In stark contrast to the war and its horrors, the region where the Shadow Sect stood was eerily quiet—as if the blood-soaked conflict had never taken place on this planet at all.
That alone felt strange.
Not long ago, the strongest beings on Earth could devastate entire mountain ranges when unleashing their full power—and that alone had once been considered astonishing.
But now... such a level had become the bare minimum required to even participate in war.
With the emergence of monsters capable of shaking continents... and splitting moons apart.
One of those titans—
Was Amon, the Host of the Nightmare... who had arrived as a heavy guest upon the walls of the Shadow Sect.
The masked man appeared silently, stepping out from between the shrubs as he advanced slowly toward the towering dark walls.
The land surrounding the sect was completely empty—nothing but a vast, clear, paved plain.
Which meant one thing.
Amon was fully visible to those stationed atop the walls.
He did not attack.
Nor did he bother hiding himself in the slightest.
He made no attempt at concealment whatsoever.
After advancing far enough, Amon finally came to a halt, leaving a considerable distance between himself and the walls.
His crimson eyes settled upon the gate as he quietly observed the ancient structure... as though he had come all this way for a stroll, not a battle.
The Host of the Nightmare displayed no killing intent. No hostility.
In complete contrast to the Shadow Sect, who treated him as an enemy the moment they laid eyes on him.
From atop the walls—
A tall armored being leapt down.
Its entire body was encased in black metal.
At first glance, it appeared to be wearing armor.
But upon closer inspection...
Amon realized—
That was not armor.
It was its skin.
A statue.
A motionless, furious face devoid of emotion, wielding a massive scythe ... emanating pressure that had clearly reached the SSS rank.
Amon smiled faintly beneath his mask the moment he saw it.
"So... you’re the one they chose to send?"
"There’s a certain boldness to you, unique creature... stepping forward to face me despite fully understanding that you are not my equal."
Amon spoke first, attempting to initiate a conversation.
But Angry was no speaker.
In fact—
He wasn’t even capable of speech to begin with.
So instead of words—
He responded with readiness.
Preparing for battle.
Angry took a single step forward—
Then suddenly froze.
The towering statue slowly lowered its head...
As a cold hand pressed against its chest, stopping it in place.
A slender hand.
Yet so overwhelmingly firm that it couldn’t move even an inch.
"Step back."
"You are not capable of fighting him."
The voice belonged to Frey, who had appeared out of nowhere between Amon and Angry—halting the latter in his tracks.
Frey didn’t even spare the furious statue a glance.
His eyes remained locked entirely on the demon before him.
In response to Frey’s command, Angry bowed slightly in respect before immediately retreating, returning to the walls under his master’s order.
And just like that—
Only two remained.
Frey—who had arrived instantly through spatial manipulation.
And Amon, the Host of the Nightmare.
Face to face.
Frey kicked the ground lightly, stabilizing his stance before exhaling slowly—his gaze fixed on Amon with twisted, conflicted emotions.
"So this is it?"
"This is your plan?"
"To attack the sect while we’re occupied with the war?"
Frey spoke with clear disdain, a layer of mockery woven into his tone.
"Did you really think I couldn’t reach you just because you’re on the other side of the planet?"
In response—
Amon removed his mask, revealing his face as he smiled at Frey.
"Not at all... Vessel of Nameless."
"I am fully aware of what you’re capable of."
Frey narrowed his eyes, unable to read the true intent behind those words.
But Amon did not hide his purpose for long.
"I came here... hoping to meet you face to face."
"Without interference."
His voice was calm.
His smile—gentle.
There was no hostility.
No anger.
Not even the faintest trace of killing intent.
But something else entirely.
Something Frey could not immediately define.
Cautiously, Frey responded.
"If that was your intention... then you’ve gotten what you wanted."
Even if it was a trap—
Frey had been targeting Amon from the very beginning.
This outcome was inevitable.
Frey slowly raised his sword forward, signaling his intent to begin the fight—
But Amon stopped him.
"Before we fight to the death..."
"Would you allow me to exchange a few words with you first?"
"Words?" Frey frowned.
"Since when did the Host of the Nightmare... Crimson’s younger brother... become someone who talks to the opponent he’s supposed to kill?"
"To correct you—"
"I won’t kill you."
"I will merely restrain you long enough to take you back to Helmound."
"So... you may consider yourself an exception."
"The only one who will survive this war."
Frey laughed.
A chilling laugh.
One filled with unmistakable hostility.
"Should I thank you, then?"
"For sparing my life?"
He laughed again.
"Sorry."
"But I don’t intend to grant you the same mercy."
"I’ll bury you beneath this ground..."
"If there’s anything left of you worth burying."
"How terrifying..." Amon murmured softly.
He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped closer to Frey—slowly, cautiously.
"Let me show you something first."
"Perhaps... it might change your resolve."
A dark crimson glow erupted from Amon’s body, his aura flaring outward.
Using an unknown technique—
His aura expanded...
Enveloping both him and Frey—
Pulling them into a strange domain that completely altered the surrounding scene.
Frey did not react.
Did not defend.
Did not move.
Because through the eyes of the Void ...
He clearly understood.
This...
Was not an attack.
Amon pulled Frey into something resembling a simulation—
A simulation forged from his own memories.
Frey didn’t understand what the Eleventh-ranked Archdemon was trying to accomplish, but he played along for the time being, driven by curiosity... perhaps there was something of value hidden within all this.
He did consider the possibility that Amon was attempting to distract him.
But Frey’s senses had grown far too sharp.
To the point where beings like Amon could no longer deceive him.
And so—
A scene unfolded before them.
A planet... long dead.
Its sky drenched in crimson, its land barren and lifeless.
"...This is Hellmond," Frey said.
Amon nodded.
"I’m surprised you recognized it, despite never seeing it before," Amon replied calmly.
Frey’s gaze remained fixed on the desolate world.
"Why are you showing me this cursed place?"
"Tell me, Vessel of Nameless—no... Frey Starlight."
Amon slowly turned.
"Have you ever wondered... where demons come from?"
Frey remained silent.
He said nothing—
Unwilling to reveal even the slightest piece of information from his side.
And so, Amon answered on his own.
"Most demons... originate from the First Demon—Manus."
A faint smile spread across his face.
"That... is the answer every living being in this world believes."
Frey frowned slightly.
"The way you say it... suggests it’s not true."
"It isn’t."
Amon answered immediately.
Frey’s frown deepened further.
The conversation had taken a turn into completely unknown territory—
Something neither he nor even Nameless, with his current memories, understood.
"...What do you mean?"
"Think about it," Amon said lightly.
"If demons came from Manus... then where did Manus come from?"
"Wasn’t he a demon as well?"