After seeing the two apostles coming towards him, Arthur simply lifted two of his fingers and extended them forward with a motion so casual it would have been easy to miss if one wasn't already watching him closely.
In the next instant, the force holding the third apostle in place inverted, and its body was hurled forward like a projectile. It crossed the distance in a blink and collided violently with the two Apostles rushing in to assist it, the impact released a compressed shockwave that tore through the surrounding air and scattered the clouds beneath them.
All three Apostles gasped as they were thrown backward, their formations breaking as they tumbled through the sky. Their chitinous armor cracked in several places, and it took several seconds of frantic adjustment before they managed to stabilize themselves again, hovering at a distance while struggling to regain control of their momentum.
When they finally looked back toward Arthur, there was no mockery left in their eyes. There was only caution, tension, and the dawning clarity of what they were truly facing.
Arthur remained where he was, floating as his coat drifted gently as though untouched by the violence moments earlier. His expression was calm, as he regarded them and spoke without raising his voice, "I don't want to waste time torturing you guys... So, it would be best if you tell me where your god is."
The three Apostles didn't answer him, they gritted their teeth as they exchanged wary glances, their reactions were subtle but unmistakable. And Arthur could see the conflict playing out behind their eyes, the instinct for survival clashing violently with their loyalty for their god.
By now, they understood beyond any doubt that Arthur was not struggling against them. He was in fact toying with them, it was clear from the earlier exchange that he was much stronger. If he chose to end them, it would not be a battle.
One of the Apostles clenched its fists, his black carapace creaking under the strain. The other two hesitated, their bodies were tense, and their energy fluctuated unevenly as the choice pressed down on them. Then, almost as one, they made their decision.
And props to them in spite of knowing they could die here, they still chose to not tell him about their god's location and decided to attack him.
This time there was no restraint in their attacks. They unleashed everything they had, abandoning defense entirely as desperation settled in. Their power surged to its peak, tearing through the sky in violent waves. Blades of compressed energy, attacks that could erase cities, rained toward Arthur from every direction. To an observer, it would have looked like a storm was converging on a single point.
Arthur moved through it with unsettling ease. He stepped aside by fractions of a second, shifting his position just enough that every strike passed harmlessly through empty space. When one Apostle attempted to sever his head with a sword, Arthur caught the attack between two fingers and shattered it without effort.
Another apostle descended from above with a kick, only for Arthur to lean back slightly and let the blow miss by a hair's breadth. When the third tried to grapple him directly, Arthur placed a hand against its chest and pushed, sending him flying backward with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the clouds below.
For nearly a minute, they poured everything they had into the assault, ignoring the strain on their bodies, ignoring the certainty of failure. And still, they could not touch him even once.
Arthur sighed as the Apostles' movements began to slow down, exhaustion and despair creeping into their motions. He studied them then, not as enemies, but as warriors who had reached the end of their path. A trace of respect appeared in his eyes born from the understanding that they knew exactly how this would end and had chosen to stand against him anyway. He acknowledged that not many could face death with such resolve.
But respect did not change necessity. Arthur raised his hand, his expression hardening as three invisible blades formed above his hand. And with a single swipe of his hand the three blades shot through the air.
The Apostles were still advancing when the blades passed through their necks. There was no pain, or resistance, only a clean severing as their heads separated from their bodies. Their eyes widened in shock as momentum carried them forward before their bodies collapsed midair.
Even then, their regeneration ability was already attempting to save them. Their vitality was so strong they were still alive and would continue to live for years without their body. Given time, they could have rebuilt their bodies.
But Arthur did not allow it, he injected Aether into their heads and their consciousness was erased completely, wiped clean before any suffering could take root. He held their bodies and severed heads in place with telekinesis as purple flames consumed the remains, reducing flesh and armor alike to nothing. Only the heads remained, preserved deliberately. He stored them away, already preparing to extract the memories he needed.
…
Inside the planetary defense command center, terror finally broke through the discipline that had held the officers together. The holographic feed showed the aftermath clearly, three Apostles were killed so easily.
The Director staggered back, disbelief written plainly across his face, while his assistant stared at the display, his hands trembling as he struggled to speak.
"S...Sir what should we do now?", his voice cracking despite his attempt to remain composed.
The Director hesitated only a moment before giving his order. "Inform the other apostles immediately of the situation."
The assistant argued back, "B...But sir, by the time they arrive from the battlefields..." he fell silent halfway through the sentence but everyone in the room understood the implication without it being said aloud.
Grinding his teeth, the Director stared at the image of Arthur waiting calmly in the sky and muttered. "We can only hope they will relay the situation to the Great Typhon in time."
So, the officers got to work to send messages to all the apostles who were currently at different parts of the galaxy.
Arthur, who was waiting for the Guardian AI to extract the apostle's memory, felt the transmission attempt almost immediately. He intercepted it effortlessly, hacked the communication channel, and traced its destination.
After a brief calculation, he dismissed it. Even with the Spear of Heaven's speed, reaching the closest receiver would take hours. It wasn't worth diverting his attention now. He only hoped the Apostles he had killed carried what he needed.
…
Far from the Chimerian home world, there existed a planet that no longer resembled anything that could be called alive. From orbit, its surface looked scarred and discolored, vast regions were reduced to ashen gray and sickly black, its oceans partially evaporated and its atmosphere thinned unevenly, as though the world itself had been bombarded with antimatter bombs.
Once, it had been a prosperous world filled with intelligent species. Cities had sprawled across its continents, cultures had flourished, and billions had lived their ordinary lives unaware of how fragile that existence truly was.
Now, multitudes of corpses lay scattered through streets and collapsed towers, their forms frozen where they had fallen. Entire cities had become silent graveyards, the air carried the smell of dead bodies, and an oppressive stillness.
Near the ruins of what had once been a central metropolis, a massive magic circle had been carved directly into the planet's surface. The magic circle spanned kilometers, and it glowed with an ominous red color. The symbols were alien in origin, formed from principles that did not belong to this universe.
At the very center of that circle sat a being whose presence distorted the space around him.
He was enormous, his form was towering even while he was seated, a grotesque fusion of demon and a bipedal dragon. Thick, blackened scales covered his body, layered like natural armor, each one etched with scars that told the story of multiple battles the being had gone through.
Massive wings were folded behind his back, their membranes were torn and burned in a few places where old wounds had never fully healed. His horns were curved backward from a skull-like head, framing a face that carried the cold authority of a ruler who had commanded legions.
If Arthur had been present, he would have immediately sensed it; life force was being drawn from every remaining corner of the planet. It seeped out of the corpses littering the cities, bled from the land itself, and flowed invisibly through the air toward the magic circle, converging at its center in a steady, unending stream. The being absorbed it slowly, his breathing synchronized with the pulsing runes beneath him.
Then, without warning, his eyes snapped open. They were pitch black, and deeper than void.
The flow of life force stuttered for a brief instant as his attention shifted inward, his senses extending far beyond the ruined planet beneath him. He suddenly felt he lost connection with three of his apostles, which means they were most probably dead. His apostles were bound to him through a contract so unless they died there was no other way for them to sever the contract in this dimension.
His brow furrowed, and the magic circle dimmed slightly as his concentration faltered. Slowly, he rose to his feet, the ground beneath him fracturing under his weight as power leaked unconsciously from his body.
"…Impossible," he muttered, his voice rumbling through the empty city like thunder. "What is capable enough to kill my Apostles in this dimension?"
He was the 66th Demon King of Hell, Sovereign of Monsters, a ruler who had once commanded monsters through blood and fire and ruled over a territory in Hell. In his native world, Hell was locked in an endless war against Heaven, a conflict that had raged for eons and devoured countless realms in its wake.
Though Demon Kings generally didn't always have to participate in the war, that was only for the top ten demon kings.
If they appeared in the battlefield there would be immeasurable casualties to both sides. Their presence alone would tilt the balance too far, unleashing destruction on a scale that neither side could truly afford. So, Heaven and Hell had reached an uneasy accord; only Demon Kings and Angels ranked below the top ten would participate directly in the war, preserving a fragile equilibrium born not of peace, but to prevent mutual destruction.
And in one such instance he had encountered the 31st ranked angel, a Throne.
The clash had been brutal, holy power had torn through his defenses, and angelic energy burned into his very essence in a way that ordinary wounds never could. He had been driven to the brink of annihilation, his body was shattered, and his power was barely holding together. The Throne had stood over him, with its blade raised prepared to deliver the final blow.
That is when a spatial crack appeared behind him, and just as the Throne's blade was going to land on his neck, he was sucked in the spatial crack. And when he emerged, he found himself in this universe.
At first, confusion had dominated his thoughts. He had been unable to sense any energy in this world, and even unable to detect the presence of Hell or Heaven. This dimension felt fragile to him, and even though he was nearly at the bottom of the list of Demon kings, injured and weakened, he knew with certainty that he could shatter continents here, perhaps several with his attacks.
As he explored this dimension, that certainty had only solidified. He found this dimension had no concept of demons or angels. So, there were no natural defenses against beings like him. Its technology, however, was astonishingly advanced, compensating for what it lacked in metaphysical depth with sheer ingenuity. Once he understood that, elation had replaced his confusion.
Even though the dimension was weak compared to his world. Here he could rule the whole dimension alone, there would be no rival Demon Kings, no angels descending from Heaven. But before that he needed to recover from his injuries.
The injuries inflicted by the Throne were not ordinary. Angelic energy clung to his wounds like a curse, making his natural regeneration useless and corroding his power from within. In his original world, with access to Hell's resources and forbidden relics, he could have healed within a year.
But here where there were no such resources for him to use. So, he turned to the only thing this universe had in abundance. Life.
By absorbing the life force of its inhabitants, he could slowly burn away the angelic corruption, replacing what was lost with raw vitality stolen from entire worlds. And the planet he was currently on had not been the first.
So, he first conquered a planet and offered them power, in exchange they would conquer worlds for him in this dimension thus helping in his recovery.
But now, three of his Apostles were dead which he thought was impossible. His gaze lifted toward the darkened sky, somewhere in this fragile universe, something existed that could kill beings empowered by him.
A slow, dangerous smile crept across his face. "So," he murmured, "this world is not as empty as I thought."
***
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