When a Filipino got Isekai'd with a Twist!
"Only I Can Summon Those!"
Chapter 11: Aamon the Demon king of Carnage
Smoke coiled from Aamon's fallen body like rising ink. The battlefield's tremors quieted for the first time in minutes. Josh sat there, half-expecting the Demon King to twitch again—but the colossal shadow didn't move.
He didn't trust it.
Not for a second.
"Metatron, give me a full-spectrum scan," he said, voice tight.
[SCANNING...]
[SURFACE TEMPERATURE—CRITICAL.]
[LIFE SIGN—UNSTABLE.]
[WARNING: ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED.]
Josh's breath caught. "No way…"
The ground beneath the Demon King began to pulse—slowly at first, like a heartbeat buried under the soil. Then faster. Louder. Until the entire earth throbbed in rhythm with that awful sound.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
And then came the whisper.
Soft at first, almost human.
"…more…"
Josh blinked. "Metatron, repeat?"
[NO EXTERNAL VOICE DETECTED.]
But he heard it again.
Aamon's voice. Faint. Hoarse. Almost… pleading.
"More… more blood… more screams…"
Before Josh could react, the fallen Demon King jerked upright like a corpse yanked by strings. His crimson wound—once the mark of his defeat—was now pulsing violently, bleeding light instead of blood. Veins of molten red energy crawled across his skin, spiderwebbing up his arms and neck like glowing cracks in a vessel ready to explode.
Josh's eyes widened. "He's eating his own pain…"
Aamon's laughter started low and broken, like gravel grinding in a furnace.
"Ahhh… yes. The pain… the chaos… it calls to me…"
He spread his massive arms, shadows erupting around him like an infernal tide. "Do you feel it, human? The battlefield's dying cries? The rage of every fallen soul—it feeds me!"
Josh cursed under his breath, throttling up. "He's absorbing the carnage from the others—Metatron, pull all output to engines!"
[WARNING: PILOT VITAL SIGNS ELEVATED. RECOMMEND RETREAT.]
"Not yet!"
Aamon's eyes were molten red now, burning with an inhuman glow. But behind that light—if Josh looked close enough—he saw something… breaking.
For every ounce of power flooding into him, his body trembled harder.
For every scream that fed him, his mind cracked a little more.
It wasn't strength. It was consumption.
Aamon wasn't rising—he was overloading.
He staggered forward, roaring as his claws gouged furrows in the rock. Each step made his muscles swell grotesquely, his skin tearing, the black ichor boiling from the wounds.
"I AM CARNAGE!" he bellowed, slamming his fists against his chest hard enough to dent his own armor. "AND CARNAGE DOES NOT DIE!"
Josh steadied the controls, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Then let's see if it burns itself out before you do."
He dived.
Cosmic Freedom streaked downward in a flash of blue light, dodging a wild backhand swing that shattered a mountain ridge.
Aamon's attacks were faster now—but erratic. His own energy was tearing at him from within, warping his body and sense of space. He swung again, but his arm missed by dozens of meters, his strike distorted by the violent energy coursing through his veins.
Josh saw it—the opening.
He dove under Aamon's swing and fired all remaining Dragoons into the red wound on his chest.
The blasts struck true.
Aamon screamed—not in rage this time, but agony. His body convulsed, shadows erupting wildly from his skin as the energy inside him fought to escape. His roar fractured, breaking into a dozen overlapping voices, each one screaming for more destruction… more chaos… more blood.
Then—suddenly—he froze.
Aamon's massive form went rigid, trembling. His eyes dimmed for a heartbeat. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…I can't stop it…"
Josh hesitated. That moment—just one heartbeat of vulnerability—felt painfully human.
"…make it stop…"
Before Josh could react, Aamon's entire body exploded outward in a storm of black-red energy. The blast flung Cosmic Freedom backward, shaking Josh violently in his harness.
When the glare faded, what remained of the Demon King was a kneeling giant—cracked, shaking, and bleeding light from every pore.
The Demon King of Carnage was dying from his own power.
Aamon raised his head weakly, looking up at Josh's machine hovering above him.
His voice was low, raw, and almost… regretful.
"This… is what we were cursed with… power born from slaughter. The more we fight, the less we remain." he said weakly then a memory flashed into Aamon's eyes a memory deep rooted inside of him that fuel his rage for a long time.
The Great Demonic Erasure
Five thousand years ago — The Age of Shadows.
Humanity's fear of the demon tribes had reached its peak. Four great clans ruled the four corners of the world, each named after their ruling Demon Kings —
House of Incarceron (East, Mephistopheles' clan),
House of Cruelveil (South, Azazel's clan),
House of Furiax (West, Astaroth's clan),
and House of Carnexus (North, Aamon's clan).
They were not mindless beasts, but sovereign races—keepers of ancient power, bound by law and pride. For centuries, there was balance between them and mankind. Until the prophecy came.
"When the blood of four shall spill, the age of man shall rise."
Terrified of losing dominion, the Holy Order of Vaelus gathered kings, saints, and archmages under one banner. Their mission: "The Great Demonic Erasure."
It was recorded in human history as a glorious crusade.
In demon history—it was genocide.
Phase One: The Fall of Incarceron (Mephistopheles' Clan)
The humans struck at dawn, their holy banners cutting through the mist like blades of light. House Incarceron—once the proud keepers of sealed beasts and ancient spirits—became their first target. The mages turned Mephistopheles' own clan's art against them, twisting their sealing magic to trap the demons inside their own prisons.
Cries for mercy filled the air, echoing from crystal cages that shimmered with the power of their captors. Amid the chaos, a small boy—Mephistopheles—stood trembling beside the ruins of his home. His tiny hands bled as he clawed at the glowing seals, breaking one after another, desperate to free his kin.
Each shatter left another scar across his body, his veins burning with the backlash of divine magic. When the last cage fell silent, so did he—his voice hoarse, his eyes empty.
And as the soldiers drew near, the child whispered, barely audible over the crackling ruins:
"You've taught me what it means to be caged… Pray you never feel it too."
Phase Two: The Burning of Cruelveil (Azazel's Clan)
When the humans descended upon the South, House Cruelveil met them with laughter. Azazel's people—sadists and tricksters—refused to flee. They fought with illusions, torturing the minds of entire battalions.
But the Holy Order unleashed a weapon born of their victims' suffering: The Bell of Saint Verda, a cursed relic that turned agony into purifying light.
Each time a demon inflicted pain, the bell rang louder—burning their flesh with divine fire.
Azazel watched as his people screamed in ecstatic laughter while their bodies melted away. His grin never faded… but his eyes did.
"We were cruel," he whispered, "but they were worse."
Phase Three: The Storm of Furiax (Astaroth's Clan)
The Western clan, House Furiax, were warriors of volcanic wrath. Their kingdom, built inside the Caldera of Urox, was said to hold the heart of a sleeping god.
Humans dropped their divine siege bombs from the sky—massive holy projectiles that turned magma into white ash.
Astaroth emerged from the inferno, carrying the charred corpses of his kin.
He fought for seven days and nights, until his roar split the skies and summoned storms of molten fire that devoured both armies.
The humans named it "The Day the West Burned Red."
Astaroth named it nothing—he stopped speaking after that day.
Phase Four: The Silence of Carnexus (Aamon's Clan
Humanity pov.
Snow crunched beneath the boots of ten thousand soldiers. Their armor gleamed in the pale dawn, each plate etched with holy scripture. Banners of the Order of Vaelus fluttered against the wind, white and gold against a sky dark with smoke.
At their head rode Sir Lancelot, commander of the Great Demon Erasure. His silver cloak trailed behind him, already dusted red from the blood-soaked air drifting north.
"Once we breach the walls," Lancelot said, his voice calm but hard as iron, "we burn everything. No survivors—no negotiations. The House of Carnexus is not to rise again."
A young knight riding beside him swallowed. "But, sir… reports say their king defends the northern rift. They've protected the realm from beasts for generations. Are they truly—"
"Demons," Lancelot cut in, not looking at him. "You hesitate because you still see them as people. That's your first mistake."
The columns marched in silence after that. The only sound was the low chant of the priests walking among them, swinging censers of holy fire. Each prayer echoed through the valley, carried by the wind.
"Purge the cursed blood.
Cleanse the shadow.
For the light must reign eternal."
Ahead, through the veil of falling snow, the obsidian towers of Karthos began to rise—dark spires glinting faintly beneath the morning light.
Lancelot slowed his horse, eyes narrowing. "There it is… the heart of corruption."
He drew his sword, the blade glowing with divine flame.
"By order of the Holy Council of Vaelus—today, the name Carnexus is erased from history."
And with that command, the army roared as one—
marching toward the city that did not yet know it was about to die.
The House of Carnexus, proud, loyal, and feared—the clan of Aamon, the Demon King of Carnage. They lived in frozen crimson plains, where the aurora bled red each night. Unlike the others, Aamon's people didn't seek war. They were hunters, protectors of the borderlands, guarding the rift between realms so that true monsters could never cross.
But fear is blind.
The humans came not to reason, but to slaughter.
It was called "Operation Scarlet Purge."
The Holy Order unleashed their final weapon: The Choir of Blades, twelve archangels wielding sanctified spears.
The battle lasted one night.
When dawn came, the snow was red, and the screams had stopped.
Aamon woke buried beneath his fallen clan—his sister, his soldiers, his children—every voice that once calmed his fury now silent.
He clawed out of the corpses, his body pierced by holy spears that refused to let him die. The more pain he felt, the more the curse twisted him.
From that moment, the Carnexus bloodline bore a mark—the Curse of Endless Carnage.
They could no longer feel peace.
Only battle. Only the hunger to kill.
Aamon survived—but at a cost.
He became the last of his clan, a being driven by pain and memory. His strength grew with every life he took, but each victory hollowed him further, until there was nothing left but rage.
He smiled faintly—brokenly. "So don't stop fighting, human… not until you burn like I did."
The light in his eyes flickered once, twice—then went out.
His body, still kneeling, turned to ash that scattered into the storm wind.
Josh sat there, silent, as the sensor readings flatlined. He felt no triumph—only a strange, hollow weight.
"Carnage killed the Carnage King," he murmured.
Metatron's voice broke the quiet.
[ENEMY SIGNAL—TERMINATED.]
[ADVISORY: PILOT HEART RATE—ELEVATED. DEEP BREATH RECOMMENDED.]
Josh let out a shaky exhale. "Yeah… yeah, I know."
He turned Cosmic Freedom toward the heart of the battlefield, where Mephistopheles' chains had completely cocooned White Wing Zero.
"Hang in there, Kieth," he muttered. "I'm coming."
The wings flared open, and Cosmic Freedom soared toward the storm once more.
The battle wasn't over—
but the echo of Aamon's last words lingered in Josh's chest like an ember refusing to die.
The blackened clouds split open as Kieth's White Wing Gundam soared through the storm, its armor gleaming with the light of countless explosions below. Every flap of its radiant wings scattered beams of searing light, tearing apart the demonic sky beasts that lunged at him.
Across the airspace, Mephistopheles emerged from the inferno, his obsidian armor cracked but his eyes—those burning violet eyes—still calm and defiant. His wings, jagged and tattered, flared open as black fire spiraled around him.
"Still stubborn as ever, human," Mephistopheles hissed, his distorted voice echoing across the battlefield.
Kieth's eyes sharpened. "I've fought gods and monsters—but you… you're something else entirely."
He thrusted his Gundam's saber forward.
The air cracked.
Their blades clashed midair with a deafening clang!—a shockwave rippled, shaking the clouds and splitting the ground below. Mephistopheles caught the beam saber between his claws, his arm sizzling from the contact.
"You can't protect anyone, Kieth," Mephistopheles growled, forcing the Gundam backward with sheer strength. "You couldn't then—and you won't now."
Kieth's jaw tightened. "You talk too much."
The Gundam's thrusters roared. He twisted, parried, then countered with a flurry of precise slashes—each strike leaving streaks of golden light. Mephistopheles dodged, deflecting some, but the barrage drove him downward. The last hit sent him crashing into the ruined spire below.
Before Mephistopheles could recover, Kieth raised his rifle, its core glowing brighter and brighter—charging for a fatal shot.
"You're done!"
The blast fired—
A massive beam tore through the sky like divine judgment. Mephistopheles crossed his arms, summoning a massive demonic sigil, black and purple, to absorb the impact. The barrier cracked under the pressure.
He let out a guttural roar. "You'll regret this!"
He launched upward, summoning chains of pure malice that lashed around the Gundam's wings. The machine struggled as Kieth gritted his teeth, pulling the controls hard.
"Get—off!"
He overcharged the thrusters, burning through the demonic bindings, and rammed Mephistopheles midair—sending both spiraling across the sky in a fiery collision. They crashed into the ground, the force carving a crater around them.
Kieth burst out of the smoke first, his Gundam dragging its beam saber like a blade of vengeance. Mephistopheles stood amidst the ruins, half his mask broken, revealing faintly human features beneath.
Kieth aimed again, his finger hovering over the trigger.
"This ends here!"
But before he could fire—
"Kieth, no! Don't—It was Mina!"
Lyra's voice tore through the comms, raw and desperate. She landed between them, her armor cracked, eyes wet with disbelief.
Kieth froze. "Lyra, get out of the way!"
"No! Look at him!"
Mephistopheles raised his head. The broken mask fully slipped off, and around his neck hung a small silver necklace—its charm shaped like a tiny moon and sun intertwined.
Kieth's breath hitched. His eyes widened as the memory hit him like a hammer—his daughter's laughter, the same necklace he gave her before she vanished.
"M–Mi…na?"
The demon's lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile.
"Long time no see… father."
To be continue.