The fact that the defensive barrier had been halved spread quietly through the castle from the night before. Three supply lines of the source vein had been severed simultaneously, and the barrier magic protecting the Demon King's Castle Volnagrad had dropped to forty-seven percent of normal capacity——everyone knew what that meant. The jet-black fortress towering on the crater's edge of the active volcano Gromd Caldera now possessed only half the shield it once had. The emergency summons echoed through the Hall of Judgment before dawn. --- "Optimal defensive positions based on Manual Chapter Nine." Gareth Varoon slammed the documents onto the table. Or rather, he placed them carefully with both hands——but the hardness in his voice made it look like a slam. His silver-white hair stood rigid, his blue eyes fixed straight ahead. "[serious]We'll narrow the eastern wing defense posts to three points and intercept with crossfire. Even with the source vein lines severed, this configuration maximizes wall defense efficiency." Yuki glanced at the documents. One glance was enough. "[cold]All three of those points are positioned within one hundred meters of the eastern source vein circuit." "According to the manual——" "[cold]The manual doesn't account for a forty-seven percent source vein state." "Then as a supplementary measure for severed source veins——" "[cold]That supplementary measure was proven non-functional in the field yesterday." Silence. Gareth opened his mouth. Yuki inserted a document. Gareth tried to brush it away. Yuki added another sheet. A bundle of papers began floating between them, and in the orange glow of the Hall of Judgment's lava lighting, a silent but ferocious document battle unfolded. "[angry]A plan that doesn't incorporate field judgment isn't a plan at all!" "[serious]Incorporating field judgment reduces plan reproducibility!" "[angry]Results matter more than reproducibility——" "[serious]Procedure matters more than results——" "Give me the——" "I won't——" Flap flap flap flap!!! Documents scattered everywhere. From the desk to the floor. Some slid all the way to the wall near the lava lighting. Both reached down simultaneously to gather them, and their heads collided with a dull thud. "Ugh...!" "..." The door burst open. "[excited]Everyone! The evacuation guidance plan is complete——!" Dolkias Melve came flying in. A lanky man with restless eyes, both hands raised high. Those hands were empty. Dolkias looked at his own hands. Dolkias looked around the room. "[surprised]...I may have dropped it in the hallway." With that, he ran off again. Zephadoor looked up from his racing quill pen. A large man bearing the title of Hell Duke, his crimson eyes sliding across the documents. "[serious]In this emergency, I have prepared a formal punishment application for the enemy soldiers. Form Number Three." Diabolos's voice fell quietly. "[cold]...What are you doing right now?" "[serious]Without formal punishment for unauthorized intrusion, there's no precedent——" "[cold]Silence." Zephadoor closed his mouth. Only his pen continued moving. Diabolos surveyed the circular hall of the Hall of Judgment. Lava slid down the walls, orange light flickering. Documents scattered across the floor. Gareth and Yuki still glared at each other. Dolkias bustled about in the hallway. Zephadoor continued writing punishment applications. Report from the east. Report from the south. Report from the northern wing wall garrison. Report from the western third gate. All four directions simultaneously. (Where do I even start?) Two seconds of wavering thought. In those two seconds, the eastern wing report changed from "enemy unit confirmed" to "contact." --- The Holy Pilgrimage of Leaden Iron——official name Turba Ferroalba——deployed eighteen hundred regular knights to the front lines at dawn. Six thousand two hundred in total. A militant knight order founded four years ago by former mercenary captain Orvan Drexia, bearing the banner of "complete eradication of the demon race and absolute defense of human territory." Based in the fortress city of Cardonas on the central continent of Seriora, they now set foot on the northern continent of Morg Zaren. Their weapons were mixed with holy silver. A material that physically severed the demon race's ability to connect with the source vein——the wellspring of magical power flowing through the earth. Demon soldiers who made contact crumbled one after another. The sensation of losing magical power was said to be a terror close to death for the demon race. The human knights wielded it as a weapon, pushing forward line by line toward the castle walls. Diabolos stood atop the castle wall. Infernal Flame Art——a high-level magic exclusive to the Demon King that generated black-purple flames, burning both matter and spirit. No incantation required; activated by will alone. But the higher the output, the greater the strain on the source vein, damaging the very earth. Widespread use would cause Morg Zaren's foundation itself to wither. He had to hold back. His greatest weapon, unable to be used at full power. Small flames scorched the enemy front line twice, three times. But the six thousand strong marched forward over them. At the head stood one man. Silver full-body armor. Tall as the demon race, yet possessing a human body. The sword gripped in his right hand——Graolis, the Dawn Blade, the highest rank among holy weapons——burned with brilliant light as it caught the morning sun. Orvan Drexia. "[serious]The castle's defenses are less than half." The man's voice reached the top of the wall. "[serious]Your Demon King is probably alone inside the castle thinking right now. That's his habit." Diabolos's back teeth clenched faintly. Graolis rose. It came down. Crash!!!! The blade bit into the black stone of the outer wall. A crack spread from that point. It extended horizontally, vertically, tearing the castle's black rock into a web of fractures. The entire castle shook. Lava spray scattered from the walls. Even deep in the Hall of Judgment, the sound of something collapsing could be heard. Two hundred forty years. Never once had anyone breached it. For the first time, an enemy blade reached his castle. That sensation pierced through him like cold water. Not anger. The certain sensation of defeat. "[cold]...Don't scar my castle." He said it in a voice no one could hear. --- And judgment was overwritten. Perfectionism showed its face at the worst possible moment. (I'll finish him myself.) He leaped from the castle wall. Alone. The surrounding soldiers cried out. No time to stop him. Diabolos kicked off toward Orvan, meeting the silver-armored man on the stone pavement. He tried to activate Infernal Flame Art. ——Nothing came. What had flowed through his body vanished. His connection to the source vein was severed. A holy silver barrier deployed around Orvan. By the time he realized it, he'd already stepped inside. Infernal Flame Art wouldn't activate. Power wouldn't gather. The sensation of being cut off from the source vein——as if torn from the earth itself, as if the core of his body had become hollow——spread through him entirely. For the first time since that night two hundred forty years ago, when he nearly died during the Ritual of the Abyss Throne——the ceremony of direct fusion with the source vein that made him Demon King. His knee touched the stone pavement. "[serious]Two hundred forty years, then." Orvan approached. Slowly. Without hurry. "[serious]You can't stand without magic. That is your true nature." The Dawn Blade Graolis was leveled at Diabolos's throat. The blade's tip stopped one meter away. The silver-armored man stood there, looking down. "[cold]The age of demons is over." Pride, fear, everything from two hundred forty years, converged at this single point. He couldn't use magic. Couldn't stand. Yet his eyes alone looked up at Orvan, straight and unflinching. --- In that instant. In the Hall of Judgment within the castle—— Gareth and Yuki stopped pushing documents at each other and froze. The roar of the outer wall shattering shook the entire castle, and both stopped simultaneously. "...The Demon King..." "...The Demon King..." They spoke in perfect unison and met each other's eyes. In the hallway, Dolkias was carefully returning with a bundle of documents in both arms. "[excited]Found it!...Oh, this is last week's lunch menu." In the corner, Zephadoor continued his quill work, muttering. "[serious]...Since the individual names of enemy soldiers are unknown, I'll submit under 'and others.'" Those few seconds definitely existed. --- A figure flew in from the side. Silver hair whipped. Pale blue eyes fixed on a single point. Yuki stood before Diabolos. An arrow released by Orvan's subordinate——a holy silver arrow——tore through the air. It struck her right shoulder. "Ugh——" The pain of source vein backlash, which the human-descended body had lower resistance to than pure demons, shot through her. Yet Yuki didn't fall. Stumbling, she grabbed Diabolos's arm. She dragged him toward the escape route and began to run. Her feet faltered. She didn't let go. Orvan's encirclement broke for an instant. Through that gap, they ran. Across stone pavement, through corridors, down stairs. Deeper into the Demon King's Castle Volnagrad. Deeper still. A heavy door closed. The sound was swallowed by the stone walls. --- Deep underground. A stone chamber near the source vein's nexus point. Yuki slid down the wall, her back against it. The arrow lodged in her right shoulder stained the wall and her clothes red. Diabolos crouched down and reached for the arrow. "[cold]I'm pulling it out." "[serious]There's no time......" "We'll talk later." "[serious]There's no time." Her voice cut through. Diabolos stopped. Yuki looked up. Her face was pale blue. Sweat glistened. Yet her eyes held their usual color. They didn't waver. "[whispers]If we combine Gareth's knowledge...with my field judgment...there might still be...a way." Her breathing was shallow. Her voice broke. Yet she continued. "[whispers]If we reroute the remaining source vein circuits...not through the east but from deep underground...we might be able...to reconstruct the barrier. If we combine the route Gareth calculated...with the back passage I know——" Her voice stopped. Diabolos looked at Yuki. Her wounded shoulder. The arrow still lodged. Blood seeping. Yet this woman spoke of strategy. Until consciousness nearly slipped away. (Two hundred forty years. I've done it alone.) Because his subordinates were incompetent. Because he couldn't trust anyone. Because bearing it alone meant no failure. That's what he'd thought. What he'd believed all along. He was wrong. Fundamentally wrong. He simply lacked the courage to trust others. Diabolos held Yuki's wounded hand in both of his. "[whispers]...I understand." One beat of silence. A beat heavy with two hundred forty years. "[whispers]I'll try to trust you." It wasn't surrender. It was his first act of faith. Yuki's lips moved slightly. She tried to say something——but no sound came. Just before consciousness faded, she stopped. That expression wasn't anger or pain. It looked almost relieved. Diabolos noticed. That noticing was all that remained in this dark stone chamber. Beyond the heavy door, the sound of Orvan Drexia's pursuit drew closer.