The room was spacious. Luxurious to the point of excess.
The floor was covered in a velvet carpet of the highest grade, the kind that likely took artisans several years to weave. It swallowed footsteps whole. Beside it stood a round table carved from ancient fragrant wood, another rare item, its soft aroma lingering faintly in the air.
The table was large enough to seat more than ten people with ease.
Yet only three chairs had been prepared.
Each chair was lavish beyond reason. Beautiful. Exquisitely crafted. The sort of thing even kings and nobles would struggle to obtain.
The walls were adorned with ethereal paintings.
At first glance, they seemed like ordinary artworks. But a closer look revealed something unsettling. Creatures from a fantasy world were rendered in painstaking detail, their forms twisted into unnatural poses. At times, it almost felt as though they were moving.
As if they might leap out of the frames at any moment.
That feeling was not entirely unfounded.
These were creations of the great demon realm master, Bismarck. Artifacts known as Sealed Paintings. Each one imprisoned a living phantom beast within the canvas, transforming it into a supreme work of art.
Selling even a single item in this room would be enough to live like a noble for a decade.
Every treasure here existed to overwhelm.
Money was power.
With money, one could obtain high-grade magical equipment. With money, one could hire the best mercenaries. Anyone stepping into this room would immediately understand that truth.
The extravagance served a purpose.
To crush hostility before it could form.
But the guests invited today were not the kind to be impressed by such things.
The room's owner stood quietly among the splendor.
A slender man with refined features. Intelligent eyes, though tinged with a hint of nervousness. Despite that, he radiated an undeniable presence. One that pressed down on the space itself.
The Demon Lord Clayman.
He surveyed the room once more, nodded in satisfaction, then took a seat.
On the table before him rested a mask carved into a smiling expression.
Clayman picked it up, brushed his fingers across its surface, then slipped it carefully into his pocket.
The gesture was deliberate.
Cautious.
Guests would arrive soon.
Guests who stood on equal footing with him.
Demon Lords.
Clayman intended to treat these whimsical, self-indulgent beings courteously. And, if possible, guide them subtly in the direction he desired.
He adjusted his pure white tuxedo, retrieved a pocket watch, and checked the time.
Almost-
"Hey, Clayman. How's Gelmud's progress coming along?"
Without a sound, someone was already sitting in one of the chairs.
The man leaned back casually, legs crossed, posture relaxed. His tone carried no restraint.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His muscular build suggested brute force, yet his movements were smooth, refined even. His elegant clothes were worn loosely, but instead of looking sloppy, they enhanced the wild aura surrounding him.
Short blond hair. Sharp, well-defined features.
And eyes like a hawk's.
Focused squarely on Clayman.
"Ah, Carrion. You're early," Clayman replied. "I was planning to report on that matter today. I didn't expect you to be the first to arrive."
Carrion shrugged.
"Don't say it like that. The Lady always makes a grand entrance."
A grin tugged at his lips.
Carrion. King of the Beastmen. The Lion King.
A Demon Lord.
"Heh. The Lady, huh," Clayman said. "You're not wrong. Though perhaps we shouldn't say any more. After all-"
"That person is pretty sensitive about people talking behind her back."
The two exchanged a glance.
Then smiled faintly.
As if on cue, the door slammed open.
"Were you just talking about me?"
A young girl stood in the doorway.
She leaned in, scanning the room. After confirming that only Clayman and Carrion were present, she voiced the question bluntly.
She looked fourteen, maybe fifteen.
Even accounting for how demonoids often appeared younger than they were, her presence here felt out of place.
A dragon-claw-shaped shoulder guard rested on her right shoulder, hovering slightly, as if defying gravity itself. No one knew how it was made.
Her clothing was minimal. Pants and a breastplate, nothing more. Mobility clearly took priority. The outfit was almost as revealing as a swimsuit.
Her features were still childish, but her large eyes shone with a fierce blue light.
That gaze alone erased any doubts.
This girl was no ordinary being.
Cherry-gold hair flowed down in twin pigtails, catching the light with an almost blinding brilliance.
Any trace of cuteness vanished the moment one saw her smile.
Defiant.
Arrogant.
She puffed out her still undeveloped chest and looked down on the Demon Lords present.
"Hey, Milim," Clayman said smoothly. "We weren't badmouthing you. It's just rare for you to be late. You're never late. Don't let appearances fool you-I was actually worried."
"That's right," Carrion added with a laugh. "Though honestly, I wasn't worried at all."
Clayman shrugged and took a sip of black tea.
Neither of them bothered with elaborate excuses.
They knew better.
Making flimsy justifications would only make things worse.
Harmless words were the safest choice.
Even so, both Demon Lords felt a quiet tension in her presence.
There was only one reason.
Despite her appearance, this girl was terrifyingly powerful.
The only being to hold the titles of Dragonoid and Tyrant of Destruction.
Demon Lord Milim Nava.
Milim snorted, glaring between them.
They didn't react.
After a moment, she clicked her tongue.
"Fine."
She stepped into the room.
Someone followed her.
A Winged-kind, her wings spreading wide like those of a great eagle.
"Oh, Milim," Clayman said, frowning. "This room is only for Demon Lords. Attendants aren't allowed. Even you must follow that rule."
The woman answered calmly, her voice slightly muffled.
"Long time no see, Clayman. I'm not Milim's attendant. I didn't come willingly, but if my status is that of a Demon Lord, there shouldn't be a problem."
Her attitude was brazen.
She showed no fear at all.
Her appearance was delicate, but the demonic aura she radiated was unmistakable.
Another Demon Lord.
"Hey, hey, what are you doing here, Frey?" Carrion asked.
Frey.
The Winged-kind Demon Lord known as the Sky Queen.
One of the world's great powers.
"Hello, Carrion," she replied. "I refused the invitation at first. I was busy. But I couldn't say no to Milim."
"Wahahahaha!" Milim laughed. "I just thought you looked stressed and invited you to relax. You don't mind, right, Clayman?"
Clayman paused.
Then nodded.
"Very well."
There was no reason to refuse someone who had already arrived. If anything, this worked in his favor.
If Gelmud's failure was revealed today, Milim would inevitably explode.
Frey could serve as a mediator.
Clayman adjusted his thoughts, already shaping a new plan.
"Prepare a seat for Frey."
At Milim's urging, Clayman snapped his fingers.
A chair appeared in the empty space, as if it had always been there.
Perfectly blended.
No one questioned it.
Milim and Frey sat down without hesitation.
Four Demon Lords were now gathered.
It was time.
For the Puppet Master to begin pulling strings.
Clayman smiled faintly as he addressed them.
Thus, the Demon Lord's Council began.
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