I Reincarnated as a Demon King,I Will Kill Everything

The bells of the Holy Citadel rang hollow.

Not in triumph, but in alarm. The sound echoed across the white spires of the Church's capital, sending ripples of unease through the sleeping city.

In the high council chamber, light from stained glass windows painted the marble floor in hues of gold and violet. But the beauty of the room did nothing to ease the heavy atmosphere.

High Inquisitor Seraphiel stood at the center of the table, knuckles pressed against the polished stone. His armor gleamed, but his face was pale, jaw clenched. Around him, the Cardinals shifted nervously in their scarlet robes.

At last, the doors opened. A group of battered knights entered, armor cracked, bandages wrapped hastily around bleeding wounds. Their leader stumbled forward, dropping to one knee before the council.

"Crowmere has fallen," he gasped, blood staining his lips.

The chamber erupted.

"What do you mean fallen?" one Cardinal demanded.

"The cathedral was blessed by the Goddess herself!" another cried.

"Impossible! That gate has stood for centuries!"

Seraphiel silenced them with a single raised hand. His voice cut through the noise like steel. "Tell us everything."

The knight swallowed hard, bowing his head. "The demon king came. Not with an army at first, but with a vanguard. They struck before dawn. Crowmere's defenses crumbled within hours."

Murmurs spread. Some Cardinals crossed themselves, others whispered prayers under their breath.

But the knight's voice only grew darker.

"We fought with everything we had. Paladins, templars, the holy wards. Even Sir Roger, commander of the elven host, stood against him. But…" The knight's voice cracked. "…the silence devoured us. And the moon's light was turned against itself."

Seraphiel's eyes narrowed. "And Kravius?"

The knight flinched. "He came. He fought the demon king. We believed he struck him down—"

"Believed?"

The knight's shoulders trembled. "What we saw was not him. The body shattered, the vessel destroyed. It was only a shadow. The true Kravius was never there."

The chamber fell into stunned silence.

A Cardinal's voice broke first, shrill with fear. "So he lives but hides?!"

"Then even Kravius cannot face this demon king directly," muttered another.

"No," Seraphiel growled, fists tightening. "This means something far worse."

He turned, his silver eyes hard as steel. "It means the demon king now knows the truth—that Kravius fights through vessels. That our strongest blade is not invincible."

The Cardinals shifted uncomfortably. The illusion of their greatest hero—unbreakable, unyielding—had been shattered.

From the corner of the chamber, an elderly priestess spoke softly, her voice trembling. "If Crowmere is gone… then the Holy Road to the western kingdoms lies open. The demon king will not stop there."

The words sent a chill across the room.

Another knight stumbled in, his face pale, carrying a bundle wrapped in bloodstained cloth. He knelt before the table, unwrapping it slowly.

The Cardinals recoiled.

It was a severed hand—small, delicate, with a broken silver ring still on its finger.

"The hand of Lady Lyanna Brightblade," the knight said, his voice cracking. "Templar of the Sacred Dawn. She lives, but… mutilated. She will never wield a sword again."

The Cardinals fell into chaos again. Some wept, others shouted.

Seraphiel stood motionless, staring at the broken hand. For a long moment, no words left his lips. Then finally, his voice returned—low, heavy with restrained fury.

"This demon king does not merely kill. He maims. He humiliates. He spreads fear more effectively than any blade."

The elderly priestess shuddered. "Then what hope do we have?"

Seraphiel turned sharply to her, eyes blazing. "Hope? Hope is forged in fire! The Goddess does not test us with comfort. She tests us with war. And we will answer!"

He slammed his gauntlet onto the table, the echo ringing through the chamber. "Summon the remaining heroes. Call the banners of every kingdom. The crusade begins now."

A Cardinal hesitated. "But High Inquisitor… Kravius himself has not returned. Without him—"

Seraphiel's eyes snapped to him, sharp as blades. "Kravius is not dead. He will return when the time is right. Until then, we are the shield. We cannot falter. Not now."

Yet even as he spoke, unease lingered. Every man and woman in that chamber knew the truth—Kravius' absence left a wound deeper than they dared to admit.

The meeting ended in chaos, messengers dispatched across the continent.

But outside the chamber, in the shadowed halls of the citadel, whispers spread like wildfire.

"If Crowmere has fallen, what of the other holy sites?"

"They say the demon king wields the moon's own power now."

"Can even the Goddess stop him?"

Far from the council, deep within the sanctum of the cathedral, another figure knelt in silence.

Kravius.

His true body.

The chamber was dark, lit only by pale moonlight spilling through a slit in the ceiling. His gray eyes stared into nothing, his body still marked by faint burns and cracks—the echo of his vessel's destruction.

He had felt every strike. Every wound. Every humiliation.

The memory of Neil's gauntlet crushing his vessel's chest burned in his mind. The silence. The void. That smug grin.

His lips curled into a snarl.

"Neil" he whispered, the word dripping with venom. "You think you've won. You think destroying a vessel means you've struck me down."

He gripped his sword tighter, silver light seeping from its cracks.

"You've only made the oath burn brighter."

He stood, the moonlight bathing his face in pale fire. "Next time, I will not send a vessel. Next time, you will face me. And I will tear the silence from your throat with my own hand."

His laughter echoed through the sanctum, soft and cold, as if the moon itself laughed with him.

Back in the high council chamber, the Cardinals argued still, voices rising like crows over carrion. Some demanded retreat, others cried for holy war.

But Seraphiel's mind was already set.

He looked out the window, past the white spires, toward the distant mountains. Somewhere beyond, the demon king gathered strength.

"Let him come," Seraphiel muttered under his breath. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. "Let him bring silence. We will answer with fire."

And in that moment, the Church was no longer united in faith, but fractured in fear. Some clung to their Goddess. Others whispered doubts. But all knew one truth—Crowmere had fallen. And nothing would ever be the same.