adalmann's domain.
Seven hundred thousand corpses lay arranged across the vast underground plains. Guardians recovered them from the battlefield: Gobta, Geld, Gabil, and the others worked without pause.
Holy magic cleansed the remains. Flesh was restored. Structure repaired.
Adalmann worked longer than anyone. He did not sleep. He did not complain.
I would reward him later.
Once the bodies were prepared, I implanted duplicate Emulated Souls into each one. This required precision beyond mortal comprehension—identity matching, soul-core alignment, genetic verification.
Solarys handled all of it.
I merely stood there.
To them, it looked like divinity at work.
To me, it was calculation.
Next came the Secret Art of Anti-Soul Return—not true resurrection, but enforced reanimation through identity anchoring. Less energy, far more computation.
Solarys executed it flawlessly.
Golden sigils spread across the floor like constellations. Light descended—not violent, not gentle, but absolute.
One by one, the dead inhaled.
Seven hundred thousand lives returned.
As they awoke, Calgurio and the others collapsed to their knees.
They mistook Solarys' authority for mine alone.
They prostrated themselves.
I wanted them to stop—but the ritual had to finish.
So I endured it.
When it was done, I stood amid an army that had died and returned under my rule.
I did not pray for the dead.
That would be hypocrisy.
Instead, I offered a silent acknowledgment—for those who were returned, and for the path I had chosen.
I am not a god.
But I am a king.
And those who invade Eterna will learn this truth—
If I decide it, even death is not the end.
The 70th Floor was lined with simple tents.
There was no luxury, no ornamentation—only long rows of shelters where the resurrected were given food and water. It was enough. More than enough.
Those who had been screaming or trembling immediately after their revival were now quiet. Too quiet. They sat shoulder to shoulder, eating in silence, as if afraid that speaking might cause the miracle to end.
A massive pot had been set at the center of the camp.
Vegetables and meat were stewed together into a thick soup—simple, rustic, unmistakably warm. The aroma alone was enough to remind anyone of life. When the soldiers lifted their bowls, steam rose into their faces, and many of them froze for a moment before taking the first bite.
Warmth spread through their bodies.
Not power.
Not strength.
Just life.
For the soldiers of the Empire—men who had died screaming under annihilation magic—this humble meal was overwhelming. Some stared into their bowls as if they were sacred relics. Others clenched their teeth, fighting the urge to break down.
Calgurio sat among them.
Only now, as the tension finally eased, did he realize how hungry he had been. Or perhaps it was not hunger—it was the delayed realization that he existed at all.
He had died.
There was no doubt about that.
He had been slain by the forces of King Atem, ruler of Eterna. He remembered the despair. The terror. The moment his soul had been torn away.
And yet—here he was.
Alive.
Or as Atem had called it—
"A false life."
The words echoed clearly in Calgurio's mind.
The King's Decree
Once the initial chaos had settled, Atem had addressed them all.
His voice had been calm. Absolute. There was no threat in it—because none was needed.
"Do not misunderstand. Your existence is stable. You may live as normal people.
You may love. Marry. Have children. Grow old.
However—there is a limit.
The command engraved into your Pseudo Souls makes it impossible for you to ever act against Eterna.
Any intent of hostility will simply fail.
This is not cruelty.
It is necessity."
That was all.
No shouting.
No gloating.
No mercy dressed as kindness.
Just law.
At the time, Calgurio had listened in silence.
Now, thinking back on it, he realized something.
There was no need for such a restriction.
Who would ever dare to oppose that being again?
When the Storm Dragon had once ravaged the world centuries ago, humanity had felt terror—but it had been distant. Abstract. Over time, people convinced themselves that such disasters could be replicated, controlled, or even surpassed by human hands.
Cities could be erased. Nations could burn.
Fear faded.
But this—
This was different.
They had not merely been defeated.
They had died.
And then they had been returned, not by a god, not by fate, but by the deliberate will of a single ruler.
A king who commanded death as casually as issuing an order.
How could anyone even imagine defying such a being?
Calgurio felt it deep in his bones.
This was not the fear of destruction.
This was the fear of absolute authority.
Krishna and the others had changed overnight.
They watched King Atem with eyes filled with something dangerously close to reverence. Not loyalty born of reward—but faith born of inevitability.
Calgurio noticed it.
And he did not object.
After all, he himself had been the first to kneel.
The irony was not lost on him.
Atem had called their existence false.
But Calgurio saw no flaw in it.
Yes, their combat power was gone. Skills were sealed. Magic was difficult, unreliable. Their former glory would never return.
And yet—
They could still live.
Even now, Calgurio could feel that his body retained discipline and training. He was weaker—but not helpless. Against ordinary monsters, many of them could still fight at levels approaching A-rank.
To Atem, this was insignificant.
To them, it was enough.
They would age naturally. They would die naturally.
That alone was mercy beyond anything they deserved.
And every one of the seven hundred thousand resurrected soldiers felt the same.
No one spoke of rebellion.
No one spoke of revenge.
No one wanted the war to continue.
They had been defeated—not militarily, but fundamentally.
As Calgurio finished his meal, he set the empty bowl down and looked around the tent.
No hatred.
No anger.
Only exhaustion—and relief.
The Imperial invasion had not merely failed.
It had been erased.
And in its place stood a truth none of them could deny:
Eterna was ruled by a king who decided whether death itself was permanent.
Against such a ruler, resistance was meaningless.
The war was over.