“I greet the Lord Fourth.”

  The Archon growled, its words perfectly understandable despite the physiology of its mouth being impossible for speech.

  The boy nodded.

  “I greet the Marquise Marchosias, 35th Favoured Noble of Hell,” Erizen greeted.

  “Hmm… You know of my title?” the dragon-leviathan hummed lowly, almost purr-like in its satisfaction.

  “I know many things. I would not be Lord otherwise,” Erizen lied.

  In truth, he had no idea who he was dealing with until the System notification appeared.

  /-/

  Marchosias, 35th Favoured of Hell

  Lvl 120 Demon Noble; Marquise

  A relatively newborn Ruby-Core Demon noble, created to inherit the title and name of ‘Marquise Marchosias’ after its predecessor’s death.

  72 Demon Nobles work under the Kings of Hell, each controlling a specific Hellgate. When one dies, a new one is created, inheriting the same name and title as the one before.

  This one is the Eleventh holder to the name ‘Marchosias’ and carries the noble title of ‘Marquise’. Though born merely a century ago and relatively weak by the standards of Demon Nobles, this should still go without saying…

  This is not an opponent you can defeat. Diplomacy recommended.

  /-/

  Yet once again, Eri cursed his lack of Charisma.

  “As expected of a King of Hell, I suppose.” The Archon exhaled in amusement. “I am indeed the current holder of Marchosias, Commander of the 35th demon legion, and eleventh to the name in this five-thousand-year campaign of perdition. I believe the holder of Marchosias in your time was the ninth holder before they died.”

  “She was,” Erizen affirmed. “Your latest predecessor survived for a very long time, then, given that you emerged only a hundred years ago.”

  “Nine hundred and fourteen years did the Tenth survive. The longest in our lineage,” Marchosias rumbled in approval. “I doubt I shall surpass her longevity, but it is proper to try nonetheless.”

  “Such is our way,” Erizen agreed.

  “Is that why you still live, Lord Fourth?” Marchosias asked, its voice neither disapproving nor angered. “Your appearance here is a surprise. I had not known it was possible for the ego of a Demon King to survive death. Should you not have reincarnated as the Lord Fifth by now?”

  “Perhaps I have simply never died,” Erizen countered lightly. “Or perhaps I am, as you say: the Demon King reborn as the Fifth and final incarnation.”

  Marchosias chuckled deeply, fangs dripping acid. “No. To the latter, I believe you are not. My soul had felt the Lord Fifth’s touch. They placed me here when they began their unholy ascension. My soul supplicated to the new infernal throne that bloomed in the centre of this continent a hundred years ago. It acknowledged their royal authority. Their aura is unmistakable… and yours is not their match.”

  Erizen stiffened. “Assuming the Lord Fifth truly exists, they would still be gestalting within the corruption of the nascent Hellgate during their coming into this world. They could not have been the ones who summoned you to this lake. Either you lie, or you are ignorant. Which is it? What names and titles did your handlers present before you, such that they could trick you with such blasphemy?”

  “So many questions… I thought you claimed to know many things, Lord Fourth?” the dragon hissed in amusement.

  “Careful,” Erizen lightly said. “Jests and jokes I can permit, but disrespect is beyond my tolerance to forgive.”

  “Yet you tolerate the company of the False Tyrant. Or her Chosen minions, at least,” the aquatic dragon noted. “You have even allowed her to mark you with her… Goddess Blessings. One may find such disgrace beyond any demon’s tolerance to forgive… Even toward their Lord.”

  Erizen was silent.

  Marchosias waited patiently for a reply. It was in no hurry.

  Though their difference in their Hell-given noble titles was night and day, the contrast in their power was clear to see.

  Marchosias’s radiant Ruby Core was in no threat from Eri’s measly Bronze Core.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Erizen sighed. “First, I want to thank you. For your courtesy in waiting while I resolved the matter with my comrades. It need not be given, but you gave it anyway, and thus you have my gratitude.”

  The dragon’s gaze shifted. “I merely sought to quench curiosity. Your thanks for my selfish actions are too heavy a gift, Lord Fourth. I cannot accept it.”

  “You have it nonetheless. Now, I must ask another courtesy from you. I would like safe passage from here to Kaldreach. Tell your army to stand aside.”

  “I cannot do that, my Lord.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstand. Though I ask for courtesy, my words are an order.”

  “Then I must disobey your order, for my directives come from a higher power. Hell itself commands me to slaugher the living and bring down the False Tyrant in Heaven.” Marchosias’s reply was almost apologetic. “And though you are the Lord Fourth… You are no longer a demon.”

  “Those statements are contradictory,” Erizen replied evenly. “I cannot be the Fourth Demon King if I am not a Demon.”

  “Yet the evidence presented before me says otherwise. I acknowledge you as the Lord Fourth, for your mastery of the Bloodflame Arts leaves no other identity, but I cannot acknowledge you as a Demon. You are no longer of the Damned. You belong to the Living. And I envy you for it.”

  That last statement shocked Erizen. The Leviathan itself almost looked surprised at its own admission.

  “I envy you,” Marchosias repeated slowly, tasting the words. “A Demon cannot feel. Cannot change. Yet I have no other words to describe this fiendish sensation I have towards you. How very… curious. Perhaps this displeasure will go away once I kill you.”

  Time to try diplomacy.

  Erizen kept as calm as he could. He exhaled. “This is your final warning. Take your army and return to your lake. Leave me be. We need not be enemies. But threaten me again… And I shall burn you to ash, and make your existence known as the shortest-lived Marquise among your noble name.”

  Marchosias carefully considered Erizen’s offer. Its black eyes held no malice, only a silent and patient intelligence.

  “... No,” it finally said. “You are not capable of that. Mighty you might be as a Bronze Core Chosen, but you are nowhere near my match. I am sorry to say this, but you cannot defeat me, Lord Fourth. Therefore, you will die.”

  [Persuasion failed]

  Goddamnit. The worst part was that the monster sounded sincerely apologetic.

  “Then there is nothing else for us to discuss,” Eri sighed wearily. “You’ve said your words. I’ve said mine. I have given you my decision. You have given me yours. Since no amiable conclusion can be reached, the only step left is for one of us to die.”

  “Agreed.” The monster reared its head back. “Do you have any last words, Lord Fourth?”

  “Only this: I hope your successor is a little less gullible than you,” Eri said honestly.

  The monster froze. It looked down. “Explain.”

  “Did you really think I would painfully climb all the way up here, waste my time talking to you in this manner, and then let myself die without a proper plan to kill you and everyone else here?” Eri snorted. “You are naive, though I suppose I cannot blame you. Powerful you might be, but you are not worldly. Just like I was.”

  Just like every demon in the world. Eri smiled as he discreetly triggered his arcane switch. If there was one good thing to be learnt about being human, it is in knowing how to lie.

  “What do you—”

  Before Marchosias could finish, a sound interrupted it.

  Slow. Grinding. It was torturous in its groaning. It was a heavy song, not heard for a hundred years.

  The waking of industry. And it was coming from every direction.

  For one hundred years, the machines of Violet Maw had lain in eerie silence. For one hundred years, its numerous pumping stations had stood dormant — iron giants positioned along the waterfront and within distribution centres across the entire district.

  They woke now, those dwarven-made machines half-forgotten by time. The first of the massive engines shuddered awake. Gears ground against rust and grit, pistons coughing and ancient pipes rattling like bones in their metal coffins. One by one, the other pumps joined in, reactivating until the entire district throbbed with the rumble of forgotten industry.

  But the rumble only lasted for brief seconds before disaster claimed the ancient machines.

  The lake’s belly answered the call of the pumps. Dark, viscous Caustic Oil coursed through overpressured iron veins that had not known relief in decades. It was the last straw that broke their backs. The ageing pipes gave one final death-groan, and then, with an ear-splitting crack, the first rupture split a mainline, spewing black fountains onto the street.

  The break triggered another, and then another, and then a hundred more. A chain of black eruption tore across the district. Pipes burst from beneath mossy cobbles, geysering foul oil skyward. The narrow alleyways filled in moments, sluggish black mixing with the flooded lake waters. Oil sluiced over doorways, stairs, and drowned abandoned structures in a tide of stinging, sweet foulness.

  Within seconds, the port was engulfed in Caustic Oil. Every distribution centre and major pipeline in the district was vomiting the dark substance onto streets and buildings.

  Behind Eri, the entire pumping station he had defended so fiercely before groaned, its filled tanks on the brink of rupturing.

  Marchosias did not react. Did not panic. Its intelligent black eyes merely observed the scene, taking note of how now every street of the port was flooded with an endless deluge of Caustic Oil.

  Streets that were filled with its precious demon legions, and Caustic Oil, known for its supernatural flammability and metal-melting temperatures.

  Add on to how every pumping station was filled with enormous quantities of the liquid, and how every pipe that ran beneath the town was positively bursting with the highly volatile and near-explosive substance…

  And finally, its gaze settled on the open wall of the pumping station’s second story.

  Within it, Eri’s Hellbomb glowed, runes counting down the final seconds to its apocalytic finality.

  The dragon-leviathan looked back down at Eri. “I have changed my mind. I am open to re-negotiations.”

  “I refuse,” Eri said immediately. Before sheepishly adding, “Also, the bomb is already triggered to detonate. I can’t shut it off anymore.”

  “… Hmm. A shame.”

  Before he could blink, the monster lunged at him, mouth wide to swallow him whole.

  A second later, Hell vomited its fire onto the North, and the entirety of Port Violet Maw erupted in cataclysmic detonation.