Lord of the Truth

"…Your Majesty, Supreme General Sakaar and General Amon request permission to enter." Wade's calm yet firm voice reverberated from behind the heavy gate, carrying with it a sense of discipline and solemnity.

At the mention of those two names, Robin's lips curved into a faint smile. He then turned his gaze toward Kristan, Emily, and Zara. "Continue dividing the weapon stock and reflecting on what we discussed; this conversation is far from over—we will meet again later." His hand gestured lightly toward the gate, dismissing them with authority.

"Your Majesty." The three bowed in unison, not too deeply yet with respect. Then, almost automatically, they began collecting the weapons and withdrew. It was as if their bodies responded instinctively to Robin's orders, while their minds were elsewhere entirely. Their eyes were unfocused, absent… each of them lost in their own tide of thoughts.

Clatter

The colossal gate creaked open, the sound echoing like thunder across the hall. The three slipped outside, and after only a few short moments of muffled exchanges with the newcomers, two massive silhouettes entered.

Step Step

Their footsteps shook the ground as they advanced. Robin's eyes narrowed slightly as he beheld them: two towering figures, each nearly three meters in height, crowned with horns a full meter long jutting from their heads. Their entire bodies were encased in crimson armor, vein-like engravings sprawling across it like rivers of blood, each detail carefully etched into the plates. At the sight, Robin chuckled softly, "So… the refinement of demon armor has not ceased. Impressive. Very impressive indeed."

"My lord." The two knelt forward in a full bow. Though their faces were hidden beneath smooth, featureless masks, Robin could still discern their identity in the familiar rasp of their voices. He could hear the weight of respect, the resonance of loyalty, beneath the metallic tone.

"Relax." Robin motioned toward the royal seats near the throne. His hand swept toward their armor, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "…This new design is nothing short of remarkable. Has this model already been distributed among all your kin?" His smile deepened, voice rich with amusement. "Without the Eye of Truth, and without foreknowledge of your identities… even I, perhaps, would fail to recognize your race!"

The concept of such armor had first been born in Sakaar's mind—an ingenious innovation where metal tubes constantly circulated the blood of feral beasts into and out of the armor, veiling the aura of the demon who wore it. From that primitive idea, the city's craftsmen and engineers had polished it further, perfecting it step by step until what now stood before him was nothing less than a marvel.

Even Robin himself—a Great Soul Master with the colossal capacity of 810,000 units—could not pierce its disguise. If he could not, then how could one expect the sharp senses of World Cataclysms, whether through soul perception or energy resonance, to succeed? Especially now that the wearers themselves had ascended into World Cataclysms, masters of their own auras. Even a Nexus State would find it difficult to unmask them, unless one relied upon very specific detection laws… or, of course, unless that one was a Royal Soul Master.

The two giants moved as directed, their armored frames creaking softly, and seated themselves with a discipline that mirrored their respect. From behind the mask, Amon finally spoke: "No, my lord, it has not yet been made common. This latest version was the fruit of collaboration between Sky Opening City, the Shadow Swords —who contributed stealth-based equipment designs— and several of our own. Supreme General Sakaar himself led the trials and set forth critical requirements… particularly one demand of his above all: that the armor conceal the identity of its wearer even after death."

"This is extraordinary." Robin stroked his chin, the smile never leaving his lips. "This set stands merely one step below the armor of the Imperial Guard. In other words, it is a mid-tier epic set in terms of resilience and strength. But when we add its other properties—concealment of aura, suppression of blood, masking of scent, and even partial resistance against soul force intrusion—then its value soars. A single suit, without exaggeration, could rival the worth of a high-tier epic set!"

By simple estimation, a single set of this crimson armor could demand a price nearing three million.

Amon inclined his head. "The lord's daughter claims it as one of Sky opening City's greatest achievements. But the process of forging is extremely taxing, and the materials required are exceedingly rare—even among the countless worlds we have subjugated. That is why only ten sets of this edition were ever completed. They were given exclusively to the Demon Kings—ourselves and eight others. The rest of the kings… still wait."

"The rest…" Robin tapped his chin, eyes narrowing in thought. "How many are there now?"

The revelation struck him with weight. Ten kings already walked among the demons—ten World Cataclysms. In the fragile laws of the Young Belt, each one of them alone could unmake a planet with but a flick of their hand.

A World Cataclysm was a force equal to the shadow of Helen—the one who had slain Morin instantly, nearly destroyed Hulak and Sakaar, and brought planet Nihari itself to the brink of annihilation with a single gesture. And now… should such a shadow rise once more, there would be ten who could rise against it. Ten who could face the abyss, and obliterate it.

"By our calculations, there are now a total of seventeen Demon Kings right now," Amon announced with solemn weight in his voice. "And we anticipate at least three more breakthroughs within the coming five years, perhaps even sooner should the conditions prove favorable."

"…" Robin's brows rose in clear astonishment. He leaned back slightly, rubbing his forehead with slow, deliberate motions as his thoughts spiraled inward.

That the demons could reach the stage of World Cataclysm was not, in itself, surprising. After all, they were not children born of the planet's womb, nurtured and balanced by its laws—they were an infection, a living plague. A planet pierced by their corruption was never granted the dignity of ascension into the Mid-Belt. No, such a planet was already marked, condemned, sentenced to die.

And their rate of ascension was monstrous. Whenever food was abundant, their growth turned frenzied. No—one could even say their evolution itself was a relentless storm. These creatures did not cultivate in the ways of mortals; they mutated. Each feast of blood and flesh rewrote their bodies, twisting them into higher forms, as though every slaughter unlocked hidden achievements, each devouring act rewarded with new mutations. Unlike mankind or other races, they had no need for techniques, no libraries of knowledge, no rare pills or spirit treasures.

For demons, strength required only one currency: blood. Rivers upon rivers of blood. A mountain of corpses to stand upon, and oceans of scarlet to drink.

From the perspective of raw military resources, demons were the most terrifying ally imaginable. From this very day until the Day of Reckoning six centuries from now, no one—neither sage nor seer—could predict how many kings they might spawn. And should every one of those kings don the crimson armors, their presence could be hidden even from the keenest eyes. No… perhaps by then, the armor itself would evolve further, becoming even more inscrutable, even more devastating!

Yet this gift was also a curse. Their fertility was unmatched, their reproduction rate appallingly high. More kings meant more mouths to feed. More mouths meant more hunger gnawing at the empire's reserves, more seeds of insubordination sown in the shadows, more unpredictable threats waiting to erupt. With every new birth, the balance between strength and chaos tilted ever closer to collapse.

"We have not asked you for anything new, my lord," came a new voice, low and gravelly. It rolled across the hall like thunder over stone. It was Sakar. "So why torment yourself with such heavy thoughts? A report of your followers' strength should be cause for celebration… should it not?"

Robin's gaze returned slowly, locking onto the towering figure. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though his eyes remained sharp as blades. "So… you finally chose to speak? For a moment, I thought you had appointed Amon as an royal spokesman in your majesty's stead."