[The First Day of Destruction]
He looked at Sharo.
"Sharo! RUN!"
Grete lunged forward, ignoring the leaden weight in his limbs. Desperation fueled him, overriding the primal fear that screamed at him to stay down.
But the Demon Emperor's gaze had already landed on the woman.
[Aspect of the Devil: Petrification]
It wasn't a shout. It was a statement of fact, as casual as ordering wine at dinner.
To Grete, the transition was instantaneous. One moment, Sharo was a blur of motion, her mouth open in a defiant battle cry, her hair whipping in the wind. The next, she was a statue. She hadn't been turned to stone in the traditional sense; rather, her colors had been drained, leaving her frozen in a grayscale snapshot of reality.
The five Phantasmal Soldiers, cut off from their caster's active mana flow, dissolved into mist instantly.
Grete skidded to a halt, his boots carving furrows in the dirt. His breath caught in his throat, choking him.
"Sharo…?"
He took a trembling step forward, his mind unable to process the absurdity of the sight. The woman he loved was now an object, a piece of furniture in the forest.
"What… did you do to her?"
"It is a simple preservation method," Jaldabaoth said casually, adjusting his cufflink. "She is a valuable specimen. Damaging her would be wasteful. Now…"
He turned his gaze from the frozen Captain to the hundreds of prostrate soldiers. His eyes behind the spectacles seemed to calculate something—not their humanity, but their volume.
"…regarding the rest of you. Let us proceed to the harvest."
Demiurge raised both hands to the sky. The atmosphere suddenly darkened. The sun, previously bright overhead, was obscured by gathering, unnatural clouds that swirled with the color of bruised flesh.
"Although I am far inferior to the Supreme One, Lord Ainz, I have been experimenting with a particular sacrificial mechanic. Your men are of… adequate quality. They will serve as the catalyst."
"Wait… what are you doing?" Grete stepped back, terror gnawing at his gut.
Then, the world tilted.
[Skill: Sodom's Gate (Counterfeit)]
This was Demiurge's strongest special skill. While calling it a trump card might be an exaggeration compared to his transformation, it was his most potent summoning tool.
According to YGGDRASIL lore, among the World Items, there exists a giant sculpture shaped like a door known as "The Gate of Hell." Once activated, it summons an endless tide of demons to flood the world.
Demiurge's special skill was a significantly weakened imitation of that World Item, mechanically similar to the super-tier magic [Sacrifice of Dark Abundance -Iä Shub-Niggurath]. It required a living tribute to open the path.
It was not a metaphor. Furthermore, it was an exchange.
An invisible crushing pressure, far heavier than the Command Mantra, descended upon the kneeling soldiers.
Grete watched, his eyes widening until they threatened to tear at the corners.
It started with the horses.
The sturdy magical beasts didn't even have time to scream. There was a wet, sickening crunch—the sound of a hundred melons being smashed simultaneously. Bones pulverized, flesh liquefied, and magical armor flattened like tin foil.
"No… NO!"
Then, the humans.
"Help me! GODS HELP—"
"My legs! MY LEGS!"
"MOMMY!"
The screams were cut short by the wet cacophony of destruction.
Squelch. Crack. Pop.
It was as if an invisible hydraulic press the size of the entire clearing had slammed down from the heavens. The elite soldiers of the Theocracy, men and women who had trained for years to defend humanity, were flattened.
Not figuratively. Literally.
Blood sprayed laterally in high-pressure jets, painting the forest floor and the tree trunks in a horrific coat of crimson. Bodies imploded under the sheer metaphysical weight, reduced instantly from soldiers to a uniform carpet of meat and shattered bone.
"Ah… ahhhhh…"
Grete fell to his knees. His mind couldn't process the geometry of the gore. A moment ago, they were people. Friends. Rivals. Now, they were paste. The smell hit him instantly—an overpowering, metallic tang of blood mixed with the foul release of bowels.
In ten seconds, two hundred and fifty lives were extinguished.
Jaldabaoth stood amidst the carnage, his shoes unblemished by the red tide washing around him.
"Haaaa… Haaaa…" Grete hyperventilated, bile rising in his throat.
Rage.
It should have been rage. He should be screaming, charging, swinging his shadow blades until he was cut down. He wanted to tear this demon's throat out with his teeth. He wanted to avenge his subordinates.
But his body betrayed him.
His knees knocked together uncontrollably. A warm sensation spread down his leg as his bladder released. His swords clattered from his numb fingers into the bloody mud.
Move! Kill him! Why won't you move?! Coward! COWARD!
"Excellent," Jaldabaoth nodded, ignoring the trembling human as one ignores a buzzing fly. "The quality of the offering determines the strength of the summons. These were elites. The total level sum should be around 5000. Sufficient for a vanguard."
Behind the Demon Emperor, reality tore open.
A gate, ten meters tall and formed of writhing shadows and black fire, manifested. The air temperature plummeted, causing the fresh blood on the ground to steam, creating a red fog. From within the gate came the sounds of chittering, growling, and the scraping of claws on stone.
Grotesque shapes began to pull themselves out of the abyss. Massive insects, demons with burning eyes, horrors that defied sanity. They radiated a violence so pure it felt like a physical weight on Grete's chest.
"The vanguard is ready," Jaldabaoth smiled.
"Why…" Grete whispered, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the dust. "Why us…?"
"Lost your fighting spirit?" Jaldabaoth glanced at him, disappointment coloring his tone. "I suppose there is no need to freeze you as well. You are broken."
The Demon Emperor raised a hand to his ear.
[Message]. Entoma? Yes. I have two high-value captives. Come collect them. Prepare them for transport to the Frozen Prison. I will have the demons and the specimens granted by Lord Ainz to begin the next phase of our operation."
Grete lowered his head, staring at the flattened remains of a man who had shared a drink with him just yesterday.
The forest was silent again, save for the marching of demons and the wet sound of their feet on meat.
[The First Day of Destruction, 2:00 PM]
The mountain city of Torantell sat perched on the border between the Slane Theocracy and the Great Forest of Evasha. It was a hub of commerce, dark and light, famous for being the primary distribution center for elven slaves.
The citizens of Torantell went about their day, haggling in markets and tending to their homes, unaware that the age of man was ending.
They were the first to witness the phenomenon that history books would later simply call:
[The Ten Days of Ruin]
First came the buzzing. A sound like a distant storm.
Then, the sun was blotted out.
Thousands upon thousands of giant insects, a chittering cloud of nightmares, crested the tree line. They did not fly like animals; they flew like an army. And beneath them, marching through the woods, came the demons, hungry and waiting for orders.