The Demon Sword, Syltanaro.
She had been born in a forsaken mine at the edge of the Demon Realm.
A place so deep and dark, no footsteps had ever reached it.
For a long time, she spent her days simply trying to recognize what she was. But there was little she could truly learn.
The only thing she managed to confirm—was that her origin lay in a nameless, mysterious ore.
Scratch… scrape…
Instinctively, she carved and refined that ore over and over again.
It felt like the only way she could prove her own existence.
Eventually, the ore began to shine, and was reborn as a sword.
The result pleased her, but nothing really changed.
She was still alone.
Still bound to that object that was no longer ore, but now a blade.
She was the sword, and the sword was her.
She knew, instinctively, that she needed someone who could wield her.
So she set out.
Cutting down countless people who called her a monster—until finally, she found him.
—You’re nothing more than a killing tool, aren’t you?
He looked empty.
She didn’t know why.
As always, she swung her blade.
But this time… she didn’t kill.
He rose again, no matter how she cut him down. He healed, and returned to fight once more.
And finally, he grasped her.
Fwoosh.
What kind of miracle was it?
Even now, she wondered about that moment—when her indistinct self gained shape, when her mind gained clarity. When she first saw her own hidden reflection—she realized who she truly was.
A sword, born to be held by a master.
And he was the one she had searched for all along.
“You remember, don’t you?”
Beatrice spoke to the wandering specter, the weapon that had lost its master and now roamed like a beast.
“You were always there whenever I met him.”
—Give him back.
“Did I kill him? How could I return someone I never took?”
—GIVE HIM BAAAAAACK!
The ghostly shriek came with a charge—she lunged at Beatrice.
“So without the Demon King, you're nothing but a frenzied wraith.”
Spirits were born of nature.
A spirit born from stone was no different.
But unlike those birthed from living creatures, those born from the inanimate were often flawed.
Without inherited will, their egos often suffered gaps.
All she had was the Demon King—the only one who had ever resonated with her.
KAANG!
Her blade struck the ground where Beatrice had just stood.
She’s completely lost control.
Beatrice backed off a few steps, eyeing her carefully.
Without the Demon King, she can’t stabilize her power.
The Demon King had the unique ability to harmonize with compatible forces.
It was likely he had kept her rampages in check as well.
—KYAAAAAAAAH!
She continued to charge Beatrice in a frenzy.
Beatrice deliberately didn’t fight back—dodging and fleeing repeatedly.
She’s focused on me. That’s good. I just need to buy time until everything is finished.
BANG!
There was a limit to evasion.
One of her wild swings grazed Beatrice.
“Gh—?!”
Even if it was just rampaging, she had once been the strongest sword on the battlefield.
A thin trail of blood seeped from Beatrice’s arm.
Her lips twisted into a smile.
“Fine. If you want to go wild, I’ll play with you for a while.”
As long as Barungenia wasn’t in danger.
And so, the battle between her and Beatrice began.
The reforged black blade clashed against Beatrice’s draconic armor, sending out bursts of sparks.
BOOM! BOOM! The noise shook the ground.
Gargoyles, previously flattened by the tremors, stirred and swallowed dryly as they rose.
『This place was meant to be the Dark One’s final refuge.』
『We cannot tolerate such chaos.』
『We must put a stop to this madness.』
Despite their bold words, none of them dared to step in.
It was a battlefield where a single misstep would mean complete annihilation.
Who among them could enter such a place casually?
This is bad…
Watching from afar, Cardin—Clay’s bodyguard—wiped cold sweat from his brow.
She told me not to interfere…
Beatrice had ordered him to stay out of it. She would handle it herself.
Is she avoiding killing the Demon Sword?
Clay had originally wielded the Holy Sword. Even if Goltche and Lin successfully altered his constitution, it was uncertain whether he could control a Demon Sword.
No—he definitely can’t.
As someone who vowed to remain by Clay’s side, Cardin harbored no doubts about his path. But this was a different matter.
This weapon must be dealt with.
A Demon Sword that refused to accept any master—it was a hazard.
This won’t be the last time.
The return of a lost sword was only the beginning. There would be more—others who refused to accept Clay, who would come to test him.
Even so, Cardin couldn’t move. A single wrong step in this chaotic canyon would reduce everything to rubble.
“Damn it…”
He could only turn his gaze silently back toward Barungenia.
♧
How much time had passed?
Less than a day.
Creeeeak…
The double doors of the sealed chamber opened slowly.
“Haah… haah…”
“Grrh…”
Inside, Lin and Goltche clung weakly to either side of the doorway.
“I thought I was gonna die…”
Lin had handled all the potions and magic needed to alter Clay’s constitution. The process had consumed a tremendous amount of mana—and nearly all her stamina. A little more, and she might’ve died.
“Anyone would think you performed the surgery,” Goltche rasped.
He was in ruins.
It hadn’t just been about stitching flesh. He had to manually touch and reshape a body surging with explosive magical energy—like getting struck by dozens of lightning bolts.
No—worse.
As soon as the door opened, Goltche’s nervous system collapsed, rendering him immobile.
He would need a long time to recover.
“Still… for a result like this…”
Step. Step.
A figure walked past him—barefoot, a man without a stitch of clothing.
But Lin didn’t need to cover her eyes.
A white light enveloped him completely, obscuring everything.
“…Good work.”
With only that, he spoke, and walked away.
Lin and Goltche could only watch, stunned into silence.
“What have we done…”
The words slipped out of Lin's mouth like a sigh.
“This thing we created…”
Goltche, who would normally take credit for anything even remotely successful, said nothing. He, too, remained silent—because even he didn’t know what to say about the result standing before them.
With every step forward, the radiant light around him dimmed, yet the pressure only grew heavier. His red eyes gleamed, his chiseled muscles stood bare for all to see.
The priestly seals carved into his body had turned pitch-black. Once used to suppress divine power, they now amplified magia.
His body, once chosen to channel holy power, now brazenly converted that same energy into corrupted demonic mana. And yet, no trace of guilt could be seen in him.
Step.
He took another step forward. And from the side—someone approached.
Plop. Plop.
It was a slime.
Barungenia’s resident tailor.
Raising one of its tendrils high, the slime presented a folded outfit.
A completed uniform.
A black coat bearing a brooch etched with a demonic sigil, flanked by broad, imposing epaulets. Something far too heavy in presence—something a former Hero would never have worn. A garb radiating unmistakable authority.
“Excellent.”
At Clay’s soft murmur, the slime’s green hue grew deeper, almost glowing in delight.
As Clay stood silently, the slime began dressing him. The outfit slid over his body naturally.
Authority.
He experienced no confusion.
His purpose was clear. He wore his new dignity like a second skin—and continued walking forward.
Clunk.
The main gates of Barungenia swung open.
♧
“Was it a failure…?!”
Nothing emerged from the gates of Barungenia.
Cardin bit his lip as he stared at the attendants standing with the doors flung open.
If something had gone wrong, they were to report it immediately.
But with no one standing at the inner gate, it was clear—something must have happened.
“Where is Lord Clay?!”
If the surgery had failed, the fallout would be immeasurable.
It was too reckless!
No matter how thoroughly Goltche had studied Clay’s body, changing the constitution of someone chosen as humanity’s Hero was likely impossible.
I should have stopped him…!
But Clay’s resolve had been too firm. Cardin hadn’t been able to object. Clay showed no fear—not even of dying.
By contrast, the Demon King’s army had everything to lose. Without him, they could never rise again.
“Damn it!”
Beatrice should’ve intervened—should’ve convinced Clay otherwise. But instead, she’d only tried to fulfill his wish.
Even amidst the continuous roar of combat nearby, Cardin rushed toward the attendants.
“Where is Lord Clay?!”
“He… he…”
One of the attendants pointed—not inward, toward Barungenia, but outward.
“…What?”
He hadn’t seen anyone come out.
“What are you talking about?! No one passed through that—”
Cardin fell silent mid-shout.
…!
The thundering noise had stopped.
The constant drum-like clash between Beatrice and Syltanaro—the battlefield’s very heartbeat—was gone.
Only then did Cardin turn his head toward where the attendant had pointed.
There stood a man.
Clad in black. Hair black as night.
A presence that reeked of deep, endless darkness.
Cardin muttered without realizing it:
“Demon King…”
—Aah… AAAAAH!
Syltanaro let out a scream—no different from a wail—and abandoned her battle with Beatrice.
—Is it him? Is that him?!
She reached out with trembling hands.
—Him?
But what she saw—was not the figure she had longed for.
—Aaaaah!
She screamed again.
—AAAAAAAH!
Clutching her head, she howled in despair.
—Where is he?! Without him, I…!
Tap.
Suddenly, Clay reached out and seized her arm.
“I know.”
The moment he spoke, her hazy form sharpened.
“I’m the one who left you with that void.”
The black-haired woman, no longer consumed by madness, looked at him in shock.
“His place… now belongs to me.”
Clay declared it plainly. Without hesitation.
He had taken the Demon King’s throne—for good.
(End of Chapter)