Here it was: the key.
He could break the body.
He could torment the mind.
But to truly claim a demon, to usurp it from another devil, he had to shatter these chains and forge his own.
A simple whim, a casual though on to better understand what his mana could do when he broke through… to heal his subordinates, to break through the abyssal steal, to carve his way into a beings very soul… it was a good choice indeed~
Seeing the runes, he knew that he had struck gold.
The purpose of the runic chains was instantly, instinctively clear to Adam; this was advanced demonic magic, an art form of subjugation that he had not yet unlocked in his hell's inheritance.
No!
This couldn't be learned through the inheritance; only through self-discovery and meticulous research would a devil unearth such a potent and vile technique.
Or perhaps, was this knowledge a gift?
Knowledge of from his past life?
Doors were opened, but the world beyond was expanding too fast. There was much that the newborn still didn't know…
Slave runes.
They were not merely bindings; they were a complex, cruel language of suppression written directly upon the soul, forcing obedience through sheer, agonizing magical pressure.
A crude, but effective, method of control.
A surge of pure satisfaction washed over him.
Where another might see a barrier, Adam saw an opportunity.
His anger and frustration melted away, replaced by a thrill; like a scholar presented with a priceless text.
Before he even thought of shattering the runes, he had to understand them.
The knowledge of creating these runes would be worth a thousand loyal soldiers. It was the key to building not just a horde, but an army.
His consciousness, like a doctor meticulously peeling away flesh with a scalpel, began to dissect the chains.
His base understanding of hell's language, of runes, and of magic and mana itself; they were used as the foundation for his studies.
Adam traced the flow of power through each link, feeling how Kaelgor's will was channeled and amplified. He studied the structure of the runes themselves; their angular, harsh shapes designed to inflict a psychic feedback of pain at any thought of rebellion as much as it was meant to stabilize and establish a mental link. He mapped the connections where the magic burrowed into the soul, leeching its energy to sustain its own continuous presence, even without outside refueling, like a leech.
It was a masterpiece of tyrannical engineering; a parasite of the mind and soul and Adam committed every detail to memory.
It was during this meticulous studious dissection that his perception, honed by extreme concentration, caught a subtle anomaly.
Behind the glaring, oppressive presence of the slave runes, something else was etched into the soul's fabric.
Something far more subtle, almost hidden...
He shifted his focus, and his senses zeroed in on it.
It was a mark, no, not a mark…
A brand!
It was faint, a ghostly impression compared to the blatantly obvious brutal, gloomy chains, but its nature was unmistakable.
It was a unique, psychic signature; a symbol of ownership that was woven into the very essence of the demon's will.
Unlike the slave runes that forced compliance through external pressure, through force, like a cage or a knife to one's neck; this brand worked from the inside.
It didn't command; it contaminated.
It twisted the mind, reshaped will and purpose, making the demon crave its master's satisfaction above its own desires. It turned obedience into a need, service into a pleasure.
It was a far more insidious, more permanent form of control.
To indoctrinate obedience and fanatic worship…
In that moment, Adam had an epiphany that shook him to his core.
The faint, parasitic echo of his own essence he'd felt clinging to Blair and Agri… the way their auras had subtly begun to mirror his own…
It wasn't a simple emotional attachment or a side effect of his power.
He was branding them.
Unconsciously, without any effort or learned magic, his very presence, his nature as devil, was acting as a catalyst.
Every touch, every word of twisted praise, every moment of dominance and submission was etching his unique signature onto their souls.
They were not just following him; they were being remade in his image, their chaotic wills slowly, inexorably aligning with his own.
Chaos reforged, with his will as the hammer.
He wasn't just their master; he was becoming a part of their fundamental being.
A low, genuine laugh escaped his lips in the dungeon; a sound of blissful, terrifying revelation. The chains were a fascinating lesson, a tool to be used most definitely.
But the brand… the brand was his birthright!
The epiphany was a key turning in the lock of his very being. Adam's understanding of a devil's innate prowess expanded exponentially.
It wasn't just about raw power or demonic magic.
It was about a fundamental principle of his existence: contamination.
His very presence was a toxin to mortal beings.
His words, whether harsh punishments or twisted praises, were vectors of his will as they carried his essence, his infection, and seeped into the ears of his listeners, invading their own thoughts.
His actions, every display of dominance or calculated mercy, were acts of rebuilding: building a faith for his worship.
Even his appearance, the striking blonde hair, that had unknowingly become mixed with strands of black, the ember eyes, the growing horns that marked his ascension; they all served as a display for awe and desire.
A constant reminder of the perfection that he embodied.
He was a plague of order, manifested from the chaos of hell, and his brand was the symptom.
This profound understanding seemed to harmonize with the very essence of hell.
The oppressive miasma of the dungeon felt less like an environment and more like an extension of his own body. The distant, low growl of the underworld vibrated in sync with the newfound clarity in his demonic core. His control over the dark energy around him, which had been a conscious effort, now felt as natural as breathing.
The tendril of mana still connected to the berserker's mind hummed with a new, refined precision; gentleness replacing the brute force he had been using.
The night and day difference was a pleasing surprise.
He relished the discovery of the brand, of this intimate, insidious form of control.
It was a far more elegant and potent tool than the brutish slave runes.
The runes were a shackle, but the brand was a rewrite of the soul's code.
It promised not just obedience, but devotion.
It was the difference between a prisoner and a zealot.
But a practical devil did not discard useful tools.
After basking in the revelation, Adam turned his focus back to the slave runes.
Now, with his heightened understanding and control, deciphering them was a simpler task.
His consciousness flowed through the magical construct as a master locksmith, easily unraveling the complex lock.
He understood the flow, the intent, the points of stress and failure.
He saw how Kaelgor's will was channeled, a pattern he could now replicate, or more importantly, subvert.
'Somewhat similar to tracing Lord Gorael's runes…'
Adam absorbed the knowledge, filing it away for future use; a weapon to be taken from his enemy and turned against them.
With the knowledge gleaned, his purpose in the demon's mind was complete.
He withdrew his consciousness, the black tendril retracting back into his palm.
The berserker sagged in its bonds, utterly spent, its mind a scrambled wreck from the dual violation of the probing and messing with the runes on his soul.