Guy arrived.
And for the first time in a very long while, he did not enter like he owned the place.
He stopped at the entrance.
Just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough.
The irritation on his face was real, but it was restrained, pressed down beneath something heavier. His crimson eyes flicked once toward the room, then immediately locked onto me.
Only after confirming my position did he step forward.
"…I'm here," Guy said, his voice controlled, low.
"Calling me over like this isn't exactly a trivial matter."
There was no mockery in his tone. No arrogance.
That alone spoke volumes.
You're not wrong, Guy.
But if you want to complain, you should direct that energy toward Diablo, not me.
Guy clicked his tongue softly and exhaled through his nose before taking his seat—carefully. Not roughly. Not casually.
Measured.
He sat because I was already seated.
The location was the guest house drawing room, a space reserved for sovereigns and rulers—those whose presence alone could tilt the balance of nations. Bringing Guy here was intentional. This was not a place for bluster or theatrics.
If something broke, the loss would be significant.
The furnishings had been chosen personally by Myourmiles, a man whose aesthetic sense bordered on obsession. No vulgar luxury. No needless extravagance. Every piece carried weight and meaning.
Artworks from distant lands adorned the walls—subtle, restrained, demanding understanding rather than attention. The atmosphere embodied quiet authority, not indulgence.
Rigurd once said this room felt like home.
That told me everything I needed to know.
The chair beneath Guy let out a faint creak as he leaned back.
Finest aromatic wood. Flexible, resilient, made to endure pressure without yielding.
Guy noticed.
His gaze dropped for half a heartbeat—then returned to me.
Approval flickered in his eyes.
The others had already been dismissed.
The Imperial delegation returned to the 70th floor.
Gabil was overseeing matters there.
Souei arranged Masayuki's escort.
Rigurd coordinated the evacuated city sectors.
Kaijin contacted King Gazel after consulting Vesta—I would speak to him personally later.
Gadra departed to exchange information and align strategy.
Gobta and Hakurou waited nearby.
The three Primordial demonesses were deliberately kept away.
Not because they feared Guy.
But because Guy feared what might happen if they were in the same room as me.
Here, on my side, there were only four.
Me.
Diablo, the instigator.
Benimaru.
Shion.
Guy arrived with three companions.
The woman who sat beside him immediately drew attention.
White hair that shimmered like frozen moonlight. Deep blue eyes, clear and ancient. Beauty refined to the point of unreality.
She sat without hesitation. Without deference.
There was no hierarchy between her and Guy.
Only equals sat like that.
Guy spoke, carefully.
"This is your first meeting. I'll introduce her.
This is Velzard.
Veldora's sister. The Frost Dragon."
Velzard turned toward me.
The moment her gaze met mine—
Her expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Interest.
"…So this is Atem," she said softly.
Her voice was calm, but the room shifted.
Not because of her.
Because of me.
My presence did not flare.
Did not press.
Did not leak power.
It simply existed.
Unshakable. Absolute.
Velzard's pupils narrowed slightly—not in hostility, but in focus. For the first time since entering the room, her perfect control wavered by the barest margin.
She felt it.
Not raw power.
Authority.
A presence that did not need to assert dominance, because dominance was already decided.
"I am Velzard," she continued, her tone more respectful now—subtly, instinctively.
"I wished to meet you myself for taking good care of my brother."
I met her gaze evenly.
"Atem," I replied.
"King of Eterna.
Your brother and i are sworn brothers."
No politeness.
No apology.
No justification.
Statement of fact.
Velzard smiled—slowly.
But this time, it was not indulgent.
It was impressed.
"…I see," she murmured.
"So this is the one."
For a heartbeat, her overwhelming presence surfaced instinctively—
And was immediately swallowed.
Not suppressed.
Overshadowed.
Velzard felt it then, unmistakably.
This was not someone who feared True Dragons.
This was someone who stood above the concept of fear.
Her posture straightened slightly.
Interesting, she thought.
Very interesting.
The remaining introductions followed.
Behind Guy stood Mizeri, the Green Primordial, and Raine, the Blue Primordial, both in dark red maid uniforms.
Primordials.
The apex of demonkind.
They stood perfectly still—but their eyes never left me.
Diablo glanced at them, amused, then smiled wider.
Guy noticed.
He did not like that smile.
Introductions continued.
Benimaru was steady.
Shion tense, barely restrained.
And then—
Diablo.
Guy's gaze lingered on him.
Longer than necessary.
Diablo bowed lightly—mocking, respectful, infuriating.
Guy clicked his tongue.
"…Tch."
Not annoyance.
Unease.
Guy Crimson—the Demon Lord who mocked gods and shattered worlds—was careful here.
Respectful.
Because he remembered.
He remembered the two times he stood against Atem.
The first time—defeat.
The second time—near death.
Spared.
Not out of mercy.
But as a lesson.
Guy leaned back, folding his arms, crimson eyes fixed on me.
"…You'd better have a damn good reason for calling me here, Diablo."
The Frost Dragon watched quietly now.
Measuring.
And for the first time in centuries—
A True Dragon was evaluating a king…
rather than the other way around.