Lord of the Truth

Young Belt – Planet S-1

"....."

Sakaar sat before the mouth of a narrow cave, his massive frame resting lazily against the rough mountainside. At first glance, he looked utterly at ease—his thin lips pressed shut, his breaths measured and even, his body unmoving as if carved into the stone itself.

His horns, which jutted outward from where his eyes would have been, gave his face an inscrutable quality. Normally, no one could guess what stirred in his mind or what moods weighed on him. But today, that inscrutability faltered.

Ba-ba-ba-doom

His three hearts pounded together like war drums in his chest.

Outwardly, he appeared calm, unmoved, detached. Yet beneath that still surface, his blood churned, and something heavy gnawed at him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his head turned downward, his attention sliding toward the sprawling city that clung to the base of the mountain.

It was one of the very first settlements the demons had raised in this new homeland—a strange, grotesque city built in their own image.

The houses were fashioned from bones and jagged stones, their shapes rising like cruel spears pointed toward the sky. The streets were twisted and uneven; some lay flat upon the earth, while others wound beneath the surface like tunnels, and still more ran like crooked bridges strung between rooftops. The very design of the city seemed alive, pulsating with disorder.

The air was thick with stench—foul, metallic, and heavy with the iron tang of blood. The heat pressed down relentlessly, smothering like a furnace. From the very soil radiated an aura steeped in hunger, cruelty, and bloodlust. To any outsider, the city resembled a vast colony of ants dragged into the light of the world above—but these were no ordinary ants. They were blood-ants, vicious and carnivorous, best left unprovoked. And yet, strangely, the residents did not behave with the rabid hostility their aura suggested.

"Ka-ka-ka! I'll catch you!" A tiny demon cub, no more than two weeks old, toddled forward, his stubby arms reaching toward another cub.

"Run, run, Mufas!!" A young demon girl shrieked with glee, her voice carrying bright encouragement for the fleeing child.

The chased cub laughed triumphantly, his confidence unshaken. "Ki-ki-ki! If you catch me, I'll give you my arm!!"

Ba-ba-ba-doom

High on the mountain, Sakaar's hearts thundered again. He exhaled heavily, and his head tilted away, as though weighed down by unseen chains. His attention shifted, falling upon another site entirely.

The pen.

There, beyond sight of the laughing children, stood the grand prison array. It had been constructed once more, larger and stronger than ever, dedicated to containing the Empire of True Beginning's most reviled enemies. Not even war captives who had slain Burton family members upon the battlefield were consigned to that place. No—the pen was reserved for the unforgivable: traitors, conspirators, and criminals whose very names were spat with venom. It was not simply a prison. It was a hell sculpted into the flesh of the world.

Its most infamous inhabitants were the survivors of the Azil Tribe. Those who had died in the war between the Empire of the Great Serpent and the Peoples of Orphan's Blood were gone, but the wretches who had lived were cast here. Their punishment was unending. Torn apart again and again, their bodies regenerated only to be slaughtered anew, they were condemned to serve as an eternal feast for the demons.

Had Richard been present, he might have sneered, perhaps even smiled at the justice, or he might have trembled with rage. For within that pen rotted Dawoodar. Once a proud warrior, now a husk. Centuries within those walls had stripped him of all dignity, all reason. At that moment, he sat hunched in a shadowed corner, half a leg missing, both ears torn away, one arm absent. His eyes were vacant, saliva dripping from his mouth as he stared blankly at the dirt. His mind had long since shattered.

Sakaar's attention lingered as the demon butchers carried out their daily ritual, prowling through the prisoners like farmers inspecting livestock. They always chose the one most fully restored by the prison's healing arrays, and from him they would take a limb—a leg, an arm, an ear. It was a peaceful hunt, if such words could be twisted so cruelly. A ritual that unfolded every day without fail. The rule was iron: no prisoner could be killed, for they were too precious a resource of meat. Should a butcher cause one to die, the butcher himself would be executed in turn.

Yet this macabre routine, which brought delight to most demons, stirred no joy in Sakaar. His features twisted with something almost like disgust.

Ba-ba-ba-doom

His three hearts thundered once more. He lowered his head, his horns casting jagged shadows upon his chest, and his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened. For an instant, it seemed he might crush his own hands. Then, forcing himself away from the sight, he turned toward another scene.

Bam Bam

Marching feet shook the earth.

Hundreds of young demons advanced in formation, their steps pounding in rhythm, their lines drawn in rows. Yet the rows wavered, uneven, betraying their inexperience.

"Stop!" A harsher voice cut across the ranks. Another demon, older and scarred, stepped forward, his presence radiating dominance. His gaze swept the young ones like a blade. "You have all come of age. You are no longer infants—you have reached your first year. You are now youths, ready for war, and from this day forward you must earn your food with your own claws."

He sneered, his voice rising like thunder. "After this short camp, you will be sent into battle, where most of you will fall and rot. If you wish to live, if you crave survival, then you will obey! Every cursed order, every cursed step—follow them as if your lives depend on it… because they do!"

"Boss, hey boss!" one of the demons shouted, raising his clawed hand high, his voice brimming with reckless excitement. "Why don't we just leap down on them right now and rip their throats apart? We are—"

Smack!

The officer's whip, woven from living blood, cracked across the young recruit's face with a sound like tearing flesh. The strike hurled him through the air, slamming him into the dirt. The others froze as the officer's roar split the air. "HOLD YOUR LIIIIIINES!!" His voice boomed like thunder, drowning their instincts in sheer command.

"Y-yes, sir!!" the demons barked in unison, snapping back into formation, though their eyes still burned with bloodlust.

Ba-ba-ba-doom!

Sakaar's three hearts pounded in unison, so loud he felt them shake his skull. He lowered his massive head until it pressed between his knees, clutching it tightly with both hands as if to cage the storm raging inside. His voice tore out in a muffled, tortured growl. "Aaahh… AaaahhhhHHH!!"

Then, unable to contain himself, he slammed his right fist into the mountain.

BAAAAAM!

The blow cracked the peak in half, the earth groaning beneath his wrath. The summit shattered, and an avalanche thundered down toward the city below.

Screams rose immediately. Demons in the bone-built streets fled in chaos; others rushed toward the falling rock to try to stop it.

The prison guards roared in alarm, scrambling to preserve their captives before the pen collapsed. Even soldiers from the barracks stormed out, desperately weaving arrays of blood and bone to divert the flow. But it was useless—no matter their efforts, a quarter of the city would be ground into dust beneath the oncoming slide.

And Sakara?

He did not care.

He could feel the mountain tearing apart beside him, hear the stones ripping through the air, yet his focus remained inward. He pressed his head harder, pressing until his horns scraped against his knees, and raised his hand again, ready to unleash another strike that would finish what he started.

The Lord's iron laws shackled him: he was permitted to fight only on sanctioned battlefields, and every conquered planet had to be delivered intact to headquarters. Sakaar knew a hundred loopholes, a thousand ways to bend those laws, to find cracks and shadows where he could slaughter freely. But he refused. He refused to risk the trust of His Excellency. He refused to delay the flow of planets after Aro and Caesar and their armies had departed for the mid-sector.

But still—just conquering armies, seizing worlds, and then handing them over like trophies? That was not the demon way. That was not his way.

This routine, this shallow imitation of war, this snack without flavor… it sickened him. The vast legions of the demon army no longer needed his hands, his fury, his crown. They no longer needed kings at all.

Everything around him now felt suffocatingly dull.

Too quiet.

Too tame.

Too peaceful.

And peace was poison.

This was not what he was born for.

This was not what demons were created for!!

Just as his hand was about to fall again—ready to obliterate the mountain itself—

"Brother Sakaar."

The voice cut through his madness. It was calm, deep, yet heavy with weight.

Sakaar froze, his great arm trembling in the air, before slowly lowering it. He pressed his head once more with both hands, panting like a beast barely leashed. "I know… I'll stop…" he muttered, his tone low, rough with frustration.

"I came for something more important," said Amon, his towering figure—well over four meters tall—descending like a black pillar beside him. His steps crushed the rocks beneath his feet as if they were nothing. "Are you still refusing to wear your Voice Ring?"

"Hmm?" Sakaar lifted his head slowly, his horns catching the dim light. "I told you—I already delegated every authority to the new generation. What's the problem? Has something gone wrong?"

"No," Amon rumbled, his tusked mouth curling into the hint of a grin. "No disaster, no rebellion. But…" He leaned in, his presence pressing like a mountain, and clapped Sakaar's massive shoulder with a blow so heavy it cracked the stone beneath them. "There is something that will rouse your spirit again." His grin widened. "His Excellency has returned."

".....?!"

The words struck Sakaar harder than any blow. His entire body jolted upright, shock ripping through him like lightning. Then—

BAAAAAAM!!

His colossal leg slammed against the mountainside, propelling his body like a launched boulder. He surged forward with explosive force, tearing toward the nearest gate, leaving nothing but shattered rock in his wake.

Behind him, Amon threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound echoing across the peaks like a beast's triumph.

And behind them both, the mountain gave way once more. Another avalanche thundered down, born from Sakaar's violent leap. This one was even larger than the first—an unstoppable tide of stone and dust poised to bury whatever remained of the broken city.