The celebration did not falter.
Victory had momentum, and under my rule, momentum was never wasted.
The next to be called were the rulers of the deeper strata of the Labyrinth—beings whose existence alone bent the balance of power.
I began with Apito.
I left Zegion for later.
"Apito," I said, my voice carrying effortlessly through the Colosseum, "you fought well. The Imperial general Minits was the strongest among their commanders. You faced him as an equal. That strength is real. You have earned the right to stand proud."
Apito lowered her head, her compound eyes calm and unshaken.
"You overpraise me, my king. I failed to achieve a decisive victory. My brethren were annihilated. At best, I forced a draw."
Her tone was not bitterness.
It was honesty.
I had never demanded power from Apito. Truth be told, what I originally desired from her had been far simpler—results, stability, and refinement.
Honey. Sustenance. Continuity.
Somewhere along the way, she had become Insect Queen, a member of the Elite Ten, without ceremony or announcement. Authority had simply settled upon her.
"I am not worthy of reward," she continued. "However—if I may make a single request."
The air shifted.
"Allow the souls of my fallen kin to dwell within me once more."
Silence followed.
It was an unreasonable wish.
A demand that bordered on blasphemy.
Yet—
Within my soul, Solarys — Sovereign of Wisdom answered without hesitation.
Verdict: Feasible.
Method confirmed.
No contradiction to established law.
So it was possible.
Very well.
"Granted," I declared. "The spirits of your fallen will return to you."
Apito bowed deeply.
"I am honored beyond measure."
She was not qualified for awakening. Not yet. But I knew this—Zegion's evolution would not leave her untouched. This was not indulgence. It was foresight.
She received the souls calmly, without strain, without collapse.
A queen does not falter before grief.
Then, I turned to Zegion.
I had considered postponing his reward.
Abandoning the idea altogether, even.
But the moment I met his gaze, I understood the truth.
He would never lose control.
Zegion stood in perfect stillness—absolute, centered, unshaken. The strongest existence in the Labyrinth, and one who did not seek recognition.
Even Solarys had marked him as anomalous.
His combat sense rivaled true sovereigns. His magicule capacity equaled Benimaru's. Under Veldora's absurd tutelage—and the Labyrinth's deathless training—he had refined himself beyond reason.
In this war, he had annihilated enemies that would have overwhelmed the rest of the Elite Ten combined.
Effortless. Absolute.
To hesitate now would be cowardice.
Power should be met with resolve.
"You have surpassed all expectations," I said. "Your strength is not borrowed. It is forged."
Zegion knelt.
"All that I am is the result of your dominion, my king."
I did not correct him.
Leadership is not about denying belief—it is
about accepting responsibility for it.
"From this day forward," I continued, "you will bear the title Mist Lord."
His mandibles tightened, ever so slightly.
"I receive it with reverence."
I released the souls.
The effect was immediate.
Zegion trembled—not from fear, not from weakness—but from restraint. He did not fall. He did not sleep. He endured the flood of power through sheer will, forcing the Harvest Festival into submission.
His exoskeleton shifted.
Layers restructured, crystallized, transmuted.
Part of his outer shell transformed into hihiirokane, fusing with multiple governing laws. His body itself became a weapon—its hardness rivaling mythical-grade armaments.
This was not evolution.
This was refinement.
Even as the ritual continued, I could sense new abilities forming, stabilizing, synchronizing.
Zegion was becoming something that should not exist.
And I allowed it.
The ceremony ended.
Zegion and Apito returned to the depths of the Labyrinth and sealed themselves within cocoons. Their evolutions would complete in isolation, undisturbed.
Apito absorbed the gift from Zegion—along with the souls of her fallen swarm.
Her body collapsed, dissolved, and was reborn.
She emerged stronger. Sharper. Perfected for war.
She acquired a Unique Skill:
Queen Worship.
A terrifying authority.
By consuming the ecology of insects, she could recreate them as majin, hybrid beings with layered traits. Within days, she produced nine insect-type majins, each bearing composite characteristics.
This floor would no longer merely be guarded.
It would be ruled.
A true hive.
And Apito would reign as its unquestioned queen.
Her evolution was extreme—but inevitable.
She was both Elite Ten and Zegion's kin. And Zegion did not withhold favor.
Zegion's evolution was no less profound.
His physical power increased beyond calculation. His magicules surpassed even awakened Clayman.
But that was not the true threat.
He had acquired an Ultimate Skill.
Illusion King Mephisto.
A sovereign-tier power.
A skill worthy of Veldora's disciple.
With it, Zegion became the absolute ruler of the Labyrinth's depths—an existence capable of warping perception, reality, and dominance itself.
Together—
Zegion, the Mist King.
Apito, the Hive Queen.
They would establish an unassailable domain.
Not as servants.
Not as guardians.
But as sovereigns beneath the King of Games.
With that, only one force within the Labyrinth remained unaddressed—
Adalmann's faction.
Adalmann was… exceptional.
Not merely because of his power, but because of his faith.
To be precise, his faith in me bordered on fanaticism.
If I were to describe him plainly, he was a zealot—one who would willingly burn himself to ash if he believed it would please his king. In that sense, he resembled Diablo, though his nature leaned not toward chaos, but toward devotion. That very extremity was the reason he could wield holy magic while standing among undead. A contradiction made real through belief.
Adalmann had once worked alongside Master Gadra, long before Eterna existed. Together, they had pursued forbidden studies, blending disciplines that should never have met. That history explained how Adalmann created the Extra Skill Holy–Demonic Reversal, erasing his greatest weakness and turning contradiction into strength.
Only now did I truly grasp it.
This skeletal king—bereft of flesh, nerves, even a brain—was a genius.
Among monsters, thought did not always require a physical organ. Many possessed cognition embedded in their astral or spiritual bodies. Some even processed logic through their souls alone. If so, then Adalmann's brilliance was not strange at all—it was inevitable.
There existed beings who thought with their will.
If such entities advanced far enough, they would no longer be bound by lifespan. Physical destruction would mean nothing. Only annihilation of the soul or core could end them.
Adalmann had not yet reached that level.
He was close—but not there.
Albert, his vanguard, and the death dragon shared a similar limitation. Their immortality was incomplete. They compensated through discipline, coordination, and flawless battlefield roles.
Adalmann specialized in long-range magic.
Albert formed the front line.
The death dragon controlled the skies.
A flawless triangle.
To defeat them required either overwhelming force—or a blade that ignored attributes entirely.
This time, their enemy had possessed such a blade.
A legendary-grade weapon, wielded by one of the Empire's highest-ranking Guardians.
Albert's sword—though refined—had been inferior. It shattered, and the team fell.
Yet that defeat was not shame.
It was valor.
"Though the result was unfavorable," I said, my voice steady and absolute, "your battle was exemplary. Albert—your swordsmanship rivals the greatest masters I have seen."
"I am honored beyond measure," Albert replied, kneeling.
"Adalmann," I continued, "you mastered every spell I taught you—and more. Your devotion surpasses expectation."
"How could that be?" Adalmann trembled. "I am but a fragment compared to your wisdom, my king."
That wisdom was Solarys, not mine—but correcting him would serve no purpose.
"Do not diminish yourself," I said. "I will grant you greater strength. Let this defeat be the foundation of your ascension."
Tears streamed down Adalmann's hollow face.
"I would gladly offer my bones, my soul, even my extinction—"
"Enough," I cut in sharply. "You will live. And you will grow."
In truth, Adalmann had resisted awakening.
He had called himself unworthy. Defeated. Incomplete.
I rejected that judgment.
The Labyrinth was Eterna's final bastion. Its guardians could not remain stagnant.
"You will prove your worth through what comes next," I declared. "Not through self-denial."
He accepted.
The ritual began.
Sleep seized him, just as it had seized me during my own ascension. I did not allow him to struggle long.
"Adalmann," I proclaimed, my authority echoing through the Labyrinth itself,
"from this day forward, you shall bear the title—Gehenna Lord."
His soul ignited.
"Yes… by your will."
Another Lord was born.
Adalmann was not alone.
Kneeling beside him was Albert, and behind them crouched the death dragon, its massive frame lowered in reverence.
Albert required a new blade.
Not just a replacement—but a weapon worthy of his soul.
Among the spoils of war was a mythical-grade armament, once wielded by the Imperial Grand General. Such weapons were not tools. They were entities—steel that had lived, endured, and awakened.
They chose their masters.
And I already knew the answer.
Albert's soul was ancient. Tempered by death, reborn through will alone. His skill rivaled Hakurou's. His resolve had never broken.
He was the perfect match.
"Albert," I said, "your blade was not lacking. Your opponent simply bore a weapon beyond its time. I grant you this—not as compensation, but as recognition."
Shuna stepped forward, presenting a full set of mythical-grade equipment—longsword, kite shield, and armor.
Albert froze.
"T-this is—"
"You can wield it," I said. "I know it."
Under my gaze, he did not refuse.
The armor reacted instantly, enveloping him as though it had been waiting.
The result exceeded expectation.
For the duration of its use, Albert became equivalent to a spiritual life form—free of lifespan, immune to decay, sustained by will alone.
A mortal elevated to the realm of the eternal.
Now I understood why Solarys had guided me here.
Albert had been chosen.
One remained.
The death dragon.
It had fought tirelessly, shielded allies, and endured countless blows. Reward was necessary.
And for monsters, nothing surpassed a Name.
Solarys advised a safer path—Naming through soul consumption, not direct magicule output.
Cost: 5,000 souls.
Acceptable.
I placed my hand upon the dragon's head.
"You have served faithfully," I said. "From this moment on, you are Wenti—Hell Dragon King."
The souls vanished.
The transformation was immediate.
The dragon's colossal body compressed, reshaped, refined—until a woman stood in its place, clad in dark robes, radiating abyssal dignity.
She knelt instantly.
"Oh my beloved god—my king—your blessing even reaches one so low as I!"
…This was a misunderstanding.
But I chose not to correct it.
"Rise, Wenti," I said calmly. "This is the reward of loyalty."
She wept.
Adalmann watched in reverent silence.
Thus, the final ritual concluded.
The Labyrinth had changed.
It was no longer merely a fortress.
It was a dominion ruled by Lords, Kings, and Queens—each forged by judgment, not chance.
And above them all stood the King of Games.
Atem of Eterna.
The reckoning was far from over—but the foundations of eternity had been laid.