Master.

Clay had not meant the emperor of Krata himself, but the one who stood above him.

Clang!

Lutan blocked Clay’s strike with his own blade, staggering back as he muttered:

“So you’ve realized.”

He laughed bitterly. Clay narrowed his eyes.

“Did you think I’d be fooled by a sword I’ve already seen before?”

He had encountered this blade once already. Back then, it had not worn Lutan’s form, only that of a beast. But the ability was unmistakable.

“I never imagined you’d even impersonate the emperor himself, Lutanox.”

At Clay’s words, the false Lutan replied:

“I would prefer you not call it an impersonation. I stand here in His Majesty’s place.”

“That doesn’t make you the emperor.”

Clay’s voice was firm.

“You’re nothing more than his sword. Stop wasting time and tell me where Lutan really is.”

“Who can say?” Lutanox tilted his head, “Do you plan to commit regicide with that blade of yours?”

“This is war, Lutanox.”

The word regicide did not apply here.

“In war, striking down the enemy’s leader is expected.”

“Enemy…” Lutanox exhaled slowly, “I offered you a chance to correct your mistake, and yet you’ve grown arrogant.”

His eyes hardened as they fixed on Clay.

“Do you think being Demon King makes you so great?”

“You’re the one mistaken.”

Clay had never thought himself great.

“I didn’t become Demon King to be mighty. I only wanted to drag down those who cast me into the abyss.”

“How… memorable an answer.”

Lutanox stepped forward.

“To think you’d speak so of His Majesty.”

Slash!

He lunged, his sword whipping toward Clay. Clay slipped back, dodging by a hair’s breadth, and countered with his own blade.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Steel rang as they exchanged blows in quick succession. The Demon King’s army moved to intervene, but Clay raised a hand to stop them.

“This battle is mine.”

Blocking a few more strikes, Clay then surged forward, pressing the attack. Lutanox faltered—unable to match his speed.

“!”

Clay’s blade struck again and again, cutting him. Wounded, Lutanox staggered and retreated.

“So you can’t hold your own without your master?”

Clay’s voice was cold.

“If you want to win, bring him here to fight with you.”

“I have no intention of winning.”

Lutanox’s answer was frank.

“My task is only to entertain you here.”

“So you mean to stall for time.”

“You could call it that.”

He lowered his blade to the ground.

“Though since you stepped here, what must happen will happen regardless.”

“So there is a trap.”

“Not a mere trap. I am only restoring you to what you truly are.”

“…What I truly am?”

“Yes. The you that once served Elhaen.”

That was none other than the Hero he once had been.

“I gave that up long ago.”

And not by choice.

“I was condemned because the powerful feared me. You know who I mean.”

“Pathetic.”

Lutanox shook his head.

“You still don’t see. Did you truly believe Krata’s emperor, out of personal greed, put you on that scaffold?”

“If you mean to spew nonsense, I’ll not listen.”

“You were destined for that scaffold from the beginning.”

Destined to be executed even after saving the world? Clay let out a hollow laugh.

“So my fall was foreordained?”

“Not the fall. Only your place upon the scaffold.”

“If I had not, would the world have ended again?”

Absurd.

“Don’t try to fit me into your frame of fate. I know now those were lies spun by those who wanted to use me.”

He raised his sword high.

“You only spout sophistry. Every word is to delay. Best to end this now.”

Hum.

Syltanaro, resonating with his resolve, flared with a dark red aura.

“I’ll show you who was truly wrong.”

Lutanox raised his blade vertically, bracing.

They stood at the brink of a single decisive strike.

Lutanox moved first.

“See for yourself what your presence here will unleash!”

His blade slashed—but there was no sharpness in it. His strikes repeated, mechanical, empty.

Clay stepped back, watching. Then Lutanox sneered.

“So you’ll only dodge?”

“Hardly.”

The Demon King would not lose to a mere sword of Lutan.

“I was only considering a fitting end for you.”

A blade that had failed to restrain its master, and now mocked the man once condemned.

There was only one thing Clay could do.

“Come then! Face me—”

But before he could finish,

Shhk!

Clay stepped in, blade sweeping. Lutanox’s head flew free.

♧

Ordinarily, that was the moment a trap would spring. Danger would unfold, proportionate to the time wasted.

“…”

But nothing happened.

Clay only stared down at the lifeless ground beneath his feet.

‘Nothing triggered?’

Clay had thought Lutanox might have been sacrificed, as in Yaphenon, to unleash some calamity. Yet when nothing happened, he bit down on his lip.

‘No. Something’s here.’

Something he could not see.

“I’m going into the palace.”

At his declaration, the Four Generals stepped forward.

“Demon King, please reconsider.”

“You don’t know what lies inside.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

But with Lutanox defeated, there was nowhere else to glean answers.

“That’s why I must go first.”

This was his burden. Surviving the scaffold only to reach this point—this was all that remained for him to do.

“If something is hidden within, none of you could endure it.”

Clay had trained relentlessly. As Hero, and even more so after becoming Demon King. His altered body was designed to withstand what others could not.

“It must be me.”

This was not something he could entrust to anyone else.

Just then, Beatrice descended in her human form, landing before him.

“Then let me go.”

“Beatrice.”

“Athanasia hasn’t returned, has she?”

She spoke the fact he hadn’t voiced.

“I told you to live—for me. Don’t forget that so quickly.”

“I’m not trying to throw myself away.”

“Then what?”

“I need to see with my own eyes.”

To know what was happening. Why he had been forced onto the scaffold. What schemes Lutan had spun.

“I don’t want ignorance anymore.”

That ignorance was the greater torment.

“If you come along, I won’t stop you.”

With that, Clay advanced into the palace, Syltanaro in hand.

“The rest of you—hold position.”

The others followed behind, Beatrice at their lead.

♧

“What… happened here?”

Geshkafor muttered from behind, staring down the corridor.

“Why’s it already in ruins?”

The palace halls were a mess, as though someone had already rampaged through. Walls torn, ornaments scattered.

“You mentioned Athanasia.” Geshkafor turned to Beatrice. “Did she make it this far?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged faintly.

“All I know is she went to gather information for Clay.”

“Hmph.”

Geshkafor turned away. His eyes met Selimia’s. She sighed.

“I don’t know either. Just leave it at that.”

She showed little warmth even to her fellow generals. Geshkafor shifted his gaze to Damon instead.

“You know anything?”

“What would I know.” Damon snorted. “I was dragged back as an old war dog, nothing more. Don’t expect me to be informed.”

Geshkafor frowned.

“Shouldn’t we stop the Demon King from going ahead alone? I want to crush that coward who sends only his sword to stall us as much as anyone, but… this doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh? You have instincts, do you?” Beatrice smirked.

“I may be a brute, but even I get a sense sometimes. Something here is aimed at him. I can feel it.”

Beatrice’s gaze lingered on him. Not with disdain—because he wasn’t wrong.

‘Indeed, something is here. Something that seeks him.’

She knew it as well. And Clay surely did too. He had said it himself—he wanted truth, not ignorance. He hadn’t stepped inside out of optimism.

‘And that earlier thing was strange.’

Lutan’s blade. Lutanox.

Weapons usually carried their master’s trace. But this one hadn’t.

‘As if it hadn’t been used in some time.’

Yet Clay had said Lutan fought endlessly at the demon pit. How could he not wield his own sword? Something didn’t add up.

‘I don’t know what’s happening either…’

Just as she abandoned her speculation, Clay came to an abrupt halt.

“Hm?”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Lutan?”

Before a shattered doorway, Clay’s voice rang low in shock.