Sirzech's crimson eyes slowly rose, narrowing at the sight of the severed Praetorian hand lying limp on the ground. By appearance alone, it hadn't merely been sliced or torn—it had been practically erased, disintegrated from existence. That was no accident, no freak outcome of conventional magic. It was a warning.
And a clear one.
The immense pressure hanging in the air made it impossible to ignore the message: danger was here, and it was watching.
Sirzechs knew instantly. He would need to face this alone.
"Get to a medical tent," he commanded, his voice calm but unyielding. "See if the healers can fashion a prosthetic. I will handle this myself."
The wounded knight saluted with clenched teeth and a fire of both shame and gratitude in his eyes. The rest of the squad followed suit with solemn nods before exiting in formation. They didn't need to be told twice. They knew full well that their Lord Sirzechs Gremory, one of the most powerful devils in the current age, far surpassed anything they could offer in a confrontation of this caliber.
And yet, Sirzechs felt the weight of uncertainty for the first time in decades.
For a long moment, he stood motionless, letting his aura diminish. His power, usually a brilliant inferno, dimmed to an ember as a sign of deliberate submission. It may have been unheard of—a devil bowing before anything not of higher standing—but this wasn't about pride. The force inside that carriage was far from ordinary, and pride had no place in the presence of something so volatile.
He dropped his aura entirely, hoping the occupant within would understand the gesture for what it was: a peace offering, not fear.
The tension didn't fade instantly. For what felt like an agonizing eternity, the oppressive force remained, unmoving, suffocating. A minute passed. Then another.
Only then did it begin to dissipate.
Slowly, like mist retreating at dawn.
Sirzechs exhaled quietly, his gaze lingering on the carriage. Whatever was inside had every reason to lash out. It had already taken a limb from one of his best soldiers without so much as opening the door. Any misstep now could result in an explosion, a cataclysmic outburst of power that might reduce this chamber—perhaps this entire fortress—to ash.
He would know. He had caused such devastation once.
Moving with precision and grace born of centuries of battle and diplomacy, Sirzechs crossed the stone floor towards the right side of the carriage. His steps were intentionally soft, his body language non-threatening. As he approached a modest bench embedded into the wall, he paused. He had finally noticed something else—something subtle but alarming.
The air in the room was... thick. Dense. It pressed against his skin and weighed down his limbs. His breath felt shallow, his movement sluggish. It wasn't just the psychological burden of power, but a tangible warping of the environment.
A small detail.
An important one.
He took a note of it—something to investigate later, perhaps—before gently lowering himself onto the bench, mindful not to make sudden motions.
Then, a voice echoed.
"I can still sense you, Devil. There is no place you can hide."
Sirzechs stiffened, the calm expression on his face briefly cracking as the voice washed over him. It wasn't a child's voice. Not entirely. It was deeper, more weathered—layered with tones of age and authority. A voice that carried command and ancient fatigue.
It came from within the carriage, but it reverberated unnaturally, as though the walls themselves were speaking.
The child...
No. The being.
Whoever—whatever—was inside had long surpassed the innocence of childhood.
Knowing his slow approach was now moot, Sirzechs rose to his feet and stepped toward the carriage. He halted just short of the darkened window near the door—a glass pane, tinted and blackened, obscuring any view of the interior. Even with all his senses, he couldn't make out the figure within.
Still, he kept his crimson gaze locked on the barrier, speaking with careful clarity.
"I want to make it clear that I am not like the ones before," he began, voice slightly rushed, urgency bleeding into his tone. "The ones who hurt you. I believe they are the cause of your anger."
There was a pause.
Then came a chuckle. Soft. Dry. Hoarse.
"Ah, so you're one of those 'rebels' the others kept mumbling about."
Sirzechs noted the dismissiveness but pressed forward regardless. "My name is Sirzechs Gremory. I'm a general of the Anti-Satan army."
"A general, huh? My, how fortunate I must be. What's a big shot like you doing all the way out here in the gutter?"
The voice cracked faintly at the end, revealing a strain—the toll of hunger, exhaustion, perhaps worse. Sirzechs recalled the reports he'd intercepted. Starvation. Torture. Forced containment. The sins of the Old Satan Faction weren't just cruel, they were methodical.
He swallowed down his fury.
"We received word of a castle detaining our soldiers. I rallied an assault force to reclaim them. That's why I'm here."
A small grunt followed.
Then a bitter laugh.
"You're late..."
Though the voice carried dry humor, the emptiness beneath it was deafening.
"Those bastards butchered your people. Fast for the broken ones. Slower for the ones that resisted. Gutted them like cattle. They learned nothing of your merry band of misfits. But they made sure they screamed."
Sirzechs' fists clenched tightly at his sides. He had walked past many cells on his descent. Heard the silence. Seen the remnants. He had held back his rage to preserve focus, but now that self-control felt like betrayal. They had died for him—and he had barely spared them a glance.
His jaw tensed.
"And what about you?" he asked, voice softer, laced with guilt. "What did they do to you?"
There was a beat.
A long one.
Then the voice returned, distant. Hollow.
"Me? Heh... what didn't they do?"
Sirzechs felt a chill creep down his spine.
The voice wasn't angry. It wasn't crying.
It was numb.
"Still," it added with a dark twist of irony, "I suppose I'm one of the lucky ones."
Sirzechs blinked. "Lucky? How could you possibly..."
Then, before his eyes, the room began to shift.
Rope, chains, pebbles, dust—every loose material began to rise. Slowly. Controlled. As if pulled by invisible strings. The gravitational force shifted subtly, and Sirzechs could hear strained breathing from within the carriage. Not cries of pain.