After confirming his suspicions, Orsaga gave a silent command.
His true body, still lingering in the spatial corridor and ready to flee at a moment's notice, immediately received the signal that it was safe.
In a manner imperceptible to Tharion and the others, Orsaga descended silently into the material plane. Using the [DimensionalProjection – Simulacrum] as a beacon, he swapped places with the projection and absorbed it back into himself, seamlessly merging the two.
Tharion, standing just a few steps away, only felt the air ripple faintly—as if reality had momentarily warped. He sensed a shift in the demon before him. The cold indifference and madness in its eyes were now replaced by fervor and elation. With an intense gaze, it began seriously surveying its surroundings—despite having already looked twice before.
Though curious, Tharion's instincts screamed at him not to ask questions. Survival was more important. He didn't even dare to breathe too loudly.
The cultists behind him, when swept by Orsaga's gaze, began to tremble uncontrollably like ducks with their necks clutched.
Over three meters tall, with a muscular physique and a face somewhat human yet covered in fine scales, Orsaga's form was terrifying. His curved demonic horns were large enough to be used as weapons. His body was encased in a fearsome exoskeletal armor, radiating power. A massive pair of wings unfurled behind him, and a long tail lined with sharp barbs swayed slowly.
The mere sight of him sent a jolt through Jaemar's heart.
'Truly a race born for slaughter', he thought silently. Even their appearance is overwhelming.
But the moment he glimpsed the calculating glint behind those crimson eyes, Jaemar's blood ran cold.
His mind flashed to descriptions of demons passed down through his family:
"Demons were once beast-like creatures with almost no intelligence. Communication was impossible—they existed only to kill. But their strength and intelligence grow together. The stronger they are, the smarter they become. The most dangerous are those who resemble humans in both form and thought—they don't just destroy, they scheme."
Now, seeing Orsaga observing the area like a predator sizing up prey, Jaemar gulped. His skin crawled as a bone-deep dread washed over him.
'This... this is no weak demon.'
'I just wanted to satisfy a bit of curiosity and see a moderately powerful demon—why did I get this?'
Images of the devastation caused by demon outbreaks throughout history flashed through his mind, and regret overwhelmed him.
'If only we'd known Tharion could summon something like this, the royal family would've worshipped him like an powerful warlock! We'd have begged him never to use such power!'
Even if the Principality of Mardain lost the war, the worst outcome would be territorial concessions. They could survive that. The Principality of Yharnis didn't have the power to annihilate Mardain outright—and even if it tried, the surrounding nations wouldn't allow it.
But if this led to a demonic catastrophe, that was no longer a matter of losing land. At that point, Mardain would struggle to even find a handful of survivors.
'When demons first descend, their strength is suppressed by the world. That's the best time to kill them!'
'I can do it! I still have hundreds of knights!'
Jaemar clung to the thought for a brief second.
But when he turned and saw his warhorses foaming at the mouth since the demon appeared, and his soldiers already looking like they'd seen their mothers die—he gave up on that tempting idea.
He could only pin his hopes on Tharion to control this thing.
'So that's how it was... he kept it hidden all along—summoning something this powerful with just a pile of corpses. No wonder the Church wants him dead. He's buried his power so deep, even the grimoires don't record anything about such a being.'
'If only we'd known your strength... no one from the Church would've dared to mess with you!, why didint you just show your true strength to us from the start'
What Jaemar didn't know was that Tharion himself was on the verge of wetting his pants, legs trembling uncontrollably, barely able to stand.
"Human. Are you the one who summoned me?"
Having completed his inspection, Orsaga finally relaxed. He turned to the trembling Tharion and spoke in a low voice, using the demonic tongue.
"Uh... that... yes, it was me."
Tharion didn't know why he could understand that language, but with Orsaga staring at him, he didn't question it. Instead, his mind raced to figure out how to respond.
He recalled the summoning rituals described in the grimoires and glanced at Orsaga again. Despair surged within him.
He desperately wanted to say it wasn't him, but seeing the cultists beside him burying their heads like ostriches, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and answer in the common tongue of the continent: Atlanian.
Though their languages didn't match—one in the demonic tongue, the other in Atlanian—they could still understand each other thanks to the demon's innate ability:
Universal Comprehension
(As long as the demon wishes it, any intelligent creature can communicate with them. Even if their languages are completely incompatible, they'll understand each other—including hand gestures and intent.)
When Tharion admitted to being the summoner, Orsaga nodded with satisfaction. He raised a finger, stared directly into Tharion's eyes, and rasped:
"Wish."
"??...What!?"
Tharion's knees buckled as the terrifying truth hit him.
A demon!
In every fairytale, in every legend, demons were described the same way—they tempt mortals into making wishes, and once the contract is fulfilled, they devour the summoner's soul!
'He's after my soul! He wants me to make a wish!'
'What do I do?!'
Frantically, Tharion began considering if he could wish the demon back to Abyss, hoping to escape his fate.
But the next moment shattered all his preconceived notions.
"Wish!" Orsaga repeated, voice serious. "You summoned me, so now you'll fulfill my wishes."
"At least a hundred of them!"
The weight of those words struck Tharion like lightning. His body froze.
He collapsed to the ground, legs turning to jelly—but Orsaga caught him by the collar with two clawed fingers and lifted him like a rag doll.
One word at a time, Orsaga repeated:
"I said you're going to grant me One Hundred Wishes. Do. You. Understand?"
Tears welled in Tharion's eyes. He held them back with all his strength and forced out a flattering response:
"I understand! It would be... an honor!"
"Good. From now on, you're Dog-Lackey Number One."
Orsaga casually tossed him aside.
"Now pick the five most useful people here."
Tharion, still wallowing in his misery, froze. But he quickly understood what Orsaga was asking. After swallowing hard, he looked around at the cultists and nobles nearby. His expression shifted several times before pointing out three trusted cultists. Then, he pointed at Jaemar.
"My lord, that man is crown prince. He holds considerable power. He deserves a spot—and I hope to offer him the last one to choose someone himself."
"Oh?"
Orsaga raised an eyebrow, surprised that Tharion wasn't entirely brainless.
He had assumed the man would just pick five of his cronies. But even now, Tharion was thinking about maximizing benefits. That showed some intelligence.
Still, Orsaga didn't particularly care. He had promised five spots—and what Tharion did with them wasn't his concern.
Unlike most demons who made promises like farts in the wind, Orsaga—perhaps due to remnants of a previous life—typically followed through when he said something. Not always, of course.
With a flick of his finger, Jaemar—who had been trying to quietly sneak away—was pulled through the air with no resistance.
Holding him by the throat, Orsaga pointed to Tharion and the selected cultists.
"Other than these, pick one more useful person."
"?"
Still panicking, Jaemar was full of confusion.
It wasn't until Tharion frantically gave him a series of eye signals that he finally understood.
Pick one more person... meaning everyone else would be discarded.
His royal poise vanished. Jaemar went pale.
He opened his mouth to protest, but when he met Orsaga's vertical golden pupils staring at him like a cat with a new toy, he wisely swallowed his words and—trembling—pointed toward Duren, who was preparing to rush in and save him.
"Good. The slots are full. Now, time to take out the trash."
With a wave, Orsaga pulled Duren over as well and tossed him next to Jaemar.
Then he smiled.
A pulse of invisible energy radiated from him, spreading across a radius of hundreds of meters.
And then Tharion and the others witnessed a nightmare that would haunt them forever.
Whether cultist, knight, prisoner, warhorse—even insects—any creature with flesh began to rapidly shrivel before their eyes. Their life force and souls were drained in an instant, drawn directly into Orsaga.
Under his passive ability, Torment Amplification, all who were drained let out the most agonizing—and final—screams of their lives.
When the process ended, a palm-sized blood orb floated in front of Orsaga.
He swallowed it in one gulp.
After a few seconds of digestion, he looked at the terrified Tharion and his companions, and spoke in a low voice:
"Come. Take me to your capital. I want to see this world."
He began in the demonic tongue, but by the final sentence, he had seamlessly switched to Atlanian. His massive form shrank and shifted—into a red-haired young man, clad in a luxurious black robe, with an aura of sinister beauty.
Tharion and the others, numb and defeated, could only lead the way.
Behind them, crimson flames ignited from the core of the summoning circle and spread outward, consuming the entire decrepit prison in a blazing inferno—erasing all traces of what had occurred.
______
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