Chapter 5

The Coalition Camp.

"Damn it all! Who gave you the order to break formation and charge?"

Inside the command tent, Charlo was incandescent with rage, staring down the dozen bedraggled survivors standing before him. "An entire company of a hundred men, and only a dozen of you crawled back alive! Have you forgotten everything I taught you?!"

The soldiers hung their heads in shame, staring at their muddy boots.

"What did I tell you? Did a few minor victories rot your brains?! Did you forget that you are just ordinary humans?! Did you think because we won a few skirmishes that demons are suddenly fragile? You thought you could charge a fortified line with nothing but your skin?!"

Charlo slammed his hand on the table. "If I hadn't ordered the artillery battery to cover your retreat instantly, not a single one of you would be standing here breathing! SPEAK!"

Charlo’s roar made the soldiers flinch violently. A few, unable to withstand the pressure, fell to their knees, sobbing.

"W-We are sorry, My Lord! We... we deserve to die! We failed your teachings!"

"My Lord," Davis interjected softly from the side, stepping forward. "It was my failure. I did not restrain them in time. The primary responsibility lies with me. If you must punish someone, punish me. They were just soldiers following a heat-of-the-moment impulse."

"I will settle accounts with you later!" Charlo shot him a glare before turning back to the trembling soldiers. "Get out of my sight. You are pulled from the combat roster for this campaign. Go report to the logistics officer and help the artillery team haul supplies. Move!"

As the shamed soldiers scrambled out, Charlo turned to Davis, his expression shifting from anger to cold pragmatism. "When do the four twenty-four-pounder cannons arrive?"

"It will take another two weeks," Davis said, his face clouded with worry. "Those four guns are simply too heavy. Each one requires a team of four horses to drag, and the mountain roads are treacherous. My Lord, perhaps we should have just cast more eighteen-pounders? They are easier to transport, and frankly, neither caliber can threaten a Fifth-Rank entity anyway."

"It is true. Currently, whether it's an eighteen-pounder, a twenty-four-pounder, or even the thirty-two-pounder still on the drafting board, none can threaten a Fifth-Rank powerhouse," Charlo admitted with a nod.

These muzzle-loading cannons—or rather, "mana-powder cannons"—were essentially just oversized muskets. Both their muzzle velocity and kinetic energy were lackluster compared to Earth’s history.

The "mana stone powder" used as a propellant was indeed more powerful than Earth's black powder, allowing a simple smoothbore musket to threaten low-rank supernaturals. However, its chemical inertia made it impossible to create self-contained cartridges. Without cartridges, he couldn't develop breech-loading rifles or advanced artillery. He was stuck in the Napoleonic era.

"However, Davis!"

Charlo’s tone sharpened. "An eighteen-pounder hitting a Fourth-Rank warrior will only leave a nasty wound. But a twenty-four-pounder hitting that same Fourth-Rank warrior will shatter his bones and remove him from the battle!"

"A healthy Fourth-Rank and an injured Fourth-Rank might look the same to a commoner—both can tear a squad apart with one hand. But a crippled Fourth-Rank is just a stationary target for the musketeers!"

"This..." Davis paused, the logic sinking in.

"Yes, My Lord. You are right."

_______________

"Haa... Haa..."

Clutching a broken sword, she stumbled forward, her gait staggering and uneven.

Blood blurred her vision, painting the world in a haze of red.

But she didn't need to look at her feet. Her vision was entirely filled by the colossal, radiant white wall ahead.

Thwip!

A long spear pierced through space, slamming into her chest.

The immense kinetic force nailed her to the ground.

Squelch!

Yet, she stood up again. She ripped the spear from her own chest, tossed it aside, and continued her shambling march toward the Wall of Light.

Zap!

An arrow wreathed in lightning screamed through the air, punching through her right leg.

She stumbled, her knee buckling, but she did not fall. She dragged the ruined leg forward.

Finally, just as she reached the shadow of the Wall, a spinning throwing axe flew from the enemy lines. It struck her mid-section, bisecting her completely.

She fell. This time, she could not get up.

"Is... is this it?"

"I guess... this is as far... as I go..."

Clyris mocked herself weakly, her eyes fixed on the curtain of light just inches away.

"Ha... haha... really..."

"How... could it be..."

Summoning the last dregs of her strength, she reached out. Her hand, stained with filth and blood, stretched toward the holy barrier that no demon had touched in ten thousand years.

Her fingertips brushed the surface.

Instantly, a wave of warmth washed over her.

It felt like returning to a mother's embrace—a feeling she had forgotten since ascending to the throne of the Demon Lord. It surged into her heart, overwhelming her.

"Wh..."

Ah...

I remember...

The warmth. The cherished memories. They all came rushing back.

"Is this... my life flashing before my eyes?"

She forced the corners of her mouth into a difficult, bitter smile, and slowly closed her eyes.

To die holding onto these warm memories... perhaps this isn't a bad ending after all...

The Void.

Everything was white. Was this the afterlife?

Faintly, she heard voices. Were they sighing? Or... weeping?

Who... am I?

The voices were whispering something, but she couldn't turn her head to listen.

"Ch... ris..."

"Clry... s..."

"I'm... sorry..."

"Forgive... us..."

Who is that...?

Who is speaking...?

In the corner of the white void, a flame began to burn. A foul, acrid stench permeated the air.

Black spots appeared, corroding the pure whiteness, revealing the despair hidden beneath.

Ah... Ah!

I see it... I see it!

She saw a woman laughing.

She saw a man laughing.

Then...

She saw the woman’s shriveled, desiccated hands.

She saw the man’s gaunt, skeletal face.

She saw the flames of war.

She saw the screaming agony.

She saw tender faces.

She saw pale faces.

She saw faces twisted in absolute despair.

She saw... a face she didn't recognize!

"I—AM CLYRIS. THE DEMON LORD CLYRIS!"

A sword appeared in her hand. With a roar of fury, she swung it. The dimension shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer.

The Foot of the Wall.

"Is she... dead?"

A group of knights in pristine white armor approached the Wall of Holy Light, gripping their swords tightly as they stared at the bisected corpse.

"She has to be... right?"

One knight swallowed hard, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Their fear was justified. Just moments ago, this monster had bathed in blood while surrounded by nine Ninth-Rank powerhouses. She had slain three of them, then pierced through three separate defensive formations composed of hundreds of high-ranking elites just to get here.

Even now—skull cracked, heart missing, chest impaled, left arm half-gone, right leg pinned by an arrow, and body cut in two—who knew if the monster could still fight? They were merely Mid-Rank knights; they couldn't handle even one of her hands!

Suddenly, the two halves of the corpse ignited.

Black fire.

It pierced the fabric of space, bringing equitable death to everything it touched.

The pure, pitch-black mana swirled around the broken body, pulling the upper and lower halves together.

Bones snapped back into place. Flesh wove itself together. A flawless, pale body was reborn from the deepest darkness, like a blinding star birthed from a nebula.

Dark gold armor materialized over her skin, snapping into place like precision clockwork, accentuating the terrifying beauty of her form.

The chaotic battlefield fell silent. Demon and human alike froze, staring slack-jawed at the figure hovering in the air.

"Th-this..." Someone unconsciously took a step back.

"Stop playing tricks! I'll knock you out of the sky myself!!"

A Ninth-Rank Knight roared, overcoming his fear with rage. He hefted a massive warhammer and rocketed into the sky.

The Demon Lord merely glanced at him.

In an instant, the black flames of death ignited on his body.

"ARGHHH!!!"

Ignoring his agonizing screams, she simply extended one finger. A point of light, blacker than the void, coalesced at the tip.

"Finger of Death."

A beam of darkness—looking as though it had swallowed all light in existence—flashed forward. The Ninth-Rank Knight’s body decayed at a speed the eye couldn't follow, turning into ash before he even hit the ground.

...

Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.

One glance. One finger. She had slaughtered a Ninth-Rank powerhouse as easily as killing a chicken. Clyris had paralyzed the entire army with fear.

"Saint..."

A Holy Archbishop’s eyes widened to the point of bursting, staring fixedly at the figure in the sky.

"No, impossible... A Demon Lord hasn't reached the Saint Realm in five thousand years... how... how could she ascend just like that?" A Ninth-Rank Grand Magus gulped, trembling in disbelief.

"No! Look closely! She doesn't have a Domain!" another Archbishop suddenly shouted, his voice cracking. "She has only grown stronger; she hasn't completed the Ascension yet! Kill her now, while we still can!"