Chapter 249: Chapter 250: Demon Saint
Atlas was still at the back. Still hovering. His hands folded, posture unreadable—neither threat nor invitation.
The faint shimmer of his form made the air around him bend, as though even reality was reluctant to crowd him too closely.
Veil stayed at the shadow of his neck, a quiet specter breathing in sync with him, her presence a thin veil of cold.
The smell in the chamber was damp and metallic. Old blood. Rust. And under it, something acrid—burned mana, the kind that lingered after a contract was broken violently. The dust swirled at his ankles though his feet never touched the ground.
As he saw it—Azezal. The crimson demon, standing rigid, the burnished red of his skin catching the dim firelight like cooled embers. His clawed hand raised, finger extended, pointing straight at him. Not with rage, not yet, but with the kind of recognition that digs into the marrow.
On the ground, sprawled like a discarded relic, another demon stirred. His breath rasped like sand dragged over glass. His gaze—wild, searching—landed first on Azezal, then snapped to Atlas.
Golden eyes. Dark hair. The markers burned into prophecy. He stared like a starving man seeing bread for the first time in decades. Then again, a flicker, back to Azezal. And again, to the being above the ground. Like he was weighing blasphemy against instinct.
The crimson demon’s lips cracked as he spoke, voice rasping like stone breaking.
{...I know, friend. You will not believe it. But have faith in the one below all. Have faith in His prophet. Have faith in him.}
The way he said it—it wasn’t pleading. It was resignation wrapped in conviction, the way someone speaks when they’ve already wagered everything and accepted the cost.
Atlas’s eyes narrowed faintly, the air between them tightening. "...You don’t need to listen to him," he said, voice low, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood.
"I’m just a passerby. We’re here for some items, and we’ll be on our way." He nodded toward Aurora without looking away from the demon.
Aurora stepped forward, her presence cutting into the tension like a silver blade.
"Come on, Zae—" she half-spat the syllables, then dismissed the full name as if it wasn’t worth the breath.
"You know I don’t play too many games. I want this..." Her fingers slipped into her coat and came back with a parchment, the ink lines still sharp—no smudge, no age. The drawing on it was unmistakable.
The Key.
The demon’s gaze, which had been tethered to Atlas with near-obsessive gravity, slid toward the parchment. His pupils dilated as if her words had shackled his very soul. And in truth, it had. The contract—its threads invisible but present—pulled at him like a leash.
{...The Key to Fate...} His voice was a low groan of memory and dread. {The Elders of Elders. ....The High Elders have it.}
The words struck the air like a blade dropped on stone.
Azezal’s expression paled, the crimson of his skin dimming toward ashen. His jaw locked tight.
Atlas saw it—a flicker of something deeper than fear. Recognition. Resentment.
Aurora’s tone hardened. "...Which one?" Her eyes narrowed at the title, as though the name ’High Elder’ was a personal insult.
The demon hesitated, his breath dragging in through his teeth. {...I... I... don’t know.}
Aurora stepped closer, her mana blooming like a bruise in the air. The mark on his body—the symbol of his binding—began to constrict. It was a subtle thing at first, a tightening under the skin. Then it was as if an invisible vice was crushing the life from it.
"...Names... please." Her words were silk stretched over steel.
The demon’s body arched. His head jerked back as veins bulged across his temples. His eyes reddened, then ruptured into weeping lines of blood from their corners. From his mouth too, a thin ribbon of crimson ran.
{...I don’t... know...}
The voice was fractured, strangled. It was not pain of the body, but the soul—the kind of agony that had no sound to match it.
Aurora’s hand didn’t tremble.
{...Really... I don’t know.}
His teeth clicked together as if every word cost him bone. The muscles in his neck writhed. His eyes bulged, threatening to spill from their sockets.
"I think he really doesn’t know..." Atlas said, his voice almost pitting the trembling demon, but his gaze was locked sharp on Aurora.
She didn’t look back, only waved a hand—an unspoken ’be silent.’
Veil’s voice, softer but no less firm, rose. "...I think he really doesn’t know."
The demon’s frame shook with spasms, skin splitting in small, shallow tears. His voice came raw now, stripped of all composure.....when
{...High Elder—#\$%@%%@%%}
The final word was almost a sob.
Azezal’s face sank further into shadow, a lament deepening in the crease of his brow. His eyes dropped, and he did not raise them again.
Aurora’s lips curled—not in cruelty, but in the satisfaction of extraction. She released the hold. The unseen contract loosened its chains, leaving the demon trembling like a survivor of near-drowning.
"...You lot... you don’t know demons like I do. So just trust me later on." Her voice was almost casual now, but under it was the hum of a blade returned to its sheath.
Azezal turned toward Atlas, the flicker of respect buried under a weight that seemed older than his bones.
Even his crimson eyes, usually burning with some shard of arrogance, had dimmed—like a torch guttering in wind.
{...Oh, Guide. Do you really want this... Key?}
The question was quiet, but it carried a density that pressed against the walls, against the skin. It was the kind of voice someone used when they were asking if you truly understood what would follow your "yes."
Atlas’s head turned only slightly, a minimal shift, but it was enough to draw the shadows at the edge of his face tighter. "...Why? Who is this High Elder, making your face like that?"
Azezal’s throat moved once, a single dry swallow, before any sound dared to come out. The silence between them seemed to weigh more than stone.
{...If it was another elder, or even another high elder, it would be fine. But...}
The pause stretched like a rope over a pit—one fraying thread away from snapping. Somewhere in the room, a drip echoed. It sounded louder than it should have, like the place itself was listening.
{...BUT... this High Elder... Throne knows him as Demon Saint... the maker of demon lords.}