Chapter 879 - 878: The White Crown’s Price

Marek could hear a demon struggling to breathe somewhere behind him. He wanted to tell the fool to stand, but doing so would require looking away from Simon.

He had not found the courage to do that yet.

The blood dripping from the Archfiend’s hand should have reassured him. Instead, his attention kept returning to the fingers around the sword, waiting for them to move.

Korran had warned them.

More than once, the Iron Examiner had insisted that they were underestimating Blackmoon. Marek had listened, considered the reports, and decided the boy would be more useful under orders than under investigation.

Now he understood what Korran had meant.

’This is not someone I can simply use.’

The realisation came late enough to be embarrassing.

Marek possessed an Abyssal Heart. Even allowing for Simon’s true battle prowess, the commander was stronger. Against the wounded demon before him, he had the best chance of victory among the four.

But he had managed to forget that.

Simon had not healed completely or become a Demon Lord. Marek had merely become so occupied with imagining his own death that he could no longer properly judge the person who might deliver it.

Beside him, Korran slowly loosened fingers he had clenched without noticing.

He remembered Simon in the Black Horn Office. Simon sitting in Pipeline Inn, taking apart the terms of an oath without raising his voice. Every encounter had given him another reason to be careful.

He had been right to worry, but being right brought no satisfaction now.

’We should have acted earlier.’

Before Marek decided orders would be enough. Before Selan and Dorel dismissed caution as unnecessary whenever they looked at Blackmoon’s rank.

Now Korran could not bring himself to attack.

The killing intent pressing against him could not belong to a sixteen-year-old. The boy’s face remained familiar, but looking at it felt like standing before something that had spent its entire existence killing demons.

His gaze shifted toward Marek.

Even the commander had retreated.

’Would it take a Demon King to stand before this without hesitating?’

Selan swallowed. Dorel kept watching the blade, his earlier threat uncomfortably clear in his memory.

Simon noticed all of it.

Unfortunately, fear had not made them helpless.

He could perhaps strike first. But the moment his sword threatened a life, the owner would fight to preserve it. Panic could make them careless, but it would not prevent their attacks from reaching him.

Marek alone remained a serious danger. With the vice commanders and the soldiers behind them, even a desperate, disorganised retaliation would eventually overwhelm him.

His damaged arms could not support the massacre their expressions seemed to anticipate.

’A shame.’

Simon opened his mouth, but...

Clap

His expression changed.

Clap Clap

The sound came from above.

He looked up sharply. Eight demons hovered high over the encampment, and he had sensed none of them approaching.

Seven remained slightly behind the eighth, and all eight were Demon Lords.

The demon at the front brought his hands together once more, then lowered them with a warm smile. Nothing about his posture suggested he was wary of the pressure filling the camp below.

Simon’s eyes narrowed.

Of the eight, that one disturbed his instincts the most.

He ignored the others.

"Who are you?"

"Prince Varen," the demon replied pleasantly. "Though you may know me as the White Crown."

A stir passed through those still capable of moving. Marek’s shoulders stiffened, and several officers lowered their heads.

Simon’s expression barely changed.

’The White Crown.’

Then the seven demons behind him were the Seven Seats.

Titles from a hidden letter had become eight powerful demons directly above his head. He had never met the prince before, and this was a particularly inconvenient time to do so.

"Your killing intent is remarkable, Blackmoon," Varen continued. "I had heard many interesting things about you, but none prepared me for this."

Simon remained silent.

The prince glanced at Marek, then returned his attention to Simon.

"I doubt I would be particularly comfortable standing where the commander is."

"You seem comfortable enough."

"Because I am up here."

Varen’s smile widened slightly.

"At this distance, I can appreciate it without discovering how well my knees endure it."

Marek’s jaw tightened. The prince spoke without embarrassment, turning the precaution into something almost amusing.

"I suspect only a Demon King could shrug off what you are releasing," Varen continued. "And even one of those might struggle if their mind and Will were weak."

One of the Seven Seats glanced toward him. Varen paid no attention.

"How does an Archfiend acquire something like that?"

Simon’s fingers shifted against the hilt of the Chaos Blade.

The prince had praised him, acknowledged the danger, and admitted to avoiding it. Each word sounded reasonable.

He had also brought seven Demon Lords to a conversation with one injured Archfiend.

But Simon’s instincts were warning him that the Prince was dangerous.

"How many battles?" Varen asked softly. "How many enemies? You are far too young for what I can feel."

Simon let the questions go unanswered.

A small movement passed beneath his wrappings as another section of tissue joined. He could use more time, but he knew that he could not afford to forget who else was approaching from beyond the rift.

"Enough small talk," he said coldly. "Tell me what you actually want."

Dorel looked up abruptly.

Varen’s expression remained pleasant.

"A god is after me," Simon continued. "I have no intention of standing here all day listening to a prince admire my killing intent."

One of the Seven Seats moved forward.

"Watch your tongue."

The Demon Lord’s voice struck through the camp. Several soldiers flinched.

"You are addressing a prince of the Darkness Kingdom. His Highness has shown you courtesy, and you mistake it for permission to be insolent."

Simon raised a brow.

"With a single command, he could turn the entire Demon Realm against you," the Seat continued angrily. "Remember that before you open your mouth again."

For a moment, Simon merely looked at him.

Then an amused expression appeared beneath the blood on his face.

"How reassuring."

The Seat’s eyes narrowed.

"A god is trying to kill me, so you threaten me with the rest of the realm." Simon glanced toward Varen. "Does your prince always announce his importance through someone else’s mouth?"

"You-"

Varen lifted one hand.

The Seat stopped, although the anger remained on his face.

"That is enough."

The order was mild, but it required no repetition.

Varen looked back at Simon.

"He has already offended a god. I doubt reminding him of my title will frighten him into better manners."

Simon said nothing. The prince had silenced the threat without denying it.

Below, Marek stood rigidly between them, forgotten in a conversation taking place over his head. His attempt to command the wounded recruit had brought the attention of someone whose displeasure mattered considerably more.

Varen’s gaze passed over Simon’s damaged arms.

"Since you prefer that I come directly to the point, I will."

The warmth in his voice remained.

"I can save you from the God of War."

The words quieted the camp more effectively than any order.

Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Varen did not explain how. Nor did he look toward the rift to see whether the god had heard the promise.

"There is a price, of course."

His smile remained light.

"You will swear an eternal oath to me and the Kingdom of Darkness."

He paused.

"Not merely for this campaign. Not until you repay a debt. You will serve for as long as you exist."

The prince’s gaze held Simon’s.

"And so will your descendants. Your children, their children, and every generation after them will serve me and the Kingdom of Darkness."

"Forever."