Reason for last weeks lack of update: I had surgery last week and was unable to write much due to the recovery process.
POV: Meruem
After dealing with the so-called lord of shadows, Meruem told his sister and Adira to return on their own, explaining that he had another matter that required his attention. Lord Vaelgor would no doubt hold a grand feast to celebrate the fall of the cult that had been infesting his territory for some time, and Meruem had absolutely no desire to subject himself to that ordeal.
He suspected Athaliah was not particularly thrilled about dealing with Lord Vaelgor either, yet obligations were obligations. Since House Beleth had chosen to personally intervene in resolving the cult issue, House Vaelgor was bound by custom to host a celebration in their honor, which in turn required a representative of House Beleth to attend.
Meruem would sooner endure another skirmish than sit through a night of hollow praise and forced pleasantries, so Athaliah would have to bear that burden instead.
Better her than him.
"You two did well," Meruem said calmly as they walked through the forest, the crunch of leaves and soft hum of distant insects filling the air. "I trust you had no issues dealing with them?"
"None at all," Kuroka replied with a smug grin, stretching her arms lazily behind her head. "Most of them were peak middle class at best and couldn't even react before I tore through them."
"I would have expected the leaders of the cult to be high class," Meruem remarked mildly.
"Three of them were," Kuroka nodded. "At least in terms of raw energy quantity. It was obvious they did not earn that power naturally. They lacked experience and had no real mastery, which made them too sloppy."
"Still, you defeated three high class level beings," Rossweisse said, genuine admiration slipping into her voice.
"Well not directly," Kuroka replied with a casual shrug. "I'm not an idiot who wrestles head on when there is a far more refined way to handle things."
"So you ambushed them," Rossweisse said, her eyes narrowing.
"And poisoned them," Kuroka added cheerfully. "I manipulated the mist in the forest and turned it toxic, then waited until it fully circulated through their systems. After that, finishing them was easy peasy."
"That's not honorable," Rossweisse said with clear distaste.
"A win is a win," Kuroka replied, unconcerned.
"But that reflects badly on our master," Rossweisse shot back, irritation seeping into her tone. "As his servants, we are expected to uphold a standard above such tactics. We must not give the vultures something to feast on. If word spreads that the bishop of the crown prince relied on poison and ambushes, the media will seize on it immediately and twist it into accusations of cowardice and incompetence, undermining what should have been a flawless victory."
"Oh please," Kuroka scoffed. "You're looking at this through a valkyrie lens where honor and chivalry define everything. You are a devil now, and devils don't care about honor. Results are all that matter, and I delivered those results perfectly."
"You know that's not true," Rossweisse replied sharply. "Devils may claim they don't care about honor, but the moment someone rises high enough, they will scrutinize every action looking for faults. Even if they don't genuinely value honor, they will weaponize its absence to slander him, to call him weak, underhanded, or unworthy. They will do it simply because they can."
"So what?" Kuroka retorted, her tail flicking irritably. "We should risk ourselves unnecessarily just so they have one less excuse, even though they will find another anyway?"
"I'm saying you should not always default to the easiest option," Rossweisse replied firmly. "The peerage of the crown prince must remain above suspicion."
"I'm not interested in arguing with you about this, Rose," Kuroka said with a tired sigh.
Rossweisse exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated, and they continued on in a tense silence broken only by the sounds of the forest.
Since his return from exile had drawn closer, such arguments had become increasingly common between his two servants. Rossweisse was determined to ensure that nothing tarnished his reputation, believing it her duty as the queen of his peerage to present an image of flawless competence and dignity.
Her serious and studious nature compelled her to seek perfection in every aspect, power, skill, conduct, and reputation, leaving no opening for the lords of Hell to exploit or use his peerage as ammunition against him. Ever since their return to Sheol, she had been wound tight, as though constantly watched and evaluated, placing immense pressure upon herself.
Meruem suspected his mother's influence in this, likely pushing Rossweisse to embody the ideal queen worthy of her son.
He glanced at Valerie, who had been quietly walking beside him, listening to the exchange with visible concern.
"It was your first mission," he said gently. "How was it?"
"H-hmm?" Valerie startled slightly before straightening. "It was very good, master. Though I couldn't contribute much since Kuroka handled most of it. Still, it was a valuable experience, and I will work harder so I can be of more use in the future."
"Kuroka has been a devil far longer than you," Meruem replied evenly. "It is natural she would be faster and more efficient. You will have plenty of chances to close that gap."
It seems she still fears I will abandon her if she is not useful, he thought quietly.
Like many who had suffered abuse or emotional neglect, Valerie carried deep abandonment issues. She had convinced herself that he would discard her once he realized how, in her own view, worthless she was, and that fear drove her to constantly push herself to improve, desperate to prove she deserved to remain by his side.
"Did you really defeat gods, master?" Valerie asked softly, awe coloring her voice.
"They were not gods," Meruem corrected gently. "Not even close. And besides, they had a fundamental weakness that I could exploit. It wouldn't have been so simple otherwise."
"Still, the king's eye is incredible," Valerie said in wonder. "To see through all their schemes at a glance."
That was not entirely true. While the king's eye could analyze magic with frightening precision, his swift understanding of the lords of shadows stemmed from familiarity, because he had once created something similar himself.
"I've been thinking," Meruem said suddenly.
"About what?" Valerie asked.
"I always found calling an ocular ability the king's eye to be rather uninspired," he said thoughtfully. "I'm going to rename it."
"What will you call it?" Kuroka asked, curiosity sparking.
"The Alpha Stigma," Meruem declared.
Kuroka burst into giggles. "Why stigma?" she asked teasingly. "What are you being stigmatized for?"
"For being awesome," Meruem replied with complete seriousness.
That was enough to make all of them laugh, and the lingering tension evaporated as conversation resumed more freely while they continued their walk through the forest.
Meruem's thoughts inevitably returned to the lords of darkness, lingering on them with the detached focus of someone dissecting a solved problem long after the solution had already been reached.
They had been greedy, dangerously so, and far too reckless in how they acquired and used faith energy. He had understood their mistake almost immediately, largely because he was not unfamiliar with such systems himself. Faith was never a simple resource, and those who treated it as such paid a price sooner or later.
They used the mark as a conduit, a sigil etched into flesh and soul alike, binding each cultist to the spirits in a mutually dependent exchange. Through that mark, the faith of the followers flowed directly into the lords of darkness, a constant stream of belief, fear, reverence, and obsession transferred without delay.
The connection ensured that almost no faith energy was wasted, allowing it to be absorbed instantly and converted into power with staggering efficiency.
Once he understood the codependent nature of the pact, the rest had been trivial. He had sent Kuroka and Valerie to eliminate every member of the cult, leaving only Amras alive. With only a single believer remaining, the desires, beliefs, and emotional state of that one man became the sole shaping force behind the lords of darkness.
In their hunger for control, they had bound themselves completely to their worshippers, and in doing so had turned into slaves of the very faith they sought to exploit.
The gods had learned this lesson long ago, and painfully so, which was one of the primary reasons they rarely interfered in mortal affairs now compared to the distant past. In ancient times, when the gods first discovered that faith could elevate their power, they had rushed toward it without restraint or foresight. Rivalries escalated quickly, and none of them wished to stand idle while their enemies grew stronger through belief alone.
Thus began the competition for worshippers. It was one of the reasons the gods, despite being powerful and self-sufficient beings, had involved themselves so deeply with humanity in the first place.
In their attempts to gather faith, they inspired myths and legends that still echoed through the ages, tales of Zeus hurling thunderbolts from Olympus, of Hera's jealous wrath, of Athena's cunning wisdom and Ares' blood soaked battlefields.
Among the Norse, there were stories of Thor splitting mountains with Mjolnir, of Loki's endless trickery and betrayal, of Odin sacrificing his eye in pursuit of forbidden knowledge. The Egyptians spoke of Ra's journey across the sky, of Osiris' death and resurrection, of Isis' devotion and Anubis weighing the hearts of the dead.
Beyond them lay countless other pantheons, the Sumerian gods with their ancient city states, the Hindu devas locked in cosmic cycles, the Aztec gods demanding blood beneath the sun, many remembered, many more lost to time.
At first, the gods did not understand the danger of the path they were taking. They escalated continuously, gathering believers, forming civilizations structured entirely around worship, and refining methods to extract ever greater amounts of faith energy.
They performed miracles to reinforce devotion, established traditions and rituals, dictated prayers, fasting, offerings, and commandments, all designed to deepen belief and tighten the bond.
The more faithfully mortals followed these rules and revered their gods in prescribed ways, the more faith energy flowed upward. That was how religions were born, how rituals took shape, and why acts such as prayer and fasting existed, as mechanisms to strengthen faith and harvest its power.
In their arrogance, the gods often chose the easiest path, assimilating themselves into the existing cultures of their followers and allowing mortals to worship them according to familiar customs. It was a decision that would later prove disastrous.
Belief never came in a single shape. Each worshipper carried a different image, a different expectation, a different fear or hope projected onto the divine. Over time, those countless impressions began to shape the gods themselves, subtly at first, then more apparent.
They started to behave as mortals believed they should, to conform to the roles written for them in story and prayer. Faith, when vast enough, could shape and even dominate a god, and thus the end of the age of gods slowly approached.
By the time many of them noticed the changes within themselves, it was already too late to reverse completely. They attempted damage control, withdrawing from faith energy and limiting their reliance on it, and while they succeeded to a degree, the scars remained.
The Norse gods, worshipped by a people who believed in inevitable doom, became bound to that belief. Even their mightiest figures carried the certainty of an end, marching toward Ragnarök with grim resolve. That prophecy had become one of their greatest fears, a fate they struggled against even now, despite knowing how futile such efforts were.
The Greek gods, shaped by tales of excess, rivalry, and passion, became reflections of mortal flaws magnified to divine proportions. They were trapped within the narratives spun by poets and worshippers, their identities hardened by expectation until growth itself became impossible. They could not escape the roles assigned to them, no matter how stifling those roles became.
It was why gods who had once been incomprehensible and alien now behaved so human. Centuries of worship had granted them power at the cost of autonomy, confining them within the certainty of mortal imagination, until many of them forgot what they had been before faith strengthened them and hollowed them out in equal measure.
"Where are we going, if I may ask, master?" Valerie asked, breaking the long silence as they walked.
"There is no need to be so formal with me, my dear," Meruem replied with a soft chuckle. "You'll be staying with us for a long time. I would rather we were comfortable around each other."
"O-of course mas- Meruem," she corrected herself with a small flustered stutter.
"There you go," he said with a faint smile. "That was easy enough. As for your question, we're heading to the Eye of the Pit. I need to speak with Maerach Redmane."
"Who is that?" she asked curiously.
"He's the Warden of the Pit and a general of the highest class," Meruem answered. "He was born a low class devil, yet through deeds of exceptional valor during the civil war, my father raised him to nobility. Since then his rise has been steady and well earned. He is without question someone worthy of respect."
Maerach Redmane was, put mildly, a badass. Legend made flesh. He had served as a soldier during the civil war, earning the name Redmane for his thick, lustrous crimson hair that became a familiar sight on countless battlefields.
He was elevated to nobility in his twentieth year by King Andrameleth Beleth himself after displaying overwhelming prowess during the Battle of the Dry Marches, where he defeated Edward Ipos the Cruel and Mahiba the Mad, Lord of House Marbas. Near the end of the war, he slew Orian the Trickster, last scion of the great House of Aim, in single combat.
A hundred years ago, he was named Lord of the Pit by royal decree, despite widespread outrage that a former low class devil would be granted such a title. He defended that position against numerous challengers, proving each time that the king's decision had been justified.
He carried King Andrameleth to safety during the storming of Sheol by Damaidosu Zereikel Asmodeus, suffering grave wounds in the process, and later successfully repelled multiple incursions from the Pit itself. His accomplishments were too many to list in full.
Despite his rank, Maerach never claimed land, though it was his right as a noble. Instead, he requested the position of Warden of the Pit, having been born in the region most vulnerable to incursions should the Pit ever breach its boundaries. He chose the role to prevent such disasters and to protect the low class devils who still lived there.
"He must be impressive to earn praise from you," Kuroka said with a smile.
"Of course," Meruem replied evenly. "He's the only person who ever defeated me consistently when it came to pure skill."
The original Meruem had never looked down on Maerach. On the contrary, he had respected him deeply, sparring with him on multiple occasions and losing more often than he won, a fact he had never forgotten.
After flying for some time, they finally reached the fortress, and the sight of it drew Meruem's attention immediately. Three colossal red portals dominated the horizon, each at least two hundred meters in both length and width, spaced nearly a kilometer apart, their edges rippling endlessly as they remained permanently open by the will of Tiamat.
Around each portal sprawled an intricate network of fortresses and military encampments, layered defenses built with grim pragmatism rather than beauty. Countless soldiers moved through the area with disciplined purpose, some squadrons clad in classical knightly armor marching into the portals in tight formation, while others emerged from them battered and weary, their armor scorched, dented, or stained by battles fought beyond the Gate.
He knew how the place looked from the original Meruem's memories, yet seeing it with his own eyes was something else entirely. A suffocating pressure rolled outward from it, a weight that pressed against his senses and made the air feel heavy and hostile.
Memory could convey shape and scale, but it could not convey this, the visceral dread that crawled along his spine when faced with a wound torn into reality itself.
He could not help but feel a flicker of unease at the thought of the being responsible for such a feat. Tiamat must be unimaginably terrifying to tear the world open so casually and leave it gaping.
They landed some distance away from the main camp and proceeded on foot toward the fortress at an unhurried pace. As they drew closer, the structure revealed itself in full.
It was the citadel tasked with anchoring the wound in reality, the seat of the lord commander of the four legions stationed at the Pit.
The fortress took the form of a massive ringed stronghold, half sunken into the warped ground as though the land itself had buckled beneath its weight. It was constructed from void black stone mined directly from the Pit, its surface swallowing light and giving the fortress an oppressive, almost predatory presence.
He saw the awe reflected clearly in the eyes of his companions, all of them staring in open wonder at the sheer scale and menace of the place.
As they arrived at the fortress gates, two long lines of soldiers came into view, flanking a perfectly maintained stone path that stretched nearly fifty meters ahead. Every soldier stood immaculately straight, armor polished, weapons secured, their movements synchronized as they saluted with unmistakable respect.
At the far end of the formation stood a tall man with long, fiery red hair and black armor that was both beautiful and unmistakably high quality, its craftsmanship evident even at a glance.
Kuroka had already transformed into her cat form and was now being carried comfortably by Valerie. Meruem walked through the corridor of soldiers at an unhurried pace, nodding lightly at several faces he recognized along the way, gestures that visibly stirred pride and renewed resolve among those who received them.
When he reached the end of the line, the red haired man lowered himself to one knee, one fist pressed firmly to the ground as he spoke in a steady, resonant voice. "Your Highness! Scarhold is yours."
Meruem greeted him with easy familiarity and exchanged words with the other senior generals who had left their posts to welcome him. He spoke briefly with them and then with several of the assembled soldiers, answering questions and offering comments without ceremony.
He did not mind conversing with those stationed at the Pit, as they were too exhausted by constant danger to care for hollow pleasantries or veiled insults. Here, only results mattered, and blunt honesty was valued above all else.
Maerach soon led him inside the fortress, where a carefully prepared meal awaited them. They sat down at once, while Rossweisse and the others were guided through the citadel by attendants tasked with showing them around. Meruem remained behind to speak privately with Maerach.
"Allow me to congratulate you once again, my prince, on your return from exile," Maerach said warmly. "I regret that I couldn't attend the celebrations, but it would not have been right for the commander to abandon his soldiers in order to indulge in festivities."
"Thank you," Meruem replied with a faint smile. "You should allow yourself time to rest one of these days. I'm sure your soldiers wouldn't begrudge you a week or two away from this place."
"I'll rest when those sons of bitches cease to terrorize my kin," Maerach answered without hesitation.
Meruem let out a quiet chuckle. "Maerach the Crimson resting. That would indeed be a sight worth seeing."
Maerach's expression softened slightly. "It's not that I lack the desire to rest," he said calmly. "Yet I swore an oath to remain vigilant and restless, to guard this realm with my life if necessary, and to never abandon my post so long as breath remains in my body."
Every Warden of the Pit was required to take such an oath, placing the safety of the realm above all else.
"I doubt the oath was meant to be taken quite so literally," Meruem replied with amusement. "And it's not a binding oath anyway. No one would dare call you an oath breaker for taking time to care for yourself."
"What others might say matters little to me," Maerach replied evenly. "That oath matters to me enough that it might as well be binding. The title of Warden has been borne by figures far greater than I. I can only strive to walk in the shadow of their footsteps without bringing dishonor to the office."
Seeing a humble devil was like hearing a politician admit they were wrong, a rare occurrence and all the more striking because of it.
"Humble, are we?" Meruem asked with a hint of amusement.
"Not in the slightest," Maerach answered seriously. "Tell me, have I ever explained to you why being Warden of the Pit is so important to me?"
"I'm fairly certain I would remember if you had," Meruem replied, lifting his cup and taking a measured sip of wine.
"It was during my youth, when I was even younger than you are now," Maerach began.
"So, back when the sun was still young?" Meruem remarked lightly.
"Cheeky," Maerach said with a faint smile, though there was warmth in his eyes as he waved the remark aside. "But I digress. The sun hadn't yet been installed by the new Satans back then. It was during the early stages of the civil war. In any case, as you no doubt recall from your lessons, there was a Pit Break, the third largest ever recorded.
"It was catastrophic, largely because the soldiers who should have responded to the outbreak were desperately needed elsewhere for the war effort. Only a single legion remained stationed at the Pit, as most experts believed that a beast incursion was unlikely at the time, allowing House Beleth to commit the majority of its forces to supporting the anti Satan coalitions. As the saying goes, anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and fate saw fit to prove it true once more."
Maerach's voice grew heavier as he continued. "It turned out to be one of the deadliest Pit outbreaks in history. You can imagine the scale of destruction and the sheer number of lives lost. When the king learned of it, he withdrew from the civil war without hesitation to deal with the crisis, yet until the army could arrive and push back the beasts, every passing moment balanced between death and salvation. By all rights, I should have died that day, along with many others, had it not been for his arrival."
"Who?" Meruem asked, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.
"The Knight of Hell," Maerach replied, reverence and devotion woven into his words. "He was the Warden of the Pit at the time, and though he had already been fighting for weeks at the epicenter of the beast incursions, he didn't rest. After stabilizing the situation at the Pit itself, he rushed to our aid with twelve companions, leaving the rest behind to hold the line."
Maerach's gaze drifted into the distance, his eyes unfocused as memory overtook him. "By then, we were barely surviving, and death felt inevitable. Hope was a fragile thing among low class citizens, almost an absurd notion. And then he came, descending like a comet from the sky, carrying hope with him. He began fighting alongside his twelve companions, cutting through the beasts with relentless fury.
"He shouted, 'Though the darkness may seem insurmountable, the day shall come. Rejoice, people of Hell, reinforcement is coming.' Whether it was true or not mattered little. That single declaration, that single act of a noble coming to fight for us, the downtrodden and forgotten, was enough to reignite our will to live, and we continued fighting while repeating those words among ourselves, telling each other that the day would come."
"What happened after that?" Meruem asked, now fully absorbed in the story.
"We fought without end," Maerach said quietly. "The reinforcements, unknown to us, were intercepted by the old Satan faction and delayed. Thousands of low class devils clung to life, largely because the Knight of Hell and his soldiers bore the worst of the assault. In such a hopeless situation, tell me, what choice do you think any ordinary noble would make?"
"The choice between continuing to fight for low class devils and risking death," Meruem replied after a moment of thought, "or abandoning them to save oneself. I would wager that most devils would choose survival. Our race has never been known for self sacrifice, especially when it concerns those considered lesser."
"Exactly," Maerach said with a slow nod. "Low class devils are often treated as expendable, little better than tools. The life of a single aristocrat is valued above thousands of them. He could have left us, escaped with his life, and still been hailed as a hero. We begged him and his companions to go, to not throw their lives away for us, telling him that he had already done more than anyone could ask. Do you know what he said in response?"
Meruem shook his head.
"'I will not abandon my people,'" Maerach said, his voice thick with emotion. "Then he raised his sword to the heavens and swore, 'I swear by whatever is holy or unholy, or whatever the fuck is in fashion these days, that I will save at least half of you or die in the attempt.' We were stunned, unable to comprehend what we were witnessing. A noble risking his life for us, a devil fighting to save others with no promise of reward or glory.
"When the creatures of the Pit descended upon us like a tide of nightmares, the only thing standing between us and annihilation was the Knight of Hell and his twelve companions, laughing as they charged into the horde. I remember thinking then, and I know the others thought the same, that this was a man worth serving, worth fighting for, worth dying for, and worthy of being king of devils."
Meruem found himself quietly moved by the tale, wondering how such a figure could have faded into obscurity.
"And did the reinforcements arrive in time?" he asked.
"On time is a matter of perspective," Maerach replied. "We heard the trumpets of House Beleth, and for a brief moment the despair in our hearts lifted. The Knight of Hell shouted, 'The day has come. Behold, children of Morningstar, the day has come.' Yet he was exhausted, and one of the Pit creatures struck him down. White flame consumed him, and even as he fell, he laughed. None of the twelve survived that day."
Silence settled between them, heavy and sorrowful.
"So that's why you take the oath so personally," Meruem said at last.
"Yes," Maerach replied softly. "The Knight of Hell was the greatest devil I have ever known, and in his final moments his spirit burned brighter than the Morningstar himself. To stand where he once stood is a burden and an honor, and I can do nothing less than devote myself completely in the hope of becoming worthy of even a fragment of that legacy."
Meruem did not know what to say, so he remained silent, slowly drinking his wine. He could easily imagine why so little information about the Knight of Hell remained, as the aristocracy would have viewed his death as foolish, a pointless sacrifice for those they deemed vermin.
They would have dismissed it as stupidity, yet most devil lords were already forgotten, while the Knight of Hell lived on vividly in the memory of Maerach, inspiring devotion long after his death.
Immortality through memory must have been an alien concept to devils, beings who lived for millennia and saw legacy as irrelevant, since death itself felt distant and abstract. Yet this knight had achieved a different kind of eternity, one born from character and conviction rather than raw power.
From a romantic perspective, there was undeniable beauty in it, the idea that meaning and remembrance could transcend death, turning a fleeting life into something eternal through sacrifice and moral clarity.
Even so, it was not a path Meruem desired for himself. He sought power so absolute that saving others would never require sacrifice, strength so overwhelming that no obstacle could force such a choice upon him.
That was the dream Meruem pursued, one where protection and victory were achieved through supremacy rather than martyrdom.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," Maerach said with a faintly embarrassed smile, lowering his head a fraction. "It seems I have led us quite far off course. It's unusual for me to speak so freely, yet there is something about you that makes it easy to lay my thoughts bare."
Meruem simply listened without interrupting, allowing the moment to settle naturally. In Hell, where most conversations were contests of ego and self importance, the simple act of listening without asserting oneself was rare enough to be mistaken for a virtue rather than basic courtesy.
"Don't apologize," Meruem replied with a gentle smile. "I enjoyed hearing it. It was a fascinating story, and admittedly an unusual one for a devil. One does not often encounter someone here who still entertains ideas such as chivalry and noblesse oblige."
The nature of devils had always struck Meruem as what he privately described as romantic excess turned inward, a way of living where emotion is taken seriously to the point that it becomes the center of identity and the only measure by which meaning is judged.
Every desire is followed fully and every impulse is treated as something sacred and not something that ought to be questioned or softened by restraint.
Devils are moved by passion in the same way humans are, yet they never step back from it or ask whether it should be shaped or limited. Because of this, pride grew unchecked until it became entitlement, greed widened into an appetite that could never be satisfied, and vanity hardened into a constant hunger to be seen, desired, and affirmed by others.
They experience love as fixation, joy as indulgence, and selfhood as something to be constantly loved and glorified. Rarely did they question whether their passions harmed those around them, because their attention was always pulled inward toward the intensity of their own feelings and the thrill of fully inhabiting them.
This inward turning of romance means that their love often collapses into obsession, their self admiration hardens into cruelty, and their devotion to feeling transforms them into creatures who circle endlessly around their own wants, feeding on experience while never truly feeling full.
In this way devils appear dramatic, expressive, and intensely alive, yet beneath that surface there is a quiet emptiness that comes from living entirely within the echo of one's own desire, where every emotion burns brightly for a moment and then demands more fuel, more excess, and more surrender to the self.
"Yes," Maerach said softly after a moment. "I believe the strong have an obligation to protect the weak and to prevent suffering wherever they can."
"That is certainly a perspective," Meruem replied calmly. "Almost very Christian one, if I may say so. I hold a different view on power and obligation, though I suspect this is not the time for such a debate."
"I suppose it's not," Maerach said with a warm laugh. "Before anything else, I wish to thank you for your aid in dealing with the Ferrum Exsulum. They had grown into a persistent nuisance."
"You're welcome," Meruem replied evenly. "I was somewhat surprised to receive your message requesting an audience with me."
"Truly?" Maerach said, raising an eyebrow. "I would have thought that to be a common occurrence by now, Lord of rings! The lords of hell should be lining up on their knees for you with tongues out for any squirt of attention to swallow."
"Perhaps," Meruem said mildly. "I have been occupied with other matters, and I have not yet found the time or the inclination to dangle meat in front of hyenas."
Maerach lifted his cup in a small toast, his expression sincere. "Then I'm honored that you chose to answer me first."
"You stand as the sole barrier between anarchy and order within this domain," Meruem replied calmly. "It's only reasonable that your request would take priority. I don't believe I had misjudged you so severely that you would abuse such consideration simply to waste my time."
"Even so, I'm grateful," Maerach said. "The reason I sought this audience concerns your rings of power. From what I have gathered, they are capable of directing the flow of crude demonic energy according to the will of the wielder."
"That's correct," Meruem replied. "They're primarily driven by willpower, and factors such as speed and efficiency depend entirely on the individual using them."
"I see," Maerach said thoughtfully. "Would it be possible to use one of these rings to direct the flow of demonic energy within the Pit itself?"
That was an interesting question, Meruem thought, as his gaze sharpened slightly. If the flow of energy within the Pit could be manipulated, it would dramatically improve defensive measures and containment strategies.
"No," Meruem answered after a brief pause. "I'm afraid that will not work. The rings can only direct crude demonic energy, and only that. The energy within the Pit has merged so thoroughly with the power leaking from the dimensional gap that it has effectively become its own distinct form."
The sub dimension known as the Pit was estimated to be roughly the size of Antarctica, formed when the demonic energy of the Underworld reacted violently with the energy of the dimensional rupture.
Because of this, it could not accurately be described as being composed of either demonic energy or dimensional Gap energy alone. Unlike the Underworld, where demonic energy poisoned the soil itself, the Pit was paradoxically fertile, its ground capable of sustaining life on an enormous scale.
This made it a potential game changer for the Underworld. A landmass of such size and fertility was something the lords of Hell would kill to possess, and there had been numerous fruitless joint operations between House Beleth and other Pillar Houses to purge the Pit of the beasts infesting it.
Even the greatest alliance assembled two hundred and fifty years ago had achieved little lasting success.
Meruem had no intention of letting an asset like this go to waste. He already had a plan to break Tiamat's curse and reclaim the Pit's potential, though that ambition would have to wait for another time.
"I expected that," Maerach said with a quiet sigh, his shoulders lowering slightly as though the weight of the Pit itself rested upon them. "It's disappointing nonetheless. The wrath of Tiamat is far too vast to be overcome through simple means."
"She is a Dragon King, after all," Meruem replied calmly, swirling the wine in his glass as his gaze remained steady. "Yet every being, regardless of how immense or insignificant, possesses desires, needs, or instincts that can be exploited if one is patient enough to uncover them."
"You have a plan?" Maerach asked, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
"A few," Meruem answered evenly. "Though there are variables I still need to confirm before I can speak with any real certainty."
"That alone gives me hope," Maerach said, setting his wine glass aside as his expression softened into something almost wistful. "Hope is a scarce commodity here."
He then studied Meruem closely, hesitation visible in the way his fingers tapped against the table, as though weighing whether the next words were worth the risk they carried. "There's another matter I must inform you of, your highness," Maerach said at last, his tone more careful. "A warning, of sorts."
"A warning?" Meruem repeated, one eyebrow lifting in interest.
"Yes," Maerach replied. "I'm not as removed from the political arena of Hell as some might believe. My informants have reported a growing sense of dissatisfaction among certain subjects of the king, along with the unmistakable scent of conspiracy gathering behind closed doors."
That drew Meruem's full attention. Since his transmigration into this world, he had devoted himself almost entirely to cultivating personal power, as power was the ultimate currency here, and in doing so he had largely neglected the political sphere, aided by his exile and a natural distaste for such games.
"Go on," Meruem said, meeting Maerach's gaze with renewed focus.
"It's difficult to separate rumor from fact at this stage," Maerach began cautiously. "Much of what reaches me is fragmented, contradictory, and deliberately obscured, which suggests to me that someone is being very careful."
"And what do these rumors claim?" Meruem asked.
"That certain vassals of House Beleth have begun refusing royal commands," Maerach explained, "and have even gone so far as to withhold their taxes."
That's troublesome, Meruem thought, and his instincts told him it was far from a simple act of defiance.
"I suspect there is more at work here than ordinary vassal dissatisfaction," Maerach continued gravely.
"In what way?"
"To refuse orders and taxes is not merely insolence," Maerach said, his voice steady but firm. "To do so against House Beleth, one of the mightiest Pillar Houses, is suicidal under normal circumstances. Such behavior sets a dangerous precedent, implying that vassals may defy their liege without consequence, and history shows that such sparks are usually extinguished immediately. No vassal house would gamble annihilation for wounded pride alone."
"Unless they were assured protection," Meruem said slowly, realization settling in.
"Precisely," Maerach confirmed. "Despite the other Pillar Houses mocking Beleth for weakening itself through its obligation to the Pit, they are acutely aware of the boundless potential the Eye of the Pit holds if Tiamat's wound were sealed or the beasts within finally eradicated."
The Eye of the Pit had long crippled House Beleth's ability to project power beyond its borders, as constant vigilance was required in case of another outbreak. The other Pillar Houses never missed an opportunity to sneer at this constraint, joking that nothing ever escaped Beleth's territory, least of all its own soldiers.
"I believe this is part of a long term scheme," Maerach said heavily, "one that has likely been unfolding for decades, perhaps even centuries, with the ultimate goal of weakening House Beleth to the point of extinction."
"They may scheme as they please," Meruem replied with unshaken confidence. "In the end, it will amount to nothing."
Maerach studied him carefully. "And what gives you such certainty, your highness?"
Meruem smiled, a sharp glint of something ancient and dangerous in his eyes. "Because I exist. As long as I draw breath, any who conspire against my house and my domain are welcome to come forth. Let them gather their plots and whisper their lies, for destruction and ruin shall be their lot, and their ambitions will break against me like waves against an unyielding shore."
Maerach laughed, genuine amusement lighting his face. "I believe you," he said warmly. "Even so, I would urge caution. Pride has ended many great figures, and your exile proves that even you are not beyond the reach of their machinations."
"You suspect someone was guiding Sirzechs?" Meruem asked with interest, recalling his mother's similar suspicions.
"There's no doubt in my mind," Maerach replied bluntly. "Sirzechs Lucifer is a coward and a fool. He would never act so boldly against a Pillar House, let alone one bearing rank of a king. Such recklessness doesn't align with his nature."
Meruem chuckled softly at the venom in Maerach's voice. It was ironic, given that Maerach was progressive and outspoken in his advocacy for greater rights for lower class and reincarnated devils, values that one might assume would align him with the current Satans, yet he despised them deeply.
In his eyes, their failure to address the danger of the Pit despite possessing immense power was unforgivable.
"Thank you for the warning, Maerach," Meruem said sincerely. "I will remember it."
"That's all I ask, your highness," Maerach replied with a respectful smile.
They spoke at length afterward, with Maerach briefing him on further developments concerning the Eye of the Pit, after which Meruem and his peerage entered the Pit itself to gain firsthand experience.
The girls were profoundly impressed by its vast, alien nature and could not help but feel reverence for the Dragon King responsible for its creation.
Not long after, they took their leave.
AN: The name of the King's Eye has been changed to Alpha Stigma based on a patron's suggestion, and I ended up liking it quite a bit. For the future memebr of the peerage (not finalized yet) I'm considering Meredith Ordinton (likely as a Rook), and Ingvild will probably require eight Pawn pieces. That leaves two Knight pieces and one rook piece unused, so if you have any suggestions, feel free to share them. This story is three chapters ahead on patreon with more coming. Consider supporting me there:patreon.com/abeltargaryen?