Silence ruled the throne room again.
Not tense, not empty—but the calm before architecture is laid. Before a dynasty breathes its first real breath.
Simon dismissed the lesser demons to their training grounds. Their footsteps dragged, some growled, some crawled, but eventually they vanished into the fortress corridors like shadows scattering under order.
Only Eras remained, standing by the throne like a pillar of quiet loyalty.
Simon leaned back, fingers tapping the throne's obsidian armrest. Not restless—calculating.
"Eras," he said, voice low but steady, "tell me what I lack."
Eras didn't hesitate, nor soften his words.
"Experience. Infrastructure. A command chain. Loyal officers. Functional soldiers. Political ties. Territory stability."
"Anything else?" Simon asked dryly.
"Time," Eras added gently. "Though that is the one thing abyssal beings rarely fear."
Simon smirked. "I do not have eternity to waste."
Void energy stirred briefly—like a ripple in reality responding to determination rather than anger.
Eras bowed lightly.
"And that," he murmured, "is why you will succeed."
Simon rose from the throne and walked to the large war table—still dusty, unused, covered in bone fragments and ancient chalk sketches from rulers long dethroned.
He brushed the surface clean with a sweep of void energy, leaving it pristine.
A fresh canvas to carve the future.
"We define our pillars," Simon said. "The Shroud is established. Next—Marshals."
Eras stood beside him, hands crossed behind his back.
"Marshal candidates must understand command," Eras explained. "Strategy. Territory governance. Combat leadership. Abyssal magic discipline."
Simon's jaw tightened slightly.
"I have not seen a single demon here fit that description."
Eras looked away, shame flickering across his face.
"Orba discarded all who could rival him. He kept brutes, not thinkers. We stand on ruins, my king."
Simon did not scowl or sigh. His mind simply reoriented.
"Then we recruit externally."
Eras blinked. "From other demon lords?"
"No," Simon replied smoothly. "From free territories. From abandoned clans. From roaming mercenaries. I need demons with ambition, but not loyalty to existing kings."
Eras nodded slowly. "Unaligned talents. Exiles. Ex-military remnants."
"Yes."
Simon's hand moved across the table, etching symbols with void energy that shimmered silver–black like ink in gravityless water.
"We build a cradle for potential, not just power."
Eras inhaled softly, awe flickering again.
"You are not building an army, my king."
Simon lifted his eyes, cold but burning.
"I am building a system."
"Now—The Vanguard."
Simon's voice dropped lower; the word held weight.
"Elite force," Eras recited. "Frontline commanders, personal guard, executioners, crisis response."
"Killers with discipline," Simon murmured. "Not berserkers."
"And loyalty forged in structure," Eras added.
Simon turned his head slightly.
"You seem certain."
Eras gave a small smile.
"Because you inspire structure. And demons crave a leader who gives them purpose—more than fear or power alone ever could."
Simon didn't respond, but his gaze softened for a breath.
Then—
"We need three initial vanguard candidates. And training chambers. Combat arenas. Weapon forges. War priests. Healers."
Eras blinked. "Healers?"
Simon tapped the table again.
"A war that cannot recover its wounds will lose before it begins."
Eras stared.
"Human logic… in abyss warfare."
Simon smiled just enough to be visible.
"I do not play by abyss rules."
"You are rewriting them," Eras whispered.
They spent hours sketching plans across the obsidian war table—
Eras offering ancient abyssal military knowledge,
Simon challenging it, modifying it, refining it.
Sometimes Simon asked dozens of questions in a row—never frantic, always calm.
Sometimes his silence alone forced Eras to rethink his own answers.
Mistakes surfaced. Flaws revealed themselves. Plans shifted.
Not chaotic—evolving.
Simon noticed Eras stumble once when trying to calculate supply lines.
"Correct it," Simon ordered softly.
Eras did, then frowned. "Why trust me to structure so much?"
"Because you think," Simon replied.
"And you question."
Eras lowered his head.
A strange, earnest gratitude tightened his voice.
"In this abyss, I was a leftover. Now I am cornerstone."
Simon looked at him briefly.
"Cornerstones must carry weight. Do not fail."
Eras smiled faintly, unafraid.
"Failure is less frightening than a world where I did not meet you."
Simon said nothing—but the room felt warmer.
At Simon's signal, low-ranked abyssals were dispatched—
not as laborers or fodder like past kings used them…
…but as scouts with assignments:
map outer territories
locate intelligent demons in hiding
bring rumors of mercenaries
find combat arenas
track lone elite monsters
identify ruins and forgotten academies
map ley-lines and mana-flow routes
gather resource deposits
They marched not as mindless beasts, but with structured orders and route symbols burned into tablets.
Some struggled. Some misunderstood.
Simon corrected patiently yet firmly.
A king that teaches discipline instead of simply punishing failure
was unheard of here.
Which only made loyalty sharper.
Through it all, Simon kept his face unreadable, posture controlled. His thoughts moved in threads:
I know war in principle.
I do not know abyss warfare.
I know leadership by instinct.
But structures… power webs… demon politics…
These were new battlegrounds.
Yet the void inside him was calm.
A stabilizer.
A machine of clarity.
Doubt came— and passed like a ripple across steel.
When unsure, Simon asked. When uncertain, he tested. When faced with ancient abyss tradition, he challenged it until it broke or proved worthy.
Where fear might have lived in another man, focus lived in him instead.
---
At dusk—though abyss had no sun—Simon and Eras walked the ramparts overlooking the dark plains. Rivers of violet flame cut through obsidian wastelands. Winged beasts circled far off, like scraps of night broken free.
Eras gestured.
"Your realm borders two others. One ruled by the 8th king—Vorath. He values brute strength. The other ruled by the 10th—Kezzur, a collector of experiments."
"Will they test me?" Simon asked.
"Absolutely."
Simon leaned on the black stone railing.
"Good. I need tests."
Eras stared at him.
"Do you… enjoy the challenge?"
Simon breathed slowly.
"There is something… liberating… about stepping into a war where nothing about me fits the rules yet nothing about me is powerless."
Eras's gaze warmed.
"You are not chaos, my king. You are design."
Simon's lips lifted slightly.
"Chaos disguised as design is more dangerous."
After a long silence, Eras spoke again, almost casually—
"If we succeed in stabilizing our domain, we may reach the neutral city eventually."
Simon's head turned slightly.
"…Neutral city?"
Eras paused, then clarified:
"A city belonging to no Demon King. Independent. A trade and information hub. A rare sanctuary where even ranked demons may enter without conflict. It is… anomalous."
Simon went still.
A neutral hub. Trade. Information. Movement. Discretion.
Opportunity.
He didn't show excitement—but Eras noticed the shift in gaze.
"Tell me everything," Simon said.
Eras nodded slowly, as if realizing he may have just opened the door to something dangerous.
"It is called Nexara."
Simon repeated the name like testing the texture of a blade.
Nexara.
A place outside abyssal hierarchy. A loophole in a world of iron rules. A center of secrets.
A place a king could move unseen—
or a human could gather whispers without suspicion.
Finally—Simon spoke again.
Soft. Measured. Dangerously interested.
"Eras."
"Yes, my king?"
"Tomorrow, we continue building the Triad."
His fingers tightened on the railing ever so slightly.
"But soon… we will go to Nexara."
Eras smiled slowly.
"Of course."
Simon looked out into the abyss again.
Void stirred.
Power settled.
And ambition—quiet but sharpening—coiled like a blade waiting to be drawn.
The abyss will not remain as it is.
And somewhere in the darkness of the horizon, a city that belonged to no ruler waited.