The world outside had fallen silent. Not the silence of peace—but the kind that comes after the storm has broken everything with despair in the air.
Inside the Devil King's throne room, the air no longer moved. It trembled. Every inch of space seemed alive, resonating with the overwhelming presence that now stood at its center.
Zero's breath came slow and sharp. The faint glow of his mana flickered around him like dying embers. He stood a dozen meters away from the throne—a throne that no longer looked like a seat, but a gateway.
It pulsed. Slowly. Rhythmically. As though it had a heartbeat.
Aamon sat upon it, the shadow of his body no longer just a shape, but a force of gravity pulling light inward. His form had changed. The ragged cloak of before had melted into living darkness. His once humanoid shape now radiated an aura so dense it distorted vision itself—his silhouette stretching, reforming, and splitting into afterimages that moved seconds out of sync.
