The throne pulsed like a beating heart.
Its jagged steel reflected the terrified faces of the survivors, each one torn between loyalty and survival.
Aya clung to Arata's side, trembling. Haruto stood at the front, fists clenched, torn between rage and loyalty. Riku's glare was venom, his hand twitching near his weapon. Sayaka and Ren lingered at the edges, watching with hungry eyes, waiting for the game to draw blood.
It began with a scream.
One soldier — desperate, broken — sprinted for the throne. He didn't make it two steps before the floor split beneath him, spikes skewering his body. His corpse twitched, then went still, blood pooling across the stone.
The survivors recoiled in horror.
The throne pulsed again, brighter. Hungrier.
"See?" Arata's voice was calm, almost soothing. "The throne doesn't want loyalty. It wants sacrifice. That's the price of a crown."
Riku snapped, pointing a shaking hand at him. "Shut up! You're loving this, aren't you?! You've been pulling our strings since the beginning!"
Arata smiled faintly. "Correction: I've been keeping you alive. Without me, you'd already be bones in the mud."
"You—!" Riku raised his weapon.
Haruto moved instantly, grabbing his arm. "Riku, stop—!"
But it was too late.
The gun fired.
The shot didn't hit Arata.
It hit one of the nameless soldiers behind him — a panicked boy who screamed as he collapsed, blood soaking the floor.
The room froze.
And Arata… Arata only smiled wider.
"Perfect," he whispered. "The first betrayal."
Chaos erupted.
Soldiers turned on each other, shouting, accusing, firing. The chamber became a slaughterhouse. Blood sprayed against the throne, pooling at its base. Every death made the throne glow brighter, stronger, more alive.
Sayaka watched, her smirk razor-sharp. "He was right. The throne feeds on betrayal."
Ren giggled, twirling her knife, eyes locked on Arata. "And he's the one feeding it."
Aya sobbed against his arm, but she didn't let go. Not even for a second.
Amidst the chaos, Haruto grabbed Arata by the collar, rage and desperation in his eyes. "This is insane! Tell me you're not going to sit on that thing! Tell me, Arata!"
Arata met his eyes calmly. "Why would I? I already own it."
Haruto froze. "…What?"
Arata gestured at the bloodstained dais. The throne pulsed brighter with every corpse that fell.
"It's not about sitting on the throne. It's about making the throne kneel. And right now…" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper that sent chills through Haruto's bones. "It's kneeling to me."
The slaughter slowed. Survivors fell one by one until only a handful remained — those too terrified to move against Arata, or too enthralled to leave his side.
The throne shone like a crimson star.
Arata walked toward it. Every step echoed like a death knell.
He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate. He simply placed one hand on its jagged armrest.
The throne roared. Light surged through the chamber. Screams echoed as the last survivors fell to their knees, blinded by the crimson blaze.
And when the light faded, Arata stood alone at the center — not seated, but standing before the throne, his shadow stretched long and sharp across the floor.
The metallic voice rang out above:
"Final Phase Complete.
Army Game concluded.
Victor: Battalion Leader — Arata Kurobane."
Aya collapsed at his feet, sobbing in both relief and terror.
Ren clapped slowly, laughing.
Sayaka's smirk deepened.
Haruto stared with broken eyes.
And Riku, trembling, whispered through gritted teeth:
"…You're not a commander. You're the devil."
Arata glanced back at him, smile faint and merciless.
"No. I'm what the devil fears."