Before the echoes of celebration faded completely, I turned my thoughts to two beings without whom Eterna would not stand as it did now.
Veldora.
Ramiris.
Power must be rewarded—but gratitude must be shown.
A King's Gift to a Dragon
I approached Veldora first.
"For all your aid," I said evenly, "this is for you."
What I handed him was simple.
Clothes.
For a moment, I wondered if it was too trivial. The Storm Dragon was almost always draped in a cloak, his upper body bare, unconcerned with appearances. But the moment he understood what it was, his eyes lit up.
"Oho! Atem, my friend and sworn ally!" Veldora boomed. "At last, you have perceived my heart! I have long wished to wear proper attire worthy of my dignity!"
"…You could have asked Shuna at any time," I replied. "There are enchanted garments that adjust by magic."
"You misunderstand!" Veldora declared grandly. "Only a one-of-a-kind, custom-made masterpiece is worthy of me. And if it is crafted by you, then it is unquestionably supreme!"
I sighed inwardly.
My sense of fashion was nonexistent. Even now, I wore what others told me suited a king. In another life, I had relied on uniforms and simple clothing to avoid embarrassment altogether.
Yet—
Veldora was genuinely delighted.
He donned the garments immediately, laughing as he admired himself.
"Well… if you're satisfied," I said. "Then I expect your strength to remain at Eterna's side."
"Kuahahaha! Naturally!"
Considering the scale of what he had given me—his presence alone being a strategic deterrent—the reward was absurdly inexpensive.
I made a mental note to repay him properly someday.
Next was Ramiris.
"Ramiris," I said, inclining my head slightly. "Your support was indispensable. You have my thanks."
She blinked, then waved her hands flustered. "H-Hey, don't get all formal! We helped each other! That's just how it is!"
Even so, gratitude must be expressed.
"That's precisely why I prepared something for you."
Her eyes sparkled. "Clothes? Like Veldora's?"
"For that, speak with Shuna," I replied. "What I offer you is different."
I spoke the word plainly.
"Naming."
Her wings fluttered.
"You mean… my dragon lords?"
"Yes."
"And I'd be their parent?"
"Correct."
"That's amazing!"
It was settled easily—too easily, perhaps—but the result mattered more than the surprise.
I explained the precedent.
"Recently, Adalmann's dragon, Wenti, was Named. She evolved, gained intellect, speech, and even a humanoid form. Your dragon lords may achieve something similar."
Ramiris's excitement was immediate. More
capable subordinates meant less burden on Beretta—and greater autonomy for her domain.
"I'm counting on you, Atem!"
With her consent, I summoned the four dragon lords to the King's Chamber of the Labyrinth.
They stood before me—beings of immense magicule density, each rivaling an archdemon in raw power. Yet they lacked refinement, intelligence, and experience. Naming would correct all of that.
I studied them carefully.
Names must resonate with essence. Intuition mattered more than logic.
At last, I spoke.
Euros, the Draconic Flamelord.
Zephyrus, the Draconic Frostlord.
Notos, the Draconic Skylord.
Boreas, the Draconic Terralord.
The names carried authority—borrowed from ancient myths of wind and dominion, fitting for beings who ruled elements themselves.
The souls were consumed.
The bond was forged—not with me, but with Ramiris.
It succeeded.
The transformation was immediate.
They did not become dragonoids like Milim, nor true spiritual dragons. They remained dragon lords—but refined.
Euros emerged as a striking woman of flame-red hair, her skin marked by dragon scales, a tail burning like a living whip.
Zephyrus took the form of a slender, elegant man, long green hair flowing, beauty and menace balanced perfectly.
Notos became a small, deceptively cute girl—until one noticed the fangs and predatory aura beneath.
Boreas manifested as a towering, muscular giant, his body armored in jagged scales and spines.
They were grotesque and beautiful in equal measure—beings that radiated domination.
Their magicule reserves multiplied severalfold, placing them on par with an awakened Clayman. Not quite True Demon Lords—but far beyond their former selves.
Had I used my own magicules instead of souls, the backlash would have been catastrophic. Naming was a brutal system—efficient, dangerous, and unforgiving.
But it worked.
Compared to the Dungeon's Elite Ten, the dragon lords still lacked something.
Experience.
They possessed overwhelming power, yet raw force alone could not defeat masters of battle at the same level. They had learned this painfully during the defense of the Labyrinth.
Now, newly intelligent, newly articulate, they understood their weakness.
They requested training.
Human-style combat.
Technique.
Refinement.
Veldora, still riding the high of his own satisfaction, laughed thunderously.
"Kuahahaha! Leave it to me!"
Thus began the dragon lord cultivation training.
Later, it would be discovered that some of them fought more effectively in humanoid form than as full dragons—an apparent contradiction that made perfect sense once they learned to turn scales into armor and claws into weapons.
At the time, I only had a vague feeling.
Looking back—
It was inevitable.
Three days had passed since their resurrection.
Calgurio and his men—those who had once stood at the Empire's peak—had finally regained something resembling calm. Not peace. Not comfort. Just the minimum stability required to keep the mind from cracking.
They had learned the truth the hard way:
They were alive again… because Atem, the King of Eterna, had willed it.
That fact alone was enough to twist a soldier's pride into something unrecognizable.
They were still living in tents.
Food was delivered regularly by the monsters of Eterna. It didn't matter whether someone was still flesh and blood or nothing but bone—no one was singled out. No one was mocked. The meals arrived the same way, at the same times, with the same quiet efficiency.
The tents were lined up on a hillside where the grass and trees had withered away. The scenery was bleak, almost dead. But the temperature was stable—neither hot nor cold—and the air was strangely comfortable once you stopped fighting it.
The ruins of the battlefield were still visible from certain angles. Graves stretched like rows of silent witnesses.
But once you got used to it, the graves stopped being frightening.
After all… it would be strange to fear graves when their contents were walking around and talking.
This entire camp sat on the 70th floor of the Labyrinth.
That was explained to them by the floor's guardian: a "wight king" named Adalmann.
Some of Calgurio's men had fought inside the Labyrinth before. They knew the rules. They knew what kind of place this was. So no one doubted Adalmann's authority—and more importantly, no one doubted his sincerity.
Adalmann treated them like prisoners of war, not livestock.
And he told them something that settled like iron in Calgurio's chest.
"Since my god, Atem-sama, brought you back to life, I must obey his will. He is not the type of king who gives life… only to take it again for amusement. So take your time. Think carefully. Decide what you will do next."
Adalmann said it as if it were obvious.
As if Atem's mercy was a law of nature.
No one suggested escape.
Not even once.
Because the truth was simple:
They were already inside god's hands.
Even if they fled the tents, even if they ran until their bones splintered, the Labyrinth itself would swallow them again.
Calgurio understood that. He accepted it.
And that was why, with Adalmann's permission, he called the upper ranks together.
Nearly a hundred officers gathered in the largest tent used for military discussions. Senior officers. Champions. Names that had once commanded fear across the continent.
Now they were "people without power."
Calgurio stood at the center, face controlled, voice steady.
"Gentlemen. First… I must apologize. This disaster is the result of my incompetence. I brought you here. I brought you to death. I am deeply sorry."
The response came immediately—sharp and unanimous.
"What are you saying, sir? We share the blame."
"We should have stopped you."
"We failed together."
Even the chiefs of staff nodded. No hesitation.
Then Krishna—grim, sincere—spoke with the kind of conviction that didn't need volume.
"I agree with everyone. We incurred the wrath of god through our stupidity. And yet… by god's mercy, we were given the chance to atone."
He called the invasion itself a sin.
Calgurio didn't argue.
He had been arrogant. They all had. They had trusted the Empire's weight and ignored the enemy's reality. They marched like an avalanche… and were shattered like glass.
Calgurio allowed himself a small, bitter smile.
"Thank you. Hearing that… I can breathe again."
He paused, then bowed his head once more.
"I promise this to god: I will remember this feeling for the rest of my life."
The word "god" drew a single image into Calgurio's mind.
Not the Emperor. Not the Empire.
Atem.
Golden authority. A presence that didn't shout, didn't beg, didn't justify. A king who simply decided—and reality obeyed.
Yes. For me, god is now His Majesty Atem.
Back in the Empire, there was no place left for Calgurio. He would be blamed for the defeat and executed before any court-martial could even be staged. He wasn't naïve enough to pretend otherwise.
But he also refused to throw away the life that Atem had restored.
If he was going to die again, it would not be out of habit or pride.
"Now," Calgurio said, lifting his gaze, "let us get down to business. I gathered you here to reach a consensus on how we move forward. Adalmann-dono has granted us this freedom. Let's not waste it."
The tent erupted into layered voices.
A military meeting where everyone spoke at once—unthinkable in the Empire.
But Calgurio wanted honesty.
And the truth came out.
Two Paths, One Trap
The discussion narrowed into two main opinions:
Remain here, accept subservience to Eterna.
Return to the Empire, no matter the danger.
Those with families argued hardest for going back. Their reasons were human. Their fear was human. Their loyalty was human.
But the hard wall they kept hitting was the same:
Whether they could return depended entirely on Atem's will.
"As Adalmann-dono said, I do not believe Atem-sama intends to execute us meaninglessly," Calgurio said. "But do not misunderstand. Mercy does not mean pardon."
Their lives were in the Demon Lord's hands.
Even if they were allowed to talk, allowed to choose their future slowly, they didn't know how far their selfishness would be tolerated.
"…We will be executed even if we go back," someone said, voice low. "But I want the generals who fought for our country to return home safely. I want to appeal directly to His Majesty Atem… and ask his favor."
Another voice answered.
"But we are hostages. Whether the Empire will pay compensation or negotiate… that is the problem."
Then, from the quiet edge of the tent, Major General Minits finally spoke.
"Impossible," he said coldly. "In the first place, we never expected to lose. We were ruthless toward our enemy. We acted like conquerors who could not be punished."
Silence.
That one sentence dragged everyone back to reality.
The Empire never accepted anything except unconditional surrender. They had been arrogant because they were used to winning.
Now they had lost everything.
And even if they returned, no bright future waited.
Calgurio nodded once.
"Minits is correct. I wonder what His Majesty will think…"
Someone, frustrated, muttered what they should not have.
"It was the intelligence bureau's oversight. Did they even understand how many demon-lord-class monsters existed?"
Calgurio's eyes sharpened.
"Watch your tongue. I don't care what you think of the Bureau, but the 'monsters' you're insulting are the top brass of this country."
"I'm sorry… I misspoke."
Calgurio didn't allow the meeting to collapse into bitterness.
"His Majesty Atem may be a generous king," he said, "but do not mistake generosity for weakness. He will not tolerate outbursts against his men. Remember that."
Calgurio understood the officer's anger, though.
How did the Intelligence Bureau not know?
How did they not know there existed a being in Eterna who could unleash power like 'Gravity Collapse'—magic that could erase everything if mishandled?
Calgurio wanted to curse them too.
But then—
Someone poured ice into the tent with a single laugh.
"Are you idiots?"
It was Bernie.
Until now, he had listened in silence.
Now he looked at them like they were children arguing about a fire while standing inside it.
"The Intelligence Bureau had information," Bernie said. "A certain amount, at least."
The tent exploded.
"Nonsense!"
"Then why wasn't it reported to His Majesty?!"
"Did they betray us?!"
Only Minits and Calgurio stayed calm.
"Bernie," Minits said slowly, "weren't you on an undercover mission we weren't even told about?"
Calgurio's voice followed, steady and dangerous.
"As a Single Digit, you had access to secrets even we didn't. So tell us: what were they thinking?
What did they want us to do?"
Every eye locked onto Bernie.
The Intelligence Bureau was loyal to the Emperor. That meant… if the Bureau knew, then Emperor Rudra knew too.
Bernie snorted.
Then he dropped the truth like a blade.
"Just as you're starting to suspect. His Majesty the Emperor knew everything from the start. Your defeat was already part of the plan."
The tent shook.
"H-How could…?"
"What are you saying?!"
"You dare insult His Majesty?!"
Some officers were already pale—because some part of them believed it instantly.
Minits spoke, voice hollow.
"So… we were pawns."
"That's not quite accurate," Calgurio said, his tone tight. "I fear the main purpose was—"
"Hmph. Shut up, Calgurio," Bernie snapped. "I'll take responsibility for leaking this. We're dead men anyway. This isn't betrayal in His Majesty's eyes."
Bernie's expression twisted—half disgust, half grim humor.
"I'm sorry, Jiwu," he said suddenly, glancing sideways. "I was never that loyal. I followed His Majesty because I could never beat him."
That was his truth.
Bernie had been born forty-five years ago in the United States. A normal student. A freedom-lover.
Then somehow he came to this world.
He was discovered by Gadra, taken in by Damrada, trained in combat. He became confident—proud, even—believing he could become one of the strongest in this world.
Then his pride was crushed by a woman tied to Emperor Rudra.
No—"woman" was the wrong word.
She was beauty wearing the shape of a woman.
A monster so absolute that resistance became laughable.
Velgrynd.
Bernie had been escorted to the Emperor's castle, thinking it was honor. Thinking it was opportunity.
In truth, it was judgment.
He had dreamed, foolishly, of overthrowing the Emperor. Of breaking the Empire's domination.
And the price of that dream was fear so deep it rewrote him.
He met Velgrynd… and learned what "true fear" meant.
And then, behind a blind, Emperor Rudra's voice reached him—cold, emotionless, distant.
‹You are qualified. As a vessel, I will lend you my strength. Keep up the good work.›
When Bernie regained consciousness, he found himself in a body that could not resist.
Back in the tent, Bernie spoke with dead certainty.
"His Majesty doesn't care if a million of his best men are wiped out. It's part of the plan."
It sounded insane.
But Calgurio understood.
"So that's it," he said. "You'll sacrifice a million soldiers… if it means some of us awaken."
Bernie looked almost impressed.
"Oh. So you awakened too. Then you understand. And yes—that's correct."
From the beginning, Rudra had not cared about the "army."
He cared about the awakened.
"Quality over quantity," Minits muttered.
Bernie shrugged.
"I don't know what happened 300 years ago. But think about it. I could've killed you all by myself back when I had my power. That's the difference."
Minits's eyes narrowed, but he didn't deny it.
Calgurio's mouth tightened.
"So our defeat was expected… because casualties were acceptable."
"Exactly," Bernie said. "But His Majesty wouldn't have expected defeat after awakening."
Minits nodded once.
Calgurio's face darkened.
"Then it's my fault I wasn't enough."
Bernie shook his head.
"Stop. It's not that you weren't good enough. The enemy was simply too strong."
Jiwu nodded.
"Right. That wasn't something we could beat."
They had all tasted the same truth: Diablo.
If they couldn't defeat Diablo, why would Calgurio be expected to?
Then Minits asked the question that mattered most.
"So, Bernie… what will happen now?"
Bernie's smile was thin.
"Let's be clear: you're already dead. Not metaphorically. In His Majesty's eyes."
Minits inhaled slowly.
"You're saying the Emperor no longer wants us alive."
"Not exactly," Bernie said. "He has no use for soldiers who lost their power and whose chances of awakening dropped to zero. If you're worthless, there's no reason to protect you."
Minits nodded bitterly.
"Then they won't accept prisoners returning."
"Correct."
"And if survivors return… anti-war sentiment spreads."
"Correct."
Minits exhaled.
"In other words… the Intelligence Bureau will move to eliminate those who try to return home."
"Definitely."
And then they would blame Eterna. Stir rage. Feed revenge. Make the Empire's people burn in the direction the Emperor preferred.
The tent's mood turned heavy—like men waking from a beautiful lie.
Some officers panicked.
"Seven hundred thousand? That's impossible!"
"Those transformed soldiers still have power—if we resist, it becomes civil war!"
Minits silenced them with one hand.
"Do you know who could do such a thing?" he asked Bernie, steady despite the chaos.
Calgurio stayed quiet. He remembered awakening. He remembered the abyss between the awakened and the ordinary.
With that level of power… it might be possible.
Bernie spoke carefully.
"Single Digits could do it in theory. But not perfectly. Individual strength is good for offense, not for absolute extermination. If people scatter, some will escape."
And in this case, the Empire would want none to escape.
Bernie's jaw tightened.
"Common sense says it's impossible. But there's one thing in the Empire that makes common sense irrelevant."
He trembled—just slightly.
An old fear clawing back up his spine.
"In the Empire… there is an absolute monster who could do it…"
Minits sank deeper into his chair, staring upward like the sky might explain why this world was so cruel.
"…Even a Single Digit fears that."
Bernie didn't deny it.
Calgurio and Minits exchanged looks that carried the same thought:
We were never players. We were pieces.
"This was foolish," Minits muttered.
"Ah," Calgurio replied softly. "We look ridiculous. Like clowns."
Around them, the officers' faces showed the same emotion—men realizing their entire lives had been built inside someone else's game.
Bernie watched them and thought, bitterly:
Pathetic.
They would have been happier not knowing.
But they demanded truth—so Bernie gave it to them.
"Now you understand," Bernie said. "If you go back, you'll find only despair. So stay here.
Silence.
Then Calgurio asked the final question.
"Bernie-dono… what will you do?"
Bernie's answer came without pause.
"I'm going back to the Empire."
Shock rippled through the tent.
Calgurio's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Bernie's smile was calm—too calm.
"Atem will seek negotiation with the Empire. The war won't end neatly. And negotiations need a guide."
Everyone understood what he didn't say:
That guide would be erased.
Bernie had lost his power. He had no protection. If he returned, assassination was inevitable.
The tent went silent, not from confusion, but from recognizing resolve.
They watched Bernie like men watching someone step into a grave on purpose.
And in that silence, the most brutal truth of all settled over them:
Their destiny was no longer decided by the Empire.
It was decided by the one who had revived them—
Atem, King of Eterna.