The sound of Guy's last word lingered like an aftershock, his presence still etched into the room even after he vanished—dispersing into a spiral of scarlet mist, leaving only silence and dread behind.
No one moved.
For long moments, the gathered Demon Lords stood still, like statues in a hall of judgment. The silence was no longer tense—it was crushing. The kind that made your own heartbeat sound too loud in your ears.
Clayman was the first to exhale, the breath shaky and uneven, like it had been caught in his chest the entire time.
"Tch… that bastard Guy. Always playing the supreme one," he muttered, but there was no confidence in his voice—only bitterness and fear. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found.
Frey stepped forward slowly, her wings still drawn tight around her like a mantle of defense. Her amber eyes, usually calm and calculating, now shimmered with unease.
"He didn't lie," she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "We were all there at Walpurgis. Varvatos didn't even break a sweat. He toyed with us... with Guy, with Milim."
Luminous turned away, her porcelain features masked behind a composed veil, but her hand trembled as she brushed aside a strand of silver hair.
"I hate this," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I hate feeling powerless. I hate not knowing what he is."
Leon, who had been silent since Guy's arrival, finally broke his silence. His gaze was distant, staring at the floor but not seeing it. His golden eyes, always sharp with purpose, had dulled with conflicted thoughts.
"We thought we were trying to protect this world… but maybe… maybe we were just trying to control what we didn't understand."
His fingers flexed as if gripping a phantom sword.
"And if Guy is scared… truly scared… that says more than all our plotting ever could."
Dino yawned, almost instinctively, but there was no laziness in his expression this time.
"Y'know… I don't really care for politics or big scary speeches… but even I can feel it. That guy, Varvatos… he's the kind of monster that legends forget because they're too afraid to remember."
Clayman scoffed again, but this time with much less venom.
"So what, we just let him do whatever he wants? Just stand aside and watch him reshape the world?"
That was when Draguel stepped forward.
He had been silent through it all, his thoughts a raging storm of regret, realization, and shame. His large frame now cast a shadow over the others, not from intimidation—but from the sheer weight of truth that settled on his shoulders.
He looked at each of them in turn, gaze steady.
"You're all asking the wrong question," he said, his voice deep, calm, but laced with intensity. "You're asking what we can do… when the real question is—what has he done?"
The others looked at him, uncertain.
Draguel continued, firm now.
"Varvatos didn't attack anyone. Didn't conquer a single inch of land through force. He built a kingdom—Nyvaris—where humans and monsters coexist peacefully. Trade flows. Civilization grows. There's order, purpose… unity."
His jaw tightened.
"And what did we do? We feared him for being powerful. For being different. So we plotted in shadows, like cowards."
Frey opened her mouth to speak, but Draguel raised his hand—not in command, but in plea.
"No. I've seen him. Spoken to him. He doesn't act like a conqueror. He doesn't speak like a tyrant. He doesn't rule through fear. He is not our enemy. And I refuse to treat him like one."
The silence returned—this time not from dread, but from reflection.
Draguel looked at them one last time. There was sadness in his eyes. But there was also resolve.
"I'm done. I won't be a part of this anymore."
And in a blink, surrounded by blue-white particles of teleportation magic, Draguel vanished.
Leaving behind only the uneasy silence of the remaining Demon Lords—each of them now forced to ask a dangerous question:
"Were we… the villains this time?"
----____----
Few Months Laterrrr....
The winds that once whispered only of the Jura Forest's ancient secrets now carried a new name across the Cardinal World—Nyvaris. Once a fledgling haven carved within the shadows of forgotten roots, it had now swelled into a nation unlike any other. A monster kingdom, thriving, rising, and reshaping the very foundation of power.
Nearly all the monsters that once roamed the expansive Jura Forest had migrated into the ever-expanding borders of Nyvaris. Villages gave way to fortified towns, and towns to mighty cities. The core of this blossoming realm pulsed with structured magicule roads, floating sigil-run lanterns, and towers that glowed with the power of arcane technology. Each corner bore signs of military growth—drilled formations, massive warbeasts armored in darksteel, legions of spellcasting elites.
Varvatos, the being none could identify or predict, stood at the center of it all.
His presence alone was a bastion of power and sovereignty. His laws were clear. His goals—unspoken, yet deeply felt. Under him, monsters walked with dignity, and humans who had sought refuge found safety and purpose.
The barrier that encased Nyvaris had grown stronger with each passing moon cycle. No longer just a protective ward, it became a divine boundary of judgment. Any who approached with intent of greed, conquest, or deception were turned away before their feet touched the outer stones of the border.
Even high-ranking emissaries from noble kingdoms found themselves halted, their magic and influence meaningless before the ancient energy pulsing through the barrier.
But within, prosperity reigned.
Dwargon, the Dwarven Kingdom, remained Nyvaris's closest ally. Trade routes had opened with new darksteel caravans escorted by elite guardians. Weapons crafted in the forges of Dwargon now armed Nyvaris's warriors. In return, Nyvaris shared rare alchemical reagents, monster-forged equipment, and spell-silk—materials unseen in centuries.
King Gazel, ever the shrewd ruler, made frequent visits through secured teleportation gates directly linked to the throne halls of Nyvaris. He and Varvatos, though vastly different in origin, had found a respect rooted not only in strength, but in vision.
At times, Velzard, the Ice Dragon, would descend in a glacial blaze over the mountains to return to her own dominion—the Ice Continent. But always, she returned. Her abode remained in Nyvaris. Many began to believe that her bond to Varvatos was not just one of political unity, but of fate.
And the rest of the world… watched.
The Cardinal World, once the unquestioned center of balance, now tilted slightly as Nyvaris's star rose.
Sarion, land of elegant magi-tech and refined bloodlines, sent emissaries in pristine carriages drawn by mana-touched stags.
Blumund, a kingdom of commerce and political maneuvering, dispatched its highest negotiator gilded in gold, bringing silk, spice, and written pleas for diplomacy.
Falmouth, still haunted by past failures and desperate to remain relevant, sent knights cloaked in holy charm and silver-plated armor, hoping their gestures would be taken as peace.
But all met the same fate.
The barrier flared—an azure fire across the skies of Nyvaris—and cast them away without malice, but with undeniable finality. The emissaries fell to the ground just short of their intended path, confused, bruised, and rejected.
Not one had made it through.
Their leaders turned desperate, and in the halls of Dwargon, their voices rose.
The grand chamber of stone gleamed with embedded gems pulsing with rhythmic light. King Gazel, seated on his throne of obsidian and iron, gazed upon the gathered envoys.
A pale-skinned Sarion noble, wrapped in long sapphire robes, bowed low.
"King Gazel, you hold the favor of Lord Varvatos. We implore you—intercede for us. We seek trade, cultural exchange, peace. Surely Nyvaris cannot remain walled forever."
A Blumund official stepped forward, clutching a rolled parchment.
"We've drafted fair treaties, equitable trades, even sent our best philosophers. Our intent is good—we desire no conflict. Please, High King. Help us."
Gazel narrowed his eyes.
"Intent," he said slowly, "is not decided by words or parchment. It is felt—read—measured by the very world Varvatos has bound his kingdom to."
He leaned forward, voice deep with warning.
"You cannot hide ambition from a barrier born of divinity. You cannot wear masks before a man who sees through time."
The room fell into a hush.
From behind the king, one of Gazel's generals—a gruff warrior named Tharon Ironbite—snorted.
"You come in velvet and gold, but your hearts reek of fear. Not goodwill. You fear what Nyvaris will become—and what it will replace."
The Falmouth emissary flushed red.
"We… we only fear what cannot be understood. Surely you can agree, Lord Ironbite."
Gazel lifted a hand.
"You want my help to speak with Varvatos? Then I will say this: cleanse your hearts of conquest. Come not with chains in hand, but with empty palms. Only then will the path be shown."
They could only bow.
And outside, far above the sky, Nyvaris's barrier pulsed again—watching.