Chapter 110

Satan unleashed a flurry of sword strikes, each one more desperate than the last. His demonic blade, Valtarukh, an extension of his boundless rage, radiated such intense heat that the very earth beneath it began to melt.

But seeing this, Belia only scoffed.

“[I can feel it—you’re weakening by the second. Getting desperate, aren’t you?]”

“[Shut up. Shut up!! I said shut your mouth!!]”

Their blades clashed once again—Belia’s radiant sword against Satan’s seething demonic weapon. Scarlet divine energy and blazing violet flames burst outward in a chaotic storm.

The sheer force of the divine clash cracked and melted the mountain stone around them.

And slowly, Satan’s body began to bear the marks of the battle.

It was inevitable.

The tables had turned.

Just moments ago, the gods of the Pantheon had been silent, unable to interfere in the mortal realm. Meanwhile, Lucifer had been offering his full support to the Demon Kings.

But now… now the gates between Heaven and Earth were wide open.

With the overflowing power of the Pantheon behind her, Belia grew stronger by the second.

Satan, in contrast, was losing his followers at a staggering rate.

No matter how he looked at it, there was no path to victory.

It was the worst-case scenario—but Satan found himself laughing.

The irony was too rich.

He had mocked Mammon, called him a fool for ending up in such a state. And now, look at him—no different.

To manifest in the mortal realm, only to be cut off from the spirit world… and ultimately have his divinity shattered.

Mammon, ever cunning and true to his title as the Demon King of Greed, had left just enough power in reserve to escape back to the spirit realm.

That sliver of foresight had saved him.

But now, Satan, Leviathan, and Belphegor had no such luxury.

They had spent an enormous amount of divine power and authority—on corrupting the Saint, on restraining Asmodeus. Satan’s physical form had been half-destroyed and hastily reconstructed under Asmodeus’s relentless divine assault.

He no longer possessed the power to return to the spirit world on his own.

The only option was for his followers to perform a summoning ritual and open the gate themselves—but they were being slaughtered like ants.

Satan laughed.

It was absurd. Hilarious, even.

He had lived for over a thousand years as a god, enduring countless crises to reach this point.

And yet he was about to be undone… by a single human. A plain, foolish, painfully average human.

A kind-hearted idiot—so earnest it was almost pathetic.

To die because of someone like that?

It was beyond comedy.

“[This ends now.]”

Belia’s strikes grew more ruthless, more merciless.

Satan parried them all, but her divine power was wearing him down. His body was beginning to crumble under the sheer force of her will.

This was not the spirit realm.

Without his body to shield him, Satan’s divine form was exposed—fragile, vulnerable.

For the first time… he tasted the raw, suffocating fear of annihilation.

“[…Lucifer. Lucifer!!]”

Satan screamed.

“[Save me!! I don’t want to be erased like this!! Lucifer!!]”

It was a cry stripped of all pride—like that of a child, helpless and afraid.

But Lucifer gave no answer.

He didn’t extend a hand. He didn’t release any power to save him.

And Satan knew why.

[It’s your turn now.]

[Pay for all the times you stood in our way!]

Dullaneir.

Lupiel.

Rophus.

R’Nery, the god of darkness and secrets.

Messiah, the goddess of the moon, freed from the interference of the evil gods.

Athena, the goddess of wisdom.

Six divine beings now blocked Lucifer’s desperate attempt to intervene in the mortal realm.

Lucifer roared.

He fought to shake them off, but the Pantheon’s grudge ran deep—unyielding and relentless.

And so, in the one moment Satan needed him most… Lucifer couldn’t save him.

Valtarukh shattered.

The demon sword, forged over a thousand years with endless rage and humanity’s hatred, was obliterated by the sword of the war goddess.

Satan and Belia exchanged no more words.

Satan’s expression twisted—some mix of fear, resignation, and a mocking smile at the absurdity of falling short because he couldn’t corrupt a single human.

Belia’s face was cold, resolute, and filled with a quiet, deadly rage.

Her blade cleaved Satan in half.

A wave of crimson divine energy burst out, carving a colossal scar into the earth.

Satan’s body collapsed completely.

And from its ruins, his divine essence—frail and exposed—began to rise.

Belia reached out her hand.

“[There is no rest for you, Satan!!]”

She clenched her fist.

No matter how vast his divine power, without a body and outside the spirit realm, Satan was powerless.

His divine form shattered on the spot.

Belia absorbed what remained.

And in that moment—

“No—NO!! Oh, Goddess of Fury!! AAAAARGH!!”

Every follower who had given their soul to Satan screamed in agony as their bodies crumbled into dust.

***

Belphegor and Leviathan were both enduring their own personal hell.

“[Stop them!! Get out there and stop them, you worthless bastards!!]”

Belphegor shrieked.

But no amount of screaming or rage could reverse the tide of this war.

“[Crush them!! Show no mercy to the enemy!!]”

The divine words of Dullaneir thundered from the mouth of the priestess Iomene.

With it, blinding pillars of pure white light—symbols of Dullaneir’s presence—rained down from the heavens onto the battlefield.

The Ketratus Paladins and the White Order priests and clerics surged forward in a frenzied rush toward Belphegor, their faces twisted into grotesque blends of ecstasy and hatred.

“Die!! Die, you heretics!! Apostates!!”

The clinking of massive shell casings rang out nonstop as a rotary cannon, gripped in iron hands, roared with divine fury.

Each barrel had been sanctified with holy power, and the hail of bullets was enchanted with Dullaneir’s divine energy—blessed with sacred water and prayers.

The engineers and artisans of Scrap Yard had truly outdone themselves.

The massive armors, specially designed and dedicated to the White Order that had saved their city from the Demon Kings, were worth every ounce of effort.

“We have to disrupt them!! Slow down the bullets!!”

Belphegor’s followers were mostly black magicians—specialists in curses and mind-manipulation.

Desperate to preserve their quickly dwindling numbers, the warlocks under her command frantically tried to cast disruption spells.

But their efforts fell short.

“Now, cast it—!! Guh...!”

Warlocks coughed up blood, staggering mid-cast.

Their eyes filled with horror and fury as they turned toward the source of their pain.

A four-armed witch floated effortlessly in the air—Erfa.

Her wand swirled with terrifying power, and even the shards of stone around her hovered in defiance of gravity, drawn in by her overwhelming magic.

“It won’t be that easy.”

Before she even finished speaking, Archmage Yorgen, flanked by mages from the Mars Tower and the Tower Temple, emerged behind her, wands raised and already casting.

Unlike the black magicians—who had to dodge bullets while trying to cast—these tower mages were fully protected by holy knights and free to concentrate solely on their interference spells.

None of Belphegor’s magic could go off cleanly.

And unlike Satan or Leviathan, Belphegor wasn’t built for large-scale warfare.

“[Charge!! Rip them to shreds!! I’ll back you up!!]”

Leviathan was a close-combat specialist.

Her followers were of similar ilk—blessed with physical enhancements and built for brutal melee.

They charged headlong into the storm of blessed bullets, deflecting them with sheer muscle and diving into the chaos of battle.

Belphegor’s followers, on the other hand, mirrored their mistress—not warriors, but sadists.

They excelled in curses, mental manipulation, brainwashing, and pain.

That’s why most of them were warlocks.

And for someone like Belphegor, the sight of towering warriors cloaked in radiant divine energy charging at her with cannon-sized handguns and swords taller than a man…

It was pure terror.

“[Leviathan!!]”

If she wanted to survive, she needed a close-combat master. She turned to Jealousy—Leviathan—but even Jealousy had her hands full.

Belphegor wasn’t just facing the White Order and the Tower mages.

The other truth was far more damning.

“For Rophus! O, Sunlight!”

“For the god of darkness and secrets!”

“O moon goddess of stealth and subtlety!”

“Grant us wisdom!!”

All the other holy knights from the different religious orders had focused entirely on Leviathan’s front.

Even the assassins of the Black Fortress had joined in, relentlessly hounding her.

Leviathan had no breathing room—no chance to help.

Belphegor was never meant for a battle like this.

She stumbled, helpless, as her cherished followers and treasured relics were destroyed before her eyes.

And then…

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the sky—the divine essence of Satan was annihilated.

The shriek echoed across the spirit realm like thunder through the bones of creation.

Belphegor whipped her head around in terror.

“[No. No. No!! This can’t be happening!!!! Nooo!!!!]”

She screamed in a panicked frenzy.

Satan was dead.

His divine essence had been completely devoured by Belia, erased from existence.

The followers who had surrendered their souls to him were disintegrating, their bodies crumbling to dust.

And from among their vanishing remains, Belia slowly raised her sword.

She pointed it straight at Belphegor.

“[Belphegor.]”

That was all she said.

No shouting. No dramatics. No wrathful roar.

Just a cold, expressionless face. A stare. A name.

And in that single word—Belphegor felt a fear deeper than she had ever known.

The divine she had tortured for 300 years…

That very divine spark had once belonged to Belia.

She had watched, powerless, as every chosen host of her divine essence died—one by one, writhing in agony under Belphegor’s hands.

The hatred… the wrath that Belia must carry—

It was beyond imagining.

If she were caught, she wouldn’t be granted the “mercy” of annihilation like Satan.

The moment that realization hit, Belphegor knew there was only one choice left.

“[Run!!]”

She bolted, dragging her followers with her.

A ritual to return to the spirit realm?

There was no time for that now.

First, escape.

She had to get away from Mount Talhaim—make it to the hideout prepared by her followers.

The ritual could be completed there.

Right now, survival came first.

If she didn’t flee, she would die.

Belphegor frantically ripped at the fabric of space, attempting to open a portal—

[You think I’d let that happen, you lazy bitch of sloth?!]

With a thunderous curse that shook the very spirit realm, Dullaneir slammed the portal shut.

“[You goddamn piece of—!! Let go, damn it!!]”

Belphegor screamed in panic, her curses flying.

Dullaneir only laughed—a wild, unhinged laugh full of spite.

[I couldn’t run wild all these years thanks to Lucifer blocking me. But you… You laughed when you corrupted my chosen ones, didn’t you? Even if it costs me my divine form, I’ll make sure you suffer. I’ll never let you escape easily!!]

Belphegor had no options left.

No time for more cursing.

She grabbed her followers and began fleeing down the mountainside.

“[Belphegor? Belphegor!! Come back! We have to fight this together!! No—don’t run!!]”

Leviathan screamed behind her, nearly begging.

But Belphegor ignored her.

She ran—like a coward—dragging her cultists in a panicked scramble for survival.

“[Please. No. No!!]”

She didn’t want to die.

She didn’t want to be erased.

She had lived too long.

Fought too hard. Crawled her way up with desperation and cunning.

And all of it—everything—was ruined by that damn Saint.

If only he had fallen. If only he had turned. None of this would’ve happened.

That sanctimonious bastard.

This was all because of that ridiculously noble idiot.

If she died now… she’d end up just like Mammon.

She refused to die like that.

Rage, regret, despair, fear, terror—

A storm of emotion fueled her mad dash through the mountain pass. And then… just a flicker.

A glimmer of hope lit her eyes.

“Lady of Sloth! There’s a way out—up ahead!”

The White Order’s Ketratus knights, the tower mages, the battle nuns from the War Order—none of them chased Belphegor.

Even Belia, who had just obliterated Satan, did not pursue.

Instead, they all turned to attack Leviathan.

“[Belphegor!! BELPHEGOR!!!!!!]”

Leviathan’s agonized screams echoed behind her, fading into the distance.

Belphegor let out a tearful, trembling laugh.

She might actually live.

No one was chasing her.

Just a little farther, and she’d be free of the mountain.

If she could just get beyond the battlefield—the place the Pantheon had its eyes locked on—she could open another portal.

She’d escape to a safe haven.

Return to the spirit realm.

And once she recovered… she’d rise again.

Hope swelled within her.

Until she saw the line of Imperial soldiers from the 3rd Division waiting quietly beyond the horizon.

“Your Highness. We’ve spotted the fleeing demon cultists. Transmitting coordinates now.”

At the scout’s report, the sky shimmered—then a massive airship appeared, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

Inside its command room, Princess Almeine looked down at the swarming mass of cultists on the ground.

Her voice was icy as she gave her order:

“Use the remaining elixirs. Cast a wide-area stasis field over the entire region where the demon followers are running.”

“Understood.”

The airship captain, after saluting and glancing at the royal magicians preparing the spell, began executing the command.

Almeine turned her attention elsewhere.

“General of the 3rd Division?”

[Awaiting your command.]

“Are the towed cannons ready?”

The general chuckled over the comm.

[Of course. It was a pain to move them here, but they’re all in place. Forty towed 155mm cannons—locked, loaded, and ready to fire.]

Almeine synced her senses with Iomene.

As she surveyed the terrain around Mount Talhaim, she realized there was only one possible escape route.

And when Iomene confirmed the direction Belphegor was fleeing, Almeine smiled.

Her prediction had been correct.

The forty cannons, already positioned and calibrated, had just finished setting up their firing angles.

“Stasis field activated!!”

The voice rang out from the airship captain.

The royal magicians had done their job—bringing them had paid off.

Immediately, the speed of the cultists from the Sloth Order began to slow drastically.

Of course, with an incarnate Demon King among them, the spell wouldn’t hold long.

But that didn’t matter.

Just a moment was enough.

“General?”

“Fire.”

A beat passed.

And then—

BOOM.

Forty 155mm towed cannons roared to life, spewing fire and steel into the sky.

Seconds later—

Forty shells, launched from different angles, converged with unerring precision…

…falling directly on the heads of the demon cultists.

A perfect example of the 3rd Imperial Division’s elite artillery training—a symphony of simultaneous impacts, timed to the millisecond. 

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