Lucius bore the label of Devil King.
In battle, he struck hard, leaving some foes' bodies too mangled to piece together.
Arrogant mages with little strength dared not posture after his lessons.
If mage associations offered insufficient divine artifacts, he showed his ruthless side.
Yet even he had things he truly despised.
He didn't see himself as virtuous, but he remained human.
Even with divine power, his humanity was unchanging.
He wasn't one to cherish others' lives or shy from sacrifice, but he'd never treat humans—strong or weak—as mere weeds.
Their lives could be taken, but their value and meaning couldn't be trampled.
So, when it didn't interfere with his goals, he considered ordinary people.
His face impassive, Lucius's icy gaze turned toward the source of the spying.
His eyes narrowed, and his aura erupted.
Faintly, he heard a scream.
"Someone who can spy on my movements could easily detect a Heretic God's manifestation," He muttered.
"And she's likely guessed Verethragna's intent and foreseen the coming divine battle."
Lucius shifted his course.
He'd planned to head straight to where Verethragna was summoning Melqart.
But he had no interest in letting schemers watch his battles.
So, he'd squash the pests hiding in the shadows.
They could've prepared, evacuated the island's people.
At the least, they could've grounded flights with excuses like weather.
Such actions wouldn't have hindered their goals.
But Heretic Gods, Divine Ancestors, and mages didn't care.
Lucius didn't condemn them morally—morality and law were irrelevant.
He simply found it repulsive.
To think power made them above humanity.
To see mortals as lesser beings.
To scorn human worth.
He wasn't punishing them out of righteousness—merely showing those he despised what true power was.
In a villa, a flaxen-haired witch leaned weakly against a sofa, her face pale as paper, blood trickling from her lips.
Cough, cough.
She clutched her chest, coughing as if her lungs might burst.
Another spurt of blood escaped her mouth.
"No, this can't go on," She said, gripping the sofa, struggling to rise but failing.
"Just spying, and I get this backlash—caused by his mere presence?" She coughed up more blood, smiling bitterly. "Is this what it means to be the youngest yet most ferocious Devil King, who defeated Salvatore Doni and repelled the Black Prince?"
She'd barely glimpsed Lucius's movements before he detected her.
His counterattack nearly shattered her mind.
And it physically harmed her, nearly rupturing her organs.
"Campiones and Heretic Gods truly aren't for mortals to spy on," She murmured.
Regret stirred within her.
Was it wise to orchestrate a Campione's birth and control them?
Her injuries reminded her of facing a malevolent god in Japan with Kusanagi Ichirou.
Both top occultists, they'd barely sealed it with the Prometheus Stone.
She'd felt the overwhelming power of gods.
Fear—and desire—for that power.
Neither she nor Kusanagi had the courage to face a Heretic God again.
It wasn't that slaying gods made one a Campione—only Campiones could slay gods.
But Kusanagi Ichirou, claiming descent from the god Susanoo, had said:
"I may lack the makings of a Campione, but I might raise a descendant to wield divine power!"
She'd laughed it off, hearing he'd devoted himself to certain endeavors.
Twenty years later, the man—rumored to have hundreds of children—contacted her again.
"I may have a descendant with the Fool's potential. I need your help."
She thought he'd gone mad until she saw his grandson.
Spying on the boy, she sensed a familiar intensity—something she'd seen in Devil Kings.
If she could shape his character, could she control him and, indirectly, the world's greatest power?
Then she learned Kusanagi Ichirou was backed by a true Heretic God.
She took a breath, easing her organ pain and steadying her breathing.
Closing her eyes, she chanted softly.
Moments later, a glow of mana faded her pallor, though wrinkles appeared on her youthful face.
"I don't want to, but I have to burn some life force to heal," She said, standing shakily.
"Better run before that Campione finds me."
She gave a wry smile.
But—
The villa's protective spells melted like snow under a flame.
A mocking voice from outside froze her.
"Oh? Running?"
Instinctively, she touched her face, smoothing the wrinkles with mana.
Her coat slipped off, revealing bare skin.
The wooden door exploded into splinters.
"Where are you going? To whom?" Lucius's voice asked.
"Care to tell me?"
***
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