When he heard Orsaga's words, Jaemar couldn't help but feel a bit of relief wash over him. He exhaled slowly, his tense nerves loosening just a little.
But what Orsaga said next immediately threw him back into uncertainty.
"I've heard about this war. The Principality of Yharnis deployed a total of 140,000 troops. Judging by the current situation, let's say there are about 100,000 left. I expect at least 70,000 of them to be sent to the island—whether as prisoners or war captives. If you don't have enough captives, figure something out and make up the numbers."
After saying this, Orsaga even added politely, "Any objections?"
"...No."
After a long moment of contemplation, Jaemar finally agreed to Orsaga's demand.
If the Kingdom of Yharnis hadn't been pushing him so aggressively lately, Jaemar wouldn't have turned to Orsaga in the first place. In truth, he never had much of a choice to begin with.
Even if he still couldn't quite figure out how his sixty or seventy thousand troops were supposed to defeat an enemy force of over a hundred thousand—and capture seventy thousand of them at that—he had no choice but to put his hope in Orsaga's abilities.
As Jaemar's figure disappeared from view, Orsaga gently swirled the teacup in his hand, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
The first phase of his experiment had just concluded, and the test subjects for phase two had already delivered themselves. Quite timely, indeed.
He could sense that Jaemar wasn't being entirely honest—probing, testing, clearly trying to feel something out. Likely, after months of recuperation, he thought he was back in shape again. The arrogance of royalty was showing—itching for mischief.
But Orsaga didn't care.
As for Loyalty? That had never been part of the arrangement. Their entire relationship was built on threats and utility. Where there was no true loyalty, there could be no betrayal.
Besides, betrayal was practically second nature to demons. In their world, "selling out your comrades" was business as usual.
That's why Orsaga never paid much attention to the actual conduct of his subordinates. He'd never trusted them to begin with, so why bother worrying?
As long as they followed orders and got the job done, their little tricks didn't matter to him. After all, to him, this was just a game.
Opening the window and gazing out into the night sky, Orsaga sighed softly.
"I've been stuck in this human form for too long... Haven't stretched my limbs in ages. I'm starting to itch for a good fight."
For the past few months, he'd been buried in research, absorbing knowledge nonstop to reinforce his foundation. While it hadn't been exactly boring, the nature of a demon made such prolonged restraint feel suffocating.
Still, the gains had been considerable. If before he was like a brute with no education, then now, in terms of knowledge, he ranked among the elite of his tier. His learning had finally caught up with his power, filling in his most glaring weakness.
---
In a cold, dimly lit cell, a man named Piers lay on the frigid floor, staring blankly at the candle that had been burning for months without ever going out.
His skin was ashen, dotted with gray patches like mold. He was so thin he looked like little more than a skeleton draped in skin.
His limbs no longer obeyed him. His mind was hazy. Every slight movement brought unbearable pain, as if his body would shatter apart at any moment.
He couldn't even crawl to the nearby food. All he could do was lie there, motionless.
He knew he was dying—just like everyone else had. No different in the end.
He no longer remembered how long he'd been trapped in this underground prison with no sky, no light.
In the beginning, before the disease fully took hold, there had been hope. People still schemed, argued, fought over escape plans.
They tried everything—from tricking that red-haired youth into opening the cell, to using brute force to break down the doors together.
All of it failed.
That red-haired man had only visited once and never returned. From then on, food was dropped through a narrow chute from time to time, and that was it. They'd been completely abandoned—forgotten.
The bars of the cage didn't even bend. Hope crumbled into despair.
Just when everyone thought they were being raised like pigs for slaughter, the nightmare truly began.
At first, it was just one man who fell ill—his body racked with pain, gray spots appearing on his skin, strength draining from his limbs. Soon, others followed. One by one, they all began showing the same symptoms.
It didn't matter if you were a Knight or a Knight captain—you ended up the same: collapsed on the ground, groaning like a dying dog.
The pain was indescribable—at first, it was so intense it made you want to die, yet denied you even that release. The weakest of the prisoners ended up taking their own lives.
Then the pain would gradually lessen—just enough to be bearable. But it never stopped increasing, adjusting over time, as if designed to prolong suffering and stretch out the prisoner's life.
Piers remembered the first one to notice this pattern: Hank, a scrawny, average-looking middle-aged man—apparently once a master thief.
After making the discovery, Hank and another prisoner named Herto ambushed and killed a Knight captain. They used the toughest bones from his body to try and carve a makeshift key, hoping to escape this nightmare.
But they failed.
The key snapped off in the lock—completely jamming it.
Herto's corpse now lay not far from Piers—his face twisted in agony, frozen in the final moment of his struggle.
Only the coolness of the underground and his knightly physique had preserved his body. A normal man would've rotted long ago.
Now, Piers was the last one left alive.
Those stronger than him, those weaker than him—all dead.
Only he, with his mediocre strength, continued to cling to life.
He didn't know why—only that he, too, was about to die. Maybe in the very next breath.
He'd heard that people often look back on their lives right before death.
So he decided to follow tradition.
Closing his eyes, he began recalling his past.
After a long time, he opened them again. A bitter, self-mocking smile appeared on his cracked lips.
Summoning all his remaining strength, he raised a trembling middle finger toward the ceiling of the cell.
"What a pile of dogshit…"
Before the final word left his lips, his heartbeat stopped.
Whether he was referring to his life, or something else entirely—no one would ever know.
Far across the estate, in another part of the manor, Orsaga seemed to hear his last words.
He shrugged, then chuckled softly.
"Dogshit's not so bad," he mused. "At least it has value. Someone might still step on it. Some people, even at the end of their lives, leave behind nothing—so meaningless that not even disgust follows in their wake. Less than garbage. Less than air."
"I don't know if I'll be the one who ultimately stands at the peak—atop the infinite dimensions of this Multiverse. But I want my life to mean something. Good or evil, I don't care. I want to carve my name into the multiverse. Even if it's not revered for eternity, then let it be feared for eternity. Let my name be synonymous with disaster—something no one can forget."
He dipped his finger into his teacup, drawing up a bead of liquid.
Infused with his demonic power, the droplet turned into a perfectly spherical, blood-red crystal of water, glowing faintly at his fingertip.
With a gentle flick, he launched it into the sky.
BOOM…
Thunder echoed through the sky.
The starlit sky vanished beneath thick, churning storm clouds. Darkness consumed the world, pierced only by flashes of lightning.
Raindrops fell—first a drizzle, then a torrential downpour.
But this was no ordinary rain. It was red—like blood from the sky. The entire royal capital was soon soaked in crimson, screams rising from all corners.
As the rain streaked down his face, Orsaga's eyes shimmered faintly with red light.
He closed them slowly and whispered,
"Looks like I've been holding back too long… Sentimental? How absurd. Fine then—let this be a funeral gift for all you test subjects."
---
The principality of Mardain, inside the royal palace.
"Damn it…"
Jaemar's face was ashen as he stared out the window at the blood-red rain pouring from the sky and the panicked crowds screaming in the streets.
With a major battle against the Principality of Yharnis looming, this kind of unnatural phenomenon could only be seen as a terrible omen.
It would wreak havoc on both public morale and the army's confidence.
This was a massive blow to the Mardain. But what made Jaemar even more furious—nearly enough to cough up blood—was that he already had a pretty good idea who was behind this... and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.
No wonder his expression was so grim.
Standing nearby, Baron Duren noticed his liege's foul mood. After a moment's thought, his eyes lit up and he suggested,
"Why not postpone the decisive battle? We could take some time to win back public support. Maybe… reframe this blood rain as a sign of divine blessing? Turn it into a good omen?"
Jaemar blinked.
"A blood rain… as a blessing?"
The idea had never even crossed his mind.
"Wait, is that even possible?"
But the more he thought about it, the more feasible it seemed.
Sure, it looked ominous—but who's to say it had to be? No book said so. No law declared it.
If that's the case, why not spin a story—call it a divine sign of victory?
Who would dare refute him?
With a clear plan forming in his mind, Jaemar lit up with joy.
He quickly ordered Duren to write a compelling tale—something touching and persuasive—then train a team of messengers to memorize it and spread it across the streets the next morning.
Before rumors could spiral out of control, they would steer public opinion in their favor.
_____
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