{Chapter: 60: The Demon's Embarrassment}
The moment Carla realized the soul condensates—the sacrifices prepared for his restoration—were gone, an invisible alarm blared in his mind.
His eyes flicked left and right, scanning the surroundings, his tall, goat-headed form casting a long shadow under the ruined arches of the Colosseum. The heavy scent of scorched stone and holy oil hung in the air, clashing against his hellish aura like the clash of two ancient titans.
His sharp claws flexed nervously at his sides. No... this isn't right.
Those pitiful mortals in front of him—priests in weathered robes, battle-hardened men with shining blades and trembling resolve—didn't have the skill or courage to approach his offerings. Not without being torn apart. Not without him noticing.
So where was it?
Someone else is here. Watching. Waiting.
James Woz, the human commander with a sword strapped across his back and a skeptical frown on his face, tilted his head. "What are you doing, beast? Casting a spell to hide yourself?"
"I think… it might be some kind of dark ritual," Safi offered uncertainty, fingers brushing the edge of the radiant badge in his hand. The symbol of the Shepherds of the Gods gleamed faintly in the dim light, resisting the foul miasma surrounding Carla.
James raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Safi turned, glancing at the reinforcements flooding in through the broken arches behind them. He lifted one hand, two fingers raised—a signal born of war and desperation. The gesture echoed silently through the ruins.
Immediately, dozens of priests fell to their knees and pulled out ornate boxes, opening them to reveal flasks of holy water, scrolls inscribed with ancient verses, silver daggers, and relics blessed by the cathedral's last High Shepherd. Soft murmurs of prayer filled the air, layering divine resistance against the mounting pressure of the abyssal presence.
Safi's expression turned grim. "He's at his weakest right now. We have to force him out of this world while he's vulnerable. If he finds a new source of energy—flesh, blood, souls—it'll be too late. We won't be able to stop the next disaster. We'll be swallowed like the Kingdom of Elowyn."
James didn't hesitate. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. "No objections. If it's now or never—then now it is."
His voice rang like steel. "Heavy Crossbow Unit! Prepare and fire at will!"
A mechanical clack resounded as a row of elite soldiers cranked their massive crossbows. The air shimmered slightly with holy energy—each bolt had been soaked in sanctified oil and blessed in the cathedral before being sealed in iron quivers. These weren't mere weapons—they were crafted for one purpose: killing demons.
"Loose!"
Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!
Dozens of bolts screamed through the air toward Carla, glowing faintly like streaks of moonlight across a starless sky.
Carla didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed in annoyance rather than fear. With a flick of his fingers, he swept his hand to the right.
A sudden gust erupted from the cracked stone beneath him, tearing through the rubble and lifting debris into the air. It coalesced into a wide, translucent arc—a Wind Wall, its surface rippling like silk in a storm. The enchanted bolts collided with the barrier, clinking uselessly to the ground.
A few bounced away, sizzling as they lost their divine charge.
Carla snorted. "Is this the best your 'blessed' weapons can do?"
Still, his tone carried frustration rather than triumph. If this were the Abyss—if his true power hadn't been chained by this world's laws and holy symbols—he could have formed a vortex of tearing wind, shattered the bolts mid-air, and turned the attack back on the mortals.
But not here. Not now.
How far I've fallen, he thought, flexing his fingers in irritation.
He had spent centuries not studying magic or refining technique, but in war—learning to kill, to rend, to dominate. Yet now, the basic bloodline magic he relied on felt sluggish, crawling beneath the weight of divine suppression.
And his sacrifices—his carefully prepared banquet of souls—were still gone.
Gone.
No... no... they couldn't have just vanished.
Again, his gaze swept the battlefield, scanning shadows, rooftops, even the clouds above. His hands clenched as realization crept in.
There was nothing.
And yet—there had to be something.
He turned toward the assembled troops, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Their faces filled with tension and a mixture of fear and resolve. They watched him warily, unsure of his next move.
Carla's voice dripped with disdain. "Centuries have passed... and your world has grown even weaker than I remembered. Before, when I emerged, there were heroes. Great knights with hearts of steel and weapons of legend. Now? All I see are trembling little insects hiding behind their toys and holy trinkets."
In an inferior world like this one with low energy content and great xenophobia, the reason why these demons from the bottomless abyss always return in failure is usually because the natives use various means to bring the demons' strength to the same level as theirs, and then they rely on their rich experience and sufficient numbers to use human wave tactics to forcibly kick the demons out.
'I have to say this is really disgusting, as the demons were defeated by a group of opponents they didn't even consider worth watching.'
This is especially true in the current situation where one is blocked just after arriving!
He pointed a clawed finger at James.
"You, commander—do you think hiding behind soldiers makes you brave?"
Then, his hand swept across the priests. "And you, Shepherds—do you think your gods will save you from me?"
James didn't answer. He simply raised his sword and stared back with calm fury.
Carla turned his back on them and muttered to himself, "How could they vanish... my sacrifices… hundreds of them…"
James shouted again. "All units—advance! Form pincer formation!"
Safi's voice rang out. "Bless the ground! Push him back to the summoning point!"
As soldiers surged forward and holy magic bathed the ruins in divine brilliance, Carla finally snarled in frustration.
If Carla had descended into this world at his peak, back when his name alone could bring dread to entire continents, he wouldn't have even spared a glance at the insects standing before him. He could have wiped them out with a flick of his finger, reduced them to dust beneath his boot without even bothering to remember their names.
But that was not the case now.
His power—his glorious, unshackled might—had been cut down drastically upon his arrival into this magic-starved realm. The ritual that brought him here had demanded a heavy toll, and the world itself seemed to reject his very existence. What remained of his strength was a shadow of his true form, barely a tenth of what he once wielded. His blood boiled in frustration.
And worst of all—he had to admit it—he couldn't afford to ignore the 'trash' in front of him anymore.
He sneered at the growing army arrayed against him—rows of steel-plated soldiers advancing cautiously, their shields raised, spears trembling but firm. Behind them, a line of robed priests stood in formation, chanting holy verses with unwavering conviction. Their hands held up sacred relics and scripture scrolls that gleamed with blessed light. The air itself buzzed with divine energy, thick and uncomfortable to his senses.
Every fiber of Carla's being wanted to lash out. He clenched his fists as an involuntary growl escaped his throat. He hadn't felt this humiliated in centuries.
But it was when his gaze landed on Richard Woz that his mood truly soured.
That pathetic mortal.
The one who had summoned him—no, contracted him—through a ritual that had barely passed the minimum threshold of adequacy. Carla had agreed to the terms out of necessity: in exchange for sacrifices and safe passage into this dimension, he would serve Richard for a predetermined span. It was a standard demonic pact, nothing too complex.
Under normal circumstances, Carla wouldn't have even minded. A temporary servitude in exchange for eventual freedom and harvest? Acceptable.
But now?
The sacrifice that was meant to restore his strength had vanished into thin air. Someone—or something—had stolen it before he could absorb it. And now, a fully armed military force led by James Woz, and the arrogant noble from the Church's martial branch, had arrived to crush him before he could even stabilize his footing.
To add insult to injury, he still owed Richard his service.
The sheer indignity of it made Carla genuinely consider tearing Richard's head from his shoulders and using it as a makeshift lantern.
But no—there were too many enemies, and too little strength. A tactical retreat was the smarter choice, as much as his pride screamed otherwise.
He turned slightly toward Richard, keeping his voice low but his tone razor-sharp. "Is there a way out of here? My power is too heavily restricted right now. I need time to restore even a fraction of my true might. If I stay and fight, we both die."
Richard blinked, caught off guard by the demon's unexpectedly pragmatic tone. His understanding of demons was based on fearsome legends—uncontrollable beings that revealed in chaos and bloodshed, not ones who asked permission to flee.