Arkanis. That was the name he was given when he ascended to Demon Lord during the Third Generation. It was not a complicated name—nothing layered or symbolic like Ercale, Mortal Killer—but it still defined him with brutal accuracy. It spoke of what he was at his core: Magic Incarnate. Arcana given form.
His command over magic surpassed that of countless Demon Lords, even many who stood beyond King Domine's direct service. Among all magic users still alive, he was ranked within the top one hundred without dispute. His affinities were vast, his control immaculate, his reserves of astral energy overwhelming. By every measurable standard, he should have stood at the peak.
Yet he never did.
He was never number one. Never declared the strongest Demon Lord alive.
Not that it truly bothered him—but it did make him curious. Curious enough to seek out the one who held that title.
That was when he met Ercale.
At the time, Arkanis hadn't thought much of him. Two affinities only. Far fewer spells. Barely a third of Arkanis's astral reserves. On paper, the comparison was laughable. Arkanis possessed almost every affinity known, wielded magic with encyclopedic breadth, and eclipsed Ercale in raw magical theory and capacity.
And yet, Ercale was stronger.
Declared the strongest.
So Arkanis challenged him.
The result had been devastating.
Ercale defeated him with ease.
That battle had taken place thousands of years ago, and now—now—Arkanis found himself trapped between Ercale's magic once more and four Fifth Generation mages. The weakest generation there was. Not Outliers. Not anomalies. And Ercale himself was no longer what he had once been—diminished, restrained, a shadow of his former self.
Was he truly about to be defeated by this?
By a weakened Ercale… and mages who should not even be able to stand in his presence?
*I don't care,* Arkanis thought, his focus narrowing. *I don't care about being the strongest. I don't care about surpassing you.*
His eyes closed.
*But I am the strongest now. And just like you were back then… the strongest Demon Lord does not lose to a weaker one.*
The world answered.
A burst of magenta light erupted from Arkanis, raw and violent, exploding outward in all directions. The pressure slammed into everyone around him at once. Clara, the closest, was hurled across the street, bouncing hard against the stone before fire surged over her body, forming armor just in time to blunt the impact. Amara and Annabel were thrown into nearby buildings—Amara's fire shield flaring around her as she crashed through stone, Annabel summoning ice beneath her feet, shaping it into a sloping slide that bled away the momentum before it could crush her.
Above them, Samwell was forced backward through the air, but only slightly. He stabilized quickly, magic flaring as he kept himself aloft.
Ercale alone stayed grounded.
He slid backward along the street, boots scraping deep grooves into the stone, lightning hissing around his feet as he narrowed his eyes on the Demon Lord at the center of the eruption.
"Pushed you hard enough for you to finally use it, didn't I?" he said.
The smoke began to clear.
And standing there was no longer a human man.
He stood at seven feet tall now, his presence immediately warping the space around him. The concealment was gone—his face and hair fully revealed. White hair fell to the nape of his neck, unmoving despite the violent currents of magic flooding the air. His magenta eyes burned, not with emotion, but with dense, layered spellwork so compressed it looked like light struggling to escape containment, casting sharp highlights across his severe, striking features. Two horns rose from his head, smooth and elegant in their curve, and hovering just above them was a crown that did not rest or touch, rotating slowly as if obeying laws no one else could perceive.
His skin, still deathly pale, was now traced with black sigils and vein-like markings that ran across his body in precise, unnatural patterns, each one pulsing faintly, shifting as if recalculating themselves with every breath. It was not decoration—it was structure. Formulae etched into flesh. Magic made anatomical. The air around him was saturated with astral energy so thick it distorted depth and distance, like reality itself had been forced to accommodate him. This was not a demon that used magic. This was a being that existed as its axis.
"I have only ever willingly done this twice," Arkanis said, his voice resonant, layered, carrying the weight of multiple harmonics speaking in unison, "both times against you."
His staff rotated in his hands, then lifted free, hovering just above his palm as though gravity had forgotten it applied to him. His feet left the ground a moment later, his body rising smoothly, effortlessly, until he floated several feet above the street. With a deliberate motion, he angled the staff forward, the tip aligning perfectly with Ercale.
"You are the only one worthy, it seems."
The crown above his horns flared once.
Arkanis fired a beam of pure astral power straight toward the former strongest Demon Lord.