Boom! Boom! Boom!
Staring at the reinforced underground hatch before him, Jaemar frowned deeply.
The battle they'd just fought hadn't been particularly intense, and with overwhelming numbers on their side, they'd already cleared out all the cultists defending the outer perimeter of the Beast Arena. Following the trail, they had discovered this hidden underground chamber.
But now, this metal door—constructed from a special alloy—stood as their greatest obstacle.
Due to the narrow terrain and the fact that they were already over ten meters underground, having too many people down here would only make things worse. Even with several high-ranking knights striking the door with sledgehammers at full force, they hadn't been able to inflict any real damage. Apart from dislodging some dust from the seams, not even a dent had been made.
Judging from the sound each blow made, Jaemar estimated the door's thickness to be at least ten centimeters. Forcing it open with brute strength seemed nearly impossible.
Looking at the dust drifting through the air, a new idea struck him. If they couldn't break it, could they dismantle it?
Without delay, he ordered the knights to put away their sledgehammers and switch to crowbars and pickaxes. They began prying at the edges of the door, breaking up the surrounding stonework and loosening the earth along the sides.
Watching the rising dust, Charles glanced nervously at the crowd behind them, then leaned in and whispered, "We're at least ten meters underground. Are you sure this won't cause a collapse and bury us alive?"
Jaemar inhaled slowly and shook his head. "...I'm not sure. But it's the only way. I can't think of any other method that could get us through this door quickly. We'll just have to hope that whoever built this chamber did a good job reinforcing it against cave-ins."
"Damn it…"
Whether it was due to solid construction or just dumb luck, they managed to fully remove the door without incident. Though dust continued to cloud the air and made Jaemar's heart race, no major cracks appeared—the passage remained stable.
Both Jaemar and Charles silently praised the craftsmanship.
Once the hatch was pried open, they moved deeper into the tunnel. Before long, chanting voices—reciting unknown incantations—echoed through the air. Eventually, they emerged into a massive, open chamber.
At its center stood a giant altar surrounded by dozens of black-robed figures. Blood flowed across its surface, and hundreds of corpses lay stacked at its heart. Judging by their clothing and appearance, these were the slaves who had been imprisoned in the Beast Arena.
Their fate had been to die in brutal gladiator matches someday, but instead, they'd all been slaughtered early. Deep slashes ran across each of their throats, and judging from the signs of struggle, they'd been alive when bled.
Jaemar paid little attention to the bodies. His gaze was fixed on the man standing atop the altar, and he asked in confusion, "Dear Uncle… why are you doing this?"
The man stood there without disguise—unlike the others, his face was fully visible. It was none other than his uncle, Richard Voss—a well-respected royal, known for both his ability and his reputation.
As far as Jaemar knew, his uncle had no ambitions. He had always been the type to live quietly and avoid conflict.
'Could he have been hiding his true intentions for decades?'
Richard met his gaze calmly and gave a warm smile. "Jaemar, this is my last hope."
Seeing that expression, Jaemar's face grew solemn. "...Is this all because of Senna?"
Richard's smile faded, replaced by a look of helplessness. "...So you figured it out.
"You know, my daughter Senna inherited her mother's bloodline—she's been frail and sickly since birth. I've tried every treatment, every method, but nothing has worked. And in the past two years, I can feel her condition worsening. If we don't act soon, she won't survive more than a few years. She's only eleven!"
"I promised her mother I'd let her grow up healthy, like any normal child. So even if I have to rely on a demon, I'll find a way to cure her. That is my duty as her father."
Jaemar opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. He knew Richard had already burned his bridges and would stop at nothing.
Still, he made one last appeal:
"You know as well as I do—demons aren't healers. Every record about them describes them as cruel and insane. If you stop now, I swear none of this will affect you or Senna's life moving forward."
"And what then? Watch my daughter die in front of me?" Richard shook his head gently, completely unmoved. He pointed toward the summoning circle, now glowing ominously on the ground. "Jaemar, the ritual has already begun. You can't stop it anymore. But if you leave now, I can use the brief control granted to me to command the demon to heal Senna, then banish it to another country."
"How about that?"
Jaemar was about to refuse outright—but something about the offer gave him pause.
'Let the demon go rampage somewhere else instead?' He wavered.
Seeing the hesitation on Jaemar's face, Saphir, who had been silently observing the family drama from the sidelines, was dumbfounded.
He hadn't expected this useless teammate to be persuaded by a few words after failing to persuade Richard.
'Are they really about to team up? If that happens, won't our side—the Church—end up two-on-one?!'
Safi immediately stepped forward, his tone serious. "Prince Jaemar, I must remind you—demons are not creatures to be trusted. Every historical account portrays them as deranged monsters. Treating one as a tool is pure folly. If it were that simple, we wouldn't have suffered so many demonic disasters."
At those words, Jaemar instantly thought of Orsaga.
For a moment, he could almost feel the demon's gaze on him—sending chills down his spine.
His hesitation vanished in an instant.
Yes, demons were always a disaster. Even one was more than they could handle. If another were unleashed… Mardain would surely be on the brink of collapse.
He shook his head firmly. "Uncle Richard, demons are simply too dangerous. The risk of losing control is too high."
Richard gave a casual shrug. "That's a shame."
A thick white mist began to spread from the altar.
From within it, a monstrous figure slowly emerged—three meters tall, with a goat's head, a human torso, and a snake-like tail. Black fur covered its entire body.
"I've returned… to this familiar world. I, Karlra, am back."
Though the demon didn't speak in a human language, everyone present understood its meaning.
Jaemar stared at the creature. He could sense its strength… but unlike Orsaga, it didn't radiate that overwhelming despair—didn't feel like a force of nature that made resistance laughable.
He quickly reached a conclusion: 'This one's not as strong as Orsaga.'
Not just in power—its form and presence couldn't compare either.
Orsaga's appearance alone could strike terror into hardened warriors: crimson-gold eyes, curved horns, a powerful physique, armored scales, massive wings... He was the very image of what a demon should be.
Karlra, by contrast, could easily be mistaken for some random monster.
Unaware of Jaemar's thoughts, Karlra inhaled deeply and murmured with delight, "The scent of weaklings… still my favorite playground."
Then his expression changed. He sniffed again and scowled. "What's that disgusting smell?"
He looked toward its source—a frail old man.
To Karlra, the man's strength barely qualified as mid-tier trash. He didn't care about him—only about the thing he carried.
Baring his fangs, Karlra growled in disgust. "Holy relics? The Church again? Filthy insects. Are you about to spout some righteous nonsense now?"
Right on cue, Saphir pulled out a palm-sized badge. "Demon! Leave this world! Or we, the Shepherds of the Divine, will bring upon you the wrath of the gods!"
Karlra ignored his speech, spat on the ground, and muttered, "Disgusting…"
The moment the relic appeared, Karlra could feel the world around him grow heavier—its suppressive force intensifying. Already weakened, he now felt even more restrained.
To him, these shameless pests, whether centuries ago or now, always used the same dirty tricks to weaken him, just so they could gang up on him.
He'd never met a worthy opponent.
Still, Karlra wasn't worried. Richard had offered him plenty of sacrifices during the summoning. Once he devoured them, he could recover a large portion of his power. He might even turn the tables.
Reaching behind him, he reached for the gathered souls—hundreds of them condensed into a tangible mass, easy to consume.
He reached—
Nothing.
Tried again—
Still nothing.
Karlra glanced at the others—Saphir and the rest, watching him curiously.
Awkward.
He turned his head and looked behind him.
Empty.
He blinked. "Where the hell are my sacrifices??"
"That huge pile of souls—where did it go??"
Far above, lounging on a cloud above the Beast Arena, Orsaga tossed a handful of soul matter into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and then turned his gaze back to the scene below.
A priest, a cultist, a schemer, and a bunch of expendable extras…
This unlikely band of "heroes" was shaping up to be more fun than expected.
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