[The First Day of Destruction]
"—I see. I was curious why the ants suddenly stopped their march. It appears there was a Sibyl among them. How fascinating."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It was a smooth baritone, magnetic yet utterly devoid of human warmth, vibrating in the very marrow of their bones.
Sharo and Grete snapped their heads upward.
Floating in the sky, silhouetted against the blinding disc of the sun, was a man. He wore a striped suit of reddish-brown, impeccably tailored to a frame that was lean and elegant. Round spectacles caught the light, obscuring his eyes in a flash of white reflection. To a casual observer, he might have passed for a wealthy merchant or perhaps a noble scholar inspecting his estate.
When did he…? Sharo's mind raced, adrenaline flooding her system like ice water. My detection magic didn't trigger. The perimeter wards remained silent. He didn't 'arrive'... he was simply there.
The man smiled. It was a polite expression, practiced and precise, but it did not reach his eyes.
"However, a Sibyl's precognition is usually limited to static geographical danger zones," the man lectured, his tone light. "It is quite powerless against… sudden, mobile calamities. Such as myself."
Grete's face went rigid. The blood drained from his cheeks as pieces of classified intelligence clicked together in his mind. The suit. The terrifying pressure. The nonchalant cruelty.
"That appearance… impossible," Grete breathed, his voice hitching. "You match the descriptions from the Holy Kingdom's fall. You are the Arch-Devil… Jaldabaoth?"
"Oh?"
The being tilted his head, a gesture of mock surprise.
"So the intelligence network of this nation is functional after all. To deduce my identity from a mere disguise… commendable. Or, perhaps, simply unfortunate for you."
Jaldabaoth descended. He did not fall; gravity seemed to release its hold on him, allowing him to lower himself to the forest floor with the weightless grace of a falling feather.
Why? Sharo thought, panic threatening to fracture her psyche. Zesshi is missing. The Elf King is gone. And now a Demon Emperor—a being that single-handedly devastated the Holy Kingdom—stands before us. The world has gone mad.
There was no discussion. No tactical meeting. Sharo and Grete, veterans of a hundred battles, made the same hand signal simultaneously.
Scatter. Retreat. Maximum dispersal.
The Clearwater Scripture were not warriors; they were spies. The Windflower were assassins, not soldiers. Against a disaster-class monster like Jaldabaoth, combat was suicide. Fleeing was the only logical recourse to preserve information.
However, logic did not apply here.
"—[Prostrate]."
The word was spoken softly, yet it carried the physical weight of a collapsing mountain.
It was not a suggestion. It was a rewrite of reality.
A wave of irresistible force slammed into the group. It was not mere gravity, but a spiritual mandate that the biological body could not refuse. The command bypassed the ears and struck directly at the nervous system.
"Guh—?!"
"Ahhhhh!"
"My… my body… it won't move!"
Like puppets with their strings severed, two hundred and fifty elite operatives were smashed into the dirt. The arcane steeds shrieked as their reinforced legs buckled, throwing their riders before collapsing themselves, muzzles pressed into the mud in terrified obeisance.
Move! Move, damn you!
Grete screamed internally, his will fighting a losing war against his own physiology. His muscles spasmed, veins bulging on his neck, but they would not obey. He was forced into a kneeling position, his head bowed, as if worshipping a dark god.
Powerful mind control? No… this is a Command Mantra. But against this many? Without a casting time?
Only two people remained somewhat upright.
Sharo and Grete had tumbled from their mounts, landing in crouches, panting heavily. Sweat drenched their armor instantly. Their magic resistance gear—artifacts of the highest tier available to the Theocracy's elite—glowed white-hot, emitting a high-pitched whine as they fought off the absolute domination. It was only this ancient magic that kept them from face-planting into the soil.
"Hoh?"
Jaldabaoth pushed up his glasses with a gloved finger.
"It seems the Captains possess items conferring resistance to mental interference. How prudent. Excellent. I do require live specimens."
He took a step forward. The casual nature of the movement was more terrifying than a charge. He walked among the groveling soldiers like a farmer walking through a crop of wheat, indifferent to the lives beneath his boots.
He smiled again. This time, his face seemed to split wider than humanly possible, revealing a glimpse of the predator beneath the skin.
"We are currently… adjusting our strategies. The destruction of the Holy Kingdom yielded excellent data, but we require fresh intelligence to refine the plan for the Sorcerer Kingdom's expansion. Therefore, I invite those of you with status to visit my ranch, The happy Farm. Or perhaps… Neuronist would enjoy fresh toys."
Grete didn't know who Neuronist was, but the wet, slurping tone in which the name was spoken implied a fate infinitely worse than death.
Clang.
Grete drew his twin swords. They were magic weapons, Shadow Blades, capable of cutting through steel like parchment. But in his hands, they felt as heavy as lead.
"… I'll buy time," Grete whispered, his voice trembling but his resolve harden. "Sharo. Run. Don't look back."
"Don't talk nonsense!" Sharo cried out, tears welling in her eyes, blurring her vision of the nightmare before her.
"You are a guerrilla fighter! You have the dexterity to escape! I am just a support caster!"
"GRETE! GO!"
"NO!"
Sharo did not run. She would not leave him to this monster.
She stomped her high-heeled boot into the mud, shattering the paralysis through sheer force of will, and lunged—not away, but toward the Demon Emperor.
She channeled every ounce of her mana, every scrap of her soul, into a single spell.
"[4th Tier Magic: Phantasmal Soldiers]!"
The surrounding air shimmered and warped. Five towering figures materialized, spectral warriors clad in heavy, translucent plate armor, wielding massive halberds. They weren't mere illusions; they were semi-corporeal constructs capable of inflicting physical trauma, summoned with a proficiency that exceeded the standard limits of the spell.
The phantoms charged toward the demon in the suit, their boots thundering against the earth in a silent roar.
Jaldabaoth did not raise a hand. He did not dodge. He simply watched them approach with the air of an art critic inspecting a forgery.
"—Five soldiers? Usually, this spell produces four. And their size is augmented by twenty percent," he muttered to himself, his voice calm amidst the charging steel. "A Talent? Or perhaps a synergy with a magical item? Interesting."
The spectral halberds swung down, aimed at his neck.
Jaldabaoth's smile deepened.
"You are the more valuable specimen. I shall secure you first."