With that, the rites of the Labyrinth faction were complete.
The Colosseum of Eterna had already witnessed awakenings that would shake nations, but the ceremony was not yet finished. The celebration had reached its final—and most dangerous—stage.
Only two remained.
Two beings whose names alone carried destruction.
The First and Second Secretaries.
Shion.
Diablo.
If the earlier awakenings had been storms, these two were calamities waiting to be unleashed.
I did not relax my vigilance.
Shion was raw force incarnate—emotional, explosive, devastating when unchecked. Diablo, on the other hand, was infinitely worse. He was restraint sharpened into cruelty, loyalty refined into obsession, and power honed through endless patience.
If both were to lose control at the same time, even Eterna would not escape unscathed.
For that reason, I began with Shion.
"Shion," I declared, my voice carrying absolute authority,
"from this moment onward, you are recognized as War Lord. You are to wield destruction not with impulse—but with judgment."
She struck her chest proudly.
"Of course! There is no woman alive more calm and mature than I!"
Silence.
Several generals visibly flinched.
I did not argue. There was no point.
"Then prove it," I said evenly. "Restrain yourself. Consult those around you. Protect Eterna with discipline—not rage."
I released the souls into her.
And—
Nothing happened.
No surge.
No distortion.
No awakening tremor.
Shion blinked. I observed. The Colosseum waited.
Then it became clear.
The Yomigaeri, her subordinates, collapsed into slumber one by one. Others staggered as divine pressure reshaped them. Power flowed outward from Shion instead of into her.
She herself remained unchanged.
Yet the result was unmistakable.
Her followers evolved into a new race—death oni spiritual hybrids. Bodies intact, immortality achieved, strength magnified. Some acquired Divine Force, a physical supremacy skill bordering on the absurd.
Shion had not evolved.
She had become a catalyst.
That, in itself, was terrifying.
I let the matter rest.
Some phenomena did not need to be forced.
At last—
Diablo stepped forward.
He had been waiting.
Not impatiently.
Not anxiously.
But with the quiet confidence of a predator who knew the world had already bent in his favor.
If the ritual were canceled now, he would not lose control from disappointment.
He would lose control from denial.
"Diablo," I said.
"Yes, my King," he replied instantly, eyes burning with reverence.
I studied him carefully.
There was no longer any doubt.
Diablo had already surpassed the category of "exceptional subordinate."
Even before his awakening, he had personally annihilated 2 single digits, beings who would have crushed most Demon Lords. His presence alone distorted causality. His loyalty was absolute—but his power was not borrowed.
And now—
If he awakened fully—
He would stand at the same height as Guy Crimson.
Not beneath him.
Not aspiring to him.
Equal.
Perhaps even worse.
Guy Crimson ruled by overwhelming existence.
Diablo ruled by perfect will.
If those two ever clashed, victory would not be decided by raw power alone—but by obsession, cruelty, and resolve.
And Diablo had all three.
"From this day onward," I declared,
"you bear the title Magic Lord. You will lead the demons as my blade—and my judgment."
"Kufufufu… I live to serve," Diablo replied, delighted.
I initiated the ritual.
There was no explosion.
No spectacle.
No loss of composure.
Diablo absorbed the souls as though they had always belonged to him.
The Colosseum trembled—not from released energy, but from suppressed infinity.
This was not a flawed awakening like Shion's.
This was not a violent ascension like Gabil's.
This was perfection.
A being who required no adjustment, no sleep, no instability.
He had reached completion.
Power surged through the newly forged Soul Corridor, yet even then, Diablo restrained it—out of respect.
Out of loyalty.
Out of choice.
I exhaled slowly.
This devil was now unquestionably one of the strongest beings under my rule.
Possibly the strongest.
"Excellent," I said. "Your evolution is flawless."
"To receive such praise from you," Diablo replied, bowing deeply, "is my greatest reward."
Then—
He smiled.
A dangerous smile.
"My King," he said lightly, "I have decided to acquire an Ultimate Skill."
The Colosseum froze.
"…Now?" I asked.
"Yes. Guy Crimson has been insufferable about his. I find that unacceptable."
Of course.
Of course that was his reason.
I turned inward.
Solarys — Sovereign of Wisdom responded immediately.
It was possible.
I acted without hesitation.
I activated Eternal Dominion, isolating Diablo completely.
The world fell silent.
Then—
The Voice of the World spoke.
All requirements fulfilled.
Ultimate Skill acquired.
Azazel — Lord of Temptation.
Darkness folded inward.
Reality bent.
Diablo's presence transformed—not into chaos, but into absolute authority over desire, contracts, and damnation.
This was not brute force.
This was dominion.
When the pressure subsided, Diablo stood unchanged in posture—
Yet infinitely more dangerous.
Guy Crimson would feel this.
I knew it.
And somewhere in the world, he would smile.
Diablo had not changed.
That, more than anything, reassured me.
He remained loyal.
Focused.
Deadly.
Later, I would learn that his evolution granted gifts to Venom and a hundred demons—raising them into devil chevaliers and demon peers.
Diablo did not hoard power.
He distributed it with intent.
As I watched the final embers of the ceremony fade, my thoughts turned forward.
Testarossa.
Ultima.
Carrera.
They had awakened.
They had proven themselves.
The question was no longer if they would receive Ultimate Skills—
But what kind of disasters they would become when they did.
And so, the evolutionary rituals of the executives came to their end.
I allowed myself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Not relief—kings do not indulge in that—but certainty. The awakenings had concluded without disaster. No one had lost control. No catastrophe had been unleashed. Power had been distributed, bound by will, and anchored beneath my authority.
That alone was a victory.
Still, the night was far from over.
The victory celebration continued, its rhythm slowing as exhaustion and drink claimed the revelers one by one. I moved among those still standing, calling out names, offering brief words of recognition—measured, sincere, and final. This was not the time for grand speeches. Those who had fought understood what they had earned.
The true, all-inclusive banquet would be held another day.
Tonight was for survival, for relief, and for living through what should have been impossible.
I observed the hall with calm eyes, already thinking ahead, when a corner of the celebration caught my attention.
"—I was never a match for Benimaru-sama anyway! I knew it from the start!"
"Gobua-dono, you are beautiful in your own right. Look at me—I was killed by Alvis-sama, my idol. Beastmen value strength above all else. If someone is strong, they can claim as many partners as they wish. That is the law of nature… and yet I still lost."
"Phobio-dono, you are already strong. If only I were stronger myself, perhaps I could have stood between them—"
"You may call me Phobio. And you are strong enough. It is simply… the comparison was unfair. I could not defeat them either."
"Phobio-dono… no. Phobio."
"Gobua…"
"…Phobio."
I looked away.
Kings were many things—but referees of drunken heartbreak were not among them.
Still, I did not intervene.
Two wounded hearts finding solace in one another was not a tragedy. If anything, it was proof that life continued even after defeat. Love, strength, resentment, and longing—all of it moved forward whether one wished it or not.
The celebration carried on.
Laughter echoed. Glasses clinked. The night passed without incident.
And that, in itself, was rare.
When dawn approached, I stood alone for a moment, gazing over the remnants of the feast.
It was then that I fully acknowledged what had been created.
Within Eterna, new sovereign powers had risen.
Though regulations forbade them from bearing the title of Demon Lord, the truth was undeniable.
Nine individuals now possessed power equivalent to awakened Demon Lords.
Three Primordials stood among them.
Unless the world itself turned hostile, Eterna could now endure any crisis.
I had granted twelve beings the title of Lord.
From this moment onward, they would be known collectively as:
The Twelve Chaos Guardian Lords
Other titles still existed—Elite Ten, Four Heavenly Kings—but those were positions.
A Lord was different.
A Lord was permanent.
They transcended lifespan. They would not be replaced. They would not fade with time. In the future, they would be separated from daily governance and called upon only in war, extinction-level crises, or moments when the world itself resisted order.
Eterna would be governed by mortals.
But it would be protected by immortals.
That distinction mattered.
Rigurd. Rigur. Gobta. Myourmiles. Others like them were invaluable—brilliant, loyal, capable—but time would eventually claim them. The Lords would not age. They would not weaken.
This was not a concern for today.
But it would shape tomorrow.
One concern lingered longer than the rest.
Gobta.
He remained a top executive—against all reason. Resourceful, resilient, and absurdly effective in battle. His Magic Wolf Unification with Ranga bordered on a violation of balance itself. And with Ranga's evolution, that fusion would only grow more dangerous.
Yet Gobta endured.
He adapted.
He always did.
His evolution through naming had not altered his appearance. His body had not transformed. His soul had not demanded more.
And yet—
He grew.
What he had muttered once in his sleep—about evolution through talent rather than form—may not have been nonsense after all.
By granting him his unique reward, I had unknowingly fixed his position forever.
Closer to me than any other executive.
Closer than hierarchy alone could explain.
Perhaps unintentionally, it was the greatest reward he could have received.
Later—long after the feast ended, after the echoes faded and the world began to move again—rumors spread.
Stories warped.
Fear followed admiration.
And when the world finally named me, it chose a title that reflected not what I claimed—but what I had done.
Atem, the Chaos Creator.
I did not deny it.
A king does not reject the judgment of history.
I accepted the name.
After all—
Chaos had been forged.
And this time, it answered to me.