Caron glanced around the fortress with feigned nonchalance, thinking, ...Nothing seems particularly different.
Inside, the fortress was laid out with residences, military facilities, and structures one could see in any human city. The architecture, however, was unusual. There was no hint of extravagance, only stark, austere buildings that seemed almost oppressive. Bathed in the eerie red glow of the moon, the scenery felt unsettling, like something from a nightmare.
"You'll be receiving your noble title soon, Ulysses," the guard said, walking alongside him, flashing a grin.
Caron, as Ulysses, shrugged and replied, "Why? Do you think you'll get some scraps of reward if I rise in rank?"
"Heh. Hardly," the guard chuckled. "I'd simply like the chance to challenge you. If I kill you and take the title for myself, wouldn't that be enough?"
Such words were pure demon logic, through and through.
Caron almost laughed. Their frank, brutally simple way of thinking struck a chord with him. He thought, I actually like it. Through battle, you can gain everything—or lose everything. Now that's a philosophy I can get behind.
He liked the law of the strong devouring the weak.
"The Lord will likely grant you a few slaves as well," the guard went on.
"Slaves?" Caron asked, his voice cool.
"Those worthless creatures should consider it an honor to serve a noble," the guard said with a smirk. "Isn't that right? Fighters like us may rise to nobility if fortune smiles, but slaves will never climb beyond their station."
Caron already understood the demon hierarchy from what Dennis had told him. Even so, hearing the word "slave" soured his mood every time.
If Caron were to list the terms he despised most in the world, that would easily take a place in the top three. First was "Demon King," second was "demon," and third was "slave."
"Everyone knew the moment you declared you'd hunt this vermin," the guard continued. "The ones who followed you weren't allies—they all planned to kill you."
"What do you mean?" Caron asked.
"That creature you brought back is just a trophy. Haha! Thanks to you, I won a good bit of coin. I bet you'd kill every one of them and return alone!" the guard answered.
The man talked far too much.
Caron let the words wash over him and cast another glance around. Soon, he noticed something that drew his eyes tight.
Demons with collars around their necks wandered past. No dark mana emanated from them—none at all. If Caron had seen them outside the Demon Realm, he could have mistaken them for humans. And yet, each one wore a black collar.
No one tugged their leashes, but the collars themselves were enough. They marked a brand of ownership—these were slaves.
Disgusting, Caron thought, his lip curling.
Before long, the guard stopped in a shadowed clearing, his steps halting with deliberate intent. He began, "By the way, Ulysses."
Dark mana flickered ominously in his eyes as he added, "Don't you think it's time you showed your true colors?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Caron replied coolly.
"You always spoke to me with formality," the guard said, narrowing his eyes. "But suddenly you address me without respect? Did you take a blow to the head in battle, perhaps? Or maybe..."
Whoosh!
Steel gleamed as the guard drew his blade, its tip aimed squarely at Caron's throat as he concluded, "...maybe someone is just pretending to be Ulysses."
Caron smirked, glancing at the sword resting at his neck. He remarked, "Well, well. I did wonder why you were leading me somewhere so deserted. This is how demons do things, then?"
He admitted that the guard had sharp instincts. Demons were, by nature, attuned like beasts. Perfectly deceiving a different race forever was impossible.
"If you suspected me, you should have called for allies," he said.
"That's not our way," the guard sneered. "The victor takes everything, alone."
With a jerk of his chin, he motioned toward Dennis. "If I deliver that one to the Lord, the noble title promised to you will be mine instead. I don't know who you are or why you're impersonating Ulysses..."
Shhk!
His sword flashed, cutting clean across Caron's neck. A head fell to the dirt almost too easily.
The guard grinned, looking down at the severed head, then said, "All of this belongs to me now."
Dark mana erupted from his body in triumph, a storm of power. But his moment of victory lasted only an instant.
Squelch!
A dreadful black blade burst through his chest.
The guard stared in shock at the weapon piercing him, thinking, ...When?
The imposter's head had just been severed, so he wondered who had struck him.
Dust drifted across the ground, and the fallen body dissolved into nothingness.
And from behind him came Ulysses's voice—yet not Ulysses's voice at all. "The victor devouring everything? That's my favorite method too."
"Ghhk!"
Agony flared in the guard's chest. But it wasn't just the wound—it was something deeper. The blade carried a force that spread through his body like fire, consuming him from within.
"What's your name?" the false Ulysses asked, his voice resonating with undeniable command.
The guard's lips moved against his will, "...Ratha. My name is Ratha."
"Good. From this moment on, Ratha, you are my vassal," the false Ulysses declared.
Resistance was impossible. Almost in a trance, the guard—no, Ratha—nodded.
Shhh!
Dark mana bled from his body, drawn into the black blade. For a heartbeat, Caron thought he glimpsed the weapon shine with a deep, dark blue light.
Ratha's mind screamed that he should never have made such a contract. But whatever power flowed from the sword burned away his resistance.
He looked up at his new master with reverence and asked, "...You are...?"
"My name is Caron Leston," came the reply. "The master whose name you will never forget."
Caron Leston.
Ratha felt something was terribly wrong, yet he couldn't resist. He bowed his head low and said, "This lowly servant, Ratha, greets his master."
"Good. Now burn yourself up for my sake," Caron commanded, a wicked smile spreading across his lips.
This was the plan he had devised the moment he learned of vassals. Caron didn't understand why he had to rely on reinforcements from the vanguard when he could turn enemies into allies by force.
"There's only one path forward," Caron said coldly. "From this moment, we begin a rebellion."
And in that field of shadows, the scion of the Ducal Family of Leston, masters of rebellion, brought their legacy to life—even in the Demon Realm.
***
Count Dinatrius, the lord of Dinatrius Fortress, stirred awake from deep slumber. He gazed out the window. Tonight, the moonlight gleamed a peculiar, blood-red shade.
"...Ominous," he muttered. It had been ages since he last felt such dread.
This fortress lay at the very edge of the domain ruled by the Demon King of Sloth. Because of its remote position, other nobles rarely coveted it, and rampaging beasts seldom attacked.
"Is anyone there?" Dinatrius called for the servants posted outside his chamber.
But not one answered. He wondered if this silence was connected to that unsettling chill he had just felt.
Irritation flared, and he reluctantly rose from his bed, striding toward the door.
The keep's corridors were eerily quiet. Displays of long-dead demonic monsters and faded relics lined the halls, but there was no time to admire them now.
Fwooosh!
A gust slipped in through a half-opened window, carrying with it the sharp scent of blood.
Perhaps some low-ranking nobles had quarreled and spilled it, but this much blood was impossible.
Dinatrius' instincts, honed over centuries, screamed ceaselessly. Something had gone terribly wrong in the fortress.
...Who in the world? he wondered grimly.
It could hardly be neighboring nobles—the fortress was far too remote, days away even at full speed. And this land held nothing of value. Nothing... except for that facility beneath the fortress, the one only Dinatrius himself knew of.
Could it be? That escaped worm Dennis... Has he already whispered secrets to another lord? Dinatrius wondered.
But he shook his head. Dennis had fled only yesterday. Chased by pursuit squads, there was no way he could have made contact with another noble so soon.
If not another noble, then perhaps the Demon King himself had sent someone to purge him... But no, that possibility was far too slim.
His Majesty wrestles with Lust these days. He has neither reason nor time to cleanse me, his thoughts whirled, but one thing was clear. He had to see for himself.
Whoosh.
Dark mana surged from his body. The blood-deep instinct for slaughter ignited within him. He wondered how long it had been since he felt such exhilarating tension.
Eager, almost smiling, Dinatrius stepped out.
And then...
Fwoooosh!
Flames already engulfed the fortress. Screeches and bellows tore through the air. Demons and beasts clashed in chaos, waves of dark mana colliding endlessly.
It was a rebellion. Without a doubt, someone had sparked one.
"...Delightful!" Dinatrius whispered, lips curling.
He wondered who it could be. This was no grand citadel. Few nobles lived here, and those who did were weak. At best, a mere viscount who had barely clawed his way to a title.
To Dinatrius, a count, they were all insects.
Shiiing!
He drew his sword. Someone was approaching. He could hear the cries of dying soldiers, the shattering of the gates.
While he had slept, rebellion had spread unchecked and consumed the fortress whole. But there was nothing strange about that. Since the dawn of demonkind, this had always been the way.
The strong devoured the weak. It was instinct. It was the law.
Dinatrius simply wanted to see the rebel's face.
"Whoever it is, it doesn't matter," he said to himself.
His days had been unbearably dull. Killing the ringleader of this little mutiny would be entertainment enough. Restoring the fortress afterward was what slaves were for.
Sword raised, he planted himself before the gates.
Screeeech!
The heavy fortress doors split as if sliced by paper. From the rift stepped a tall, lean man.
The instant Dinatrius saw his face, his composure cracked. He spat, "...A human?"
The man was unmistakably human. His skin held vitality, unlike the lifeless pallor of demons. And the mana radiating from him—sickeningly alien—wasn't demonic.
The human strode forward, brandishing a dark blue sword, posture dripping with arrogance.
"Why are you so surprised?" the man asked with a smirk. "There was no point hiding my identity anymore. All those demons under you? I've already devoured them."
Dinatrius recalled a report from yesterday that there was an explosion near the North Sea. He had ignored it. Such things happened often in those lands. But now, he wondered if that blast was this man's doing.
His expression hardened and he said, "I cannot believe this. A human, here, in the Demon Realm?"
"For revenge. Why else would I come?" the man sneered.
Dinatrius shivered. From the human's blade came a terror greater than even his master, the Demon King of Sloth, had ever inspired.
"Then the other demons... are already..." he trailed off. And before he finished, a troop of more than a hundred demons emerged from behind the shattered gate.
At first he thought they were reinforcements. But no. Each leveled their blades at him, loyalty in their eyes.
Dinatrius roared in fury, "Demons following a human? Have you all lost your minds?!"
A young demon standing at the human's back shouted harshly, "Insolent fool! This man will be the next Demon King!"
"...A human? On the throne of the Demon King?" Dinatrius began, his voice trembling. "That is impossible—"
The words died, as he saw it then. The power writhing inside the man's body.
It was the power of a Demon King.
Once dethroned by the King of Lust, the power of Slaughter now pulsed within this human.
A Demon King's might in a human vessel...
Dinatrius had heard whispers, once. A cursed man with the name of Leston, who had devoured half of Slaughter's power. A story so absurd he had dismissed it outright.
And yet, here it stood before him.
The man's grin widened, and said coldly, "Choose. Become my vassal—or die. Honestly, I despise demons. So I recommend the second option. I'll make it slow and painful."
The man's voice, steeped in malice, rolled like thunder across the burning fortress. "How does rebellion taste, served up by the house that perfected it?"
The human, Caron Leston, was unmistakably mocking Dinatrius.