“You knew that was a fake, and that the real I still lived, and you still let your guard down? Foolish, foolish…”

The origin of the bang sound, which had sounded strangely familiar. The true demon king, wearing his signature wry smirk, standing near the entrance of the room.

Within a blink of an eye, the vampire was on the ground, on one knee, and several others in the room also showed their respect in their own ways, ranging from formal salutes to cheerful waves.

The fake flickered a few times before disappearing entirely, leaving only the holy sword stuck in the throne… the holy sword that Reynald, slumped over and clutching his shoulder, couldn’t reach.

“Hmm… It looks like this is more effective than expected.”

Observing Reynald’s reaction, the demon king spoke and momentarily turned his eyes to the weapon in his hand.

Reynald managed to turn his eyes away from the hole pierced in his shoulder and turned to look at the demon king…

To find him looking straight back, a sneer on his face.

It took Reynald several more seconds to notice the irregularity.

Looking down at the demon king’s hand, what he held was…

Black, with a rather blocky, almost futuristic-looking shape. A grip to hold it by, and a barrel from which to fire projectiles…

Yes, despite not looking like any Reynald had ever seen before, that was, without a doubt——

“A gun…?!”

“Aye, well spotted.”

He took aim and—

Bang, bang.

A hole was pierced in Reynald’s other shoulder, and one in his leg.

“Hmm. More penetrative power than I expected… Well, that is nothing but a good thing, of course.”

Reynald nearly collapsed from the pain. Though the bullets themselves had already long exited his body—he’d heard them clink against the floor, behind him—the wounds they caused still raged with pain, as if concentrated mana was whirling around…

In fact, that was exactly what was happening.

After all, this gun was—

“That is enough, Misery,” the demon king said, his gaze pointed towards the gun once more. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it floated in the air for a moment before morphing into a human form…

The Demon King’s Blade, Misery’s End. She snapped her fingers, conjuring forth some manner of food in a transparent bag.

“Hmm…”

The demon king walked straight past Reynald, still slumped over in pain, and towards his throne. He laid his hands on the holy sword, and—

“I shall be taking this.”

—Yanked it out of the throne, appraising its weight and feel.

“Since… when…” Reynald managed to squeeze out of his throat, despite the overwhelming pain.

“Hmm? Ahh, do you mean Misery? I have only had her for a few weeks, at most.”

“?! Then, aiming for my shoulders…”

“ ‘Twas an accident. I could just as easily have hit your head, or your heart, or your stomach.”

With a light tone, as if declaring an interesting fun fact, he stated Reynald’s survival to be nothing more than coincidence.

“Gh…”

Reynald groaned to himself, dissatisfied. He had not survived by skill, or even charisma, but pure luck, and it frustrated him to no end.

The demon king took the holy sword and pointed it in Reynald’s direction, bringing it up to his throat… with just enough force to draw a little blood.

“Hmm… ‘Tis not a bad sword. If you do not mind, I shall be keeping this… and if you want it back, your only option is to join my side. I shall even give you a free upgrade.”

“As if…!”

“Well, ‘tis your prerogative. But, well, we can leave this discussion for later…”

The demon king removed the sword from Reynald’s throat and used it to gesture in the other two Heroes’ direction.

“... For now, there are more pressing matters to deal with.”

With slow, deliberate steps, the demon king walked over to the pair, and his sword followed behind him, munching on whatever was in that bag.

“Davna.”

“Hm? What is it, Master?”

“How is she doing under there?”

“Ah… She can’t breathe, I think? It feels like she’s having trouble…”

“Hmm… I see, I see.”

Nodding to himself, the demon king raised the holy sword in his hand—

“W-wait, stop…!”

And swung it down, producing a loud clang as it was lodged firmly into the ground.

“Hmm? Stop what, Hero?”

Indeed, the holy sword had not struck soft flesh, but hard ground. He had missed the girl.

And by a good metre, too… he wasn’t aiming for her at all.

“Y-you…”

“You still have spirit despite your position, I see. ‘Tis a good thing. But fret not, I was not about to execute her. I simply needed somewhere to put the sword.”

He ignored Reynald’s further complaints and turned his attention back to the girl… to Ebstrea, crouching down in front of her.

“So we meet again.”

Despite her inability to talk or even breathe properly, Ebstrea gave the demon king a strained smile, nervous sweat rolling off her face.

“That is probably enough for her punishment, Davna… Get off.”

“Aww… But she was such a comfy seat!”

It seemed the young dragon, despite her innocence, had rather taken a liking to the sensation of using a person as a floor cushion. Yet she placed her hand on the poor mage’s neck and used her as a support for a splendid vault to get back onto her feet.

After a moment of wheezing, the mage sputtered and coughed as she was finally once more able to breathe.

“Now, o young mage… Ebstrea was your name, I believe? Surely you see more reason than your… companion. You have always struck me as the more reasonable between the two of you…”

“Ehehe… Well, I’m sure you’ll win the war, at least…”

“Hmm. Undecided, then? Well, I shall let you think it over a little longer.”

He rose back to his feet, then turned to the last remaining Hero, pinned to the ground by a number of blades of blood, slimy tendrils and the devil girl’s foot.

“Ah, Rachiel… You who were most adored even amongst the Seven Saints, who all the other Saints looked up to as their elder sister.”

The girl who had been swindled into believing she was the Saint of Purification.

“Oh, you, who did more deceiving than anyone else, and who was more deceived than anyone else.”

With an almost palpable air of sorrow, the demon king spoke. In the back, his little sister… Remiel, clutched her scythe to her chest and took a hesitant step forward.

“Um… Could I, uh…”

“Ah, me too, please,” said another voice… Next to Remiel, the headless knight, Saniel, also stepped forth, an awkward smirk in the place of her normal wide grin.

“Aye, go ahead,” the demon king said, stepping aside.

The two former Saints walked over, though their steps were far beyond even what would be called ‘hesitant’, and if one were to look closely, they might have already been able to spot tears building up in the corners of their eyes.

“B… Big sis-” Remiel hesitantly started, but she quickly took a step back at the resentful glare she got from the pinned-down Saint.

The demon king waved his hand, in response to which the devil shifted her foot and the slime her tendrils so that the Saint would once more gain the ability to speak…

“Who are you, and why do you have Maliel’s scythe?! What did you do to her?!”

And her only response was those hateful words and an attempt to get loose from her bindings.

Remiel took another step back from the shock and soon after fell down, clutching the scythe yet tighter to her chest. The demon king bit his lip, turning his eyes away in frustration, and Saniel’s head clattered to the floor.

“... Rachiel,” the demon king said after a few moments of silence, “do you truly…”

“Do I truly what? Hate your guts? Of course I do! What kind of Saint is gonna feel anything positive towards the demon king?!”

“Gh… Rachiel, you know not what you are-”

“I know plenty! Like the fact that you killed all the other Saints. Oh, don’t bother trying to hide it from me! I know what you did! Did you enjoy killing them, you-”

“Silence!”

He wasn’t looking at her. He refused to. He couldn’t.

“Enjoy? Enjoy?! As if I could do that!”

The inhuman, incomprehensible monstrosity tried to apply human feelings to itself, perhaps in an attempt to hold on to what humanity it had left.

“Who would enjoy slaughtering their own frie… their own family?!”

“Family? Hah. As if you know anything about that.”

“What are you talking about now? Are you not surrounded by my family?”

The Demon Generals, Fenrir, the children, the former humans, the tiny spirit, the otherworldly monster, the living sword…

“You call these weak bonds family? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Weak? Weak? Returning your words to you, as if you know anything about that.”

The Saint was about to say something more, but the demon king waved his hand and her mouth was blocked off once more.

“Remiel, Saniel… That your last meeting with her was like this is… I apologise.”

The former Saints shook their heads, denying his words, and whispering to themselves that it wasn’t his fault, that it couldn’t be helped.

“... Any of you. I care not who. Take the wielder of the holy sword and his mage friend to the dungeons. Ah, with instructions not to torture them… just hold them there until they manage a decision.”

A number of maids and suits of armour approached the two Heroes and followed the demon king’s instructions, and then he once more turned to Rachiel, the Holy Saint of Illusions.

“... Farewell, big sister.”

He closed his eyes, and—