He knew his own affairs too well. Though still in his prime, with years left to act freely, he was all too aware that decline would catch him in a decade's time. By then, it would be too late to seek a way out. That was why, the moment he heard the news, he set his sights on Jaim Woz.
He seized an opportunity to display his abilities and offered his service. His performance was sharp, his loyalty convincing, and soon he had won the Crown Prince's trust.
In his own eyes, he was a man of true talent—clever, skilled, and resourceful. With the Crown Prince's protection, he could shed his past and craft a new identity. A noble title would not be beyond reach. The royal family had no reason to reject loyalty, and with their influence, whitewashing a man's history was little more than child's play.
The plan was realistic, pragmatic, and without unnecessary indulgence.
But the problem was—things had gone terribly wrong.
The summoning ritual, one he had paid a fortune to prepare, produced no reaction. A failure this complete was fatal.
Never before had he encountered magic that simply… didn't work.
'Didn't the grimoire clearly state the summoning would succeed so long as every step was followed?'
Just as he repeated the incantation, already calculating how to deceive the Crown Prince, the circle stirred. A faint red glow bled across the runes. At once, a primal dread rippled outward—an instinctive terror that gripped every living being nearby. Something higher on the food chain had arrived.
The beasts sensed it first.
Those asleep in their dens bolted blindly into the night. Birds shrieked, scattering in wild flocks, their droppings trailing behind them. Even the endless drone of insects fell silent.
"That is…"
Duke wrestled with his warhorse, sweat beading as he stared at the deepening glow of the circle. A suffocating dread weighed on him, his hairs rising.
His mount—trained from birth to charge through swords and face lions without fear—was losing control. Its bladder emptied, its legs trembled, and for the first time Duke nearly toppled. Such a beast should never break, yet now it did.
Behind him came the sound of chaos.
Of two hundred cavalrymen, only a handful could keep their mounts upright. Most warhorses bucked wildly or refused to stand no matter how hard their riders tugged the reins. Some were already dragging their masters away in blind panic.
Crown Prince Jaim Woz held fast. Though startled when his own mount reared, his knightly training anchored him. He steadied himself with practiced grace. Though he had never tested his blade against true battle—save for the ceremonial execution of prisoners—his strength was counted among the finest of the knights present.
Royal blood flowed in his veins.
For generations, the Woz line had married only into strength and brilliance, each match chosen to refine the lineage. Dozens of generations later, weakness was a rarity. Coupled with the finest instructors and endless resources, even mediocrity could be forged into power. Jaim was far from mediocre. Had his duties as Crown Prince not chained him to studies and ceremony, his strength would have surpassed imagination.
When Duke approached, grim-faced, to report the casualties, Jaim listened in silence. He showed no anger. Instead, he turned his gaze to the glowing circle and asked evenly, "What kind of demon do you think this will be?"
Duke hesitated. "I… don't know. I've slain many demons, but never have I felt such an aura."
"I know a little." Jaim's tone was calm. "The royal archives describe this—Abyssal Summoning. A ritual designed solely to call demons."
"Demons…" Duke paled, as though struck by a ghost.
Though mortals often conflated 'monsters' and 'demons,' they were not the same. Monsters were magical beasts, twisted yet still bound to nature. Demons were another breed entirely.
The scriptures of the Church described them with dread:
Malice is their nature, brutality their instinct. No compromise, no coexistence. They are the enemies of all life, arbiters of death and ruin. Slaughter is their play, fear their feast. They will incinerate the world until nothing remains.
The words alone made Duke shudder. He could not even imagine such creatures—only that they would not be kind.
Jaim read his shifting expression and shook his head. "Dismiss such thoughts. Once the circle lights, the summoning is set. The demon has already answered. Killing the ritual's host now will not stop it—only sever control entirely. Then it would be unleashed, untethered. Far worse."
Duke, who had secretly considered striking Salter down, froze. His resolve collapsed like a punctured wineskin. He could only grit his teeth and stand down.
Truthfully, had Jaim known Salter's plan meant summoning demons of all things, he would never have agreed. They were unreliable, uncontrollable, and far too dangerous. Still, he consoled himself—Salter lacked the ability to summon anything permanent, nor anything too powerful. The sacrifices here were too few, too weak. History's great demon catastrophes required sacrifices numbering in the thousands, guided by peerless sorcerers.
This—this was not that. Or so Jaim believed.
But he soon learned how deeply he had miscalculated.
Salter, reciting the incantation with renewed fervor, nearly wept with joy at the circle's reaction. The cultists joined in, their chants rising, eager and ecstatic.
Their devotion was answered.
A spark of fire burst within the circle, spreading until it formed a blazing archway four meters high. From within, a presence pressed against the threshold, suffocating and vast.
The ground shook as a pillar of flame roared skyward. From the fiery gate stepped a figure.
The stench of blood followed it, so dense it drowned the smell of the dozens of corpses already strewn across the plaza. Salter's heart seized. So did Duke's. Even Jaim felt the weight of it.
In that instant, Salter regretted everything.
For when Orsaga descended, he realized the truth: the creature before him was nothing like what the grimoires described. The supposed control he should have held did not respond at all.
He had no control. None.
When Orsaga opened his eyes, cold and mad in equal measure, Salter felt like prey caught in a predator's stare. His heart thundered, his mind faltered, fear consuming him.
Though only a projection, not his true self, Orsaga's presence was undiminished. His aura pressed like a mountain; no ordinary human could withstand it.
Ignoring the trembling mortal before him, Orsaga surveyed the surroundings.
No priests with holy water.No mages with sealing tools.No treachery.
A true summoning.
But then he frowned. Something was off.
Where were the sacrifices?
Aside from the weak corpses littering the ground, there was nothing. He had felt it at the moment of summoning—a tug that suggested hundreds, even thousands of souls. Yet here, only scraps.
These bodies were not even worthy of calling forth a meager [Imp].
No souls at all. Nothing fit for his rank as a [Lesser Demon].
Suspicion hardened into certainty as he studied the runes under his feet. Each symbol twisted into meaning as he traced them, and the truth confirmed itself—exactly as he feared.