Lord of the Truth

Chapter 1585: Agreement-1

”.....”

Sakaar remained standing alone upon the towering platform, his posture straight and unyielding, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His sharp, calculating perception swept across the vast expanse of the battlefield, studying every subtle shift in momentum, every flicker of change, after the intervention of the demons.

And, to his silent astonishment... Not much had changed.

Before him stretched a scene that defied mortal comprehension—a massacre of cosmic proportions, a living catastrophe where tens of millions of soldiers clashed with unrelenting ferocity. The ground that was now called the Shallow Land had once been a magnificent river, a majestic vein of water birthed by centuries of torrential rains that flooded the region. That river carved through the heart of a colossal continent, winding its way across thousands of kilometers before emptying into the boundless sea.

At a glance, it had always seemed as though the river split the landmass into two separate continents—an illusion that lingered in every map and story told about it. Yet, that was a deception, a trick of perspective far from the truth.

But those times had long since passed. What was once a river of life and abundance had been reduced to a corpse of itself, dried almost entirely by the endless wars that had scarred the planet over centuries, reshaping its climate and bleeding it of vitality. Now, what remained of its waters was intermingled with blood—so much blood that the riverbed had become a grotesque parody of its former self.

If not for the constant rain of crimson blood pouring from the countless bodies, heavier and more relentless than any stormcloud, the place would have collapsed into lifeless dust. Instead, it endured as a shallow, clinging, revolting swamp of death.

Stretching along its broken banks for dozens upon dozens of kilometers stood endless lines of soldiers. Tens of millions of warriors packed the landscape shoulder to shoulder, layer upon layer of flesh and steel. They had amassed a staggering collection of defensive weapons, siege engines, and intricate arrays, every tool and formation dedicated to the preservation of their side of the river.

The front ranks descended first into the basin, rushing headlong into slaughter, and as they were carved apart, the ranks behind them pressed forward to take their place, and then the ranks behind those, in an endless cycle of carnage.

In the midst of this overwhelming ocean of life and death, amid millions of hardened fighters where calamity struck with every passing breath, the sudden emergence of fifteen Demon Kings for a fleeting handful of seconds was not something most would even register as abnormal.

Blood had already become the air they breathed, disaster the rhythm of their existence. For the majority of soldiers, their eyes and ears were too drowned in chaos to perceive such an event. Most never saw the Demon Kings at all, nor heard a whisper of what had taken place.

Before embarking toward Verillion, Sakar had given a strict and unusual command: the Kings were to restrain themselves. They were to limit their destructive might to the very peak of the Martial Emperor realm—nothing more. Each strike they released, each casual motion of their arms, would thus manifest power equivalent to a finishing blow from Pythor at his apex, or one of Holak’s ultimate attacks back when he was still at level 48!

For the Demon Kings, this order was galling, a chain fastened around their pride. They loathed the thought of fighting as shadows of their true selves. Yet even restrained in this way, their strength was monstrous beyond measure. A single swing imbued with such cataclysmic force was far from trivial for any enemy to endure.

Sakaar knew full well that even with this imposed limit, they would still carve chaos across the battlefield, bending the tide in ways no ordinary force could hope to replicate. In his judgment, this level of devastation was sufficient—dangerous, but not catastrophic.

If the Demon Kings had fought without restraint, revealing their true nature as World Calamities, then the balance of the war would have shattered in an instant. One of them alone, unfettered, could have annihilated the allied army in the span of mere minutes, leaving nothing but a graveyard where once millions had stood. That was precisely why their power had to be veiled, disguised beneath the mask of ”reasonable strength.”

Still... in the depths of Sakaar’s mind, he could not ignore the risk. Perhaps the Lord would have raged if he learned of this decision—this reckless unveiling of the Demon Kings.

For the Lord desired silence, secrecy, the utter erasure of any trace of their existence. Even the faintest clue was too great a risk to bear.

But in Sakaar’s own reasoning, this was necessary, and it was necessary for two crucial reasons:

First: the Marshals of the allied forces had already received word of a terrifying new reinforcement emerging from the side of the Shattering Meteors Empire. The report would claim that these reinforcements had sustained only minor injuries, that they had withdrawn merely from exhaustion, their energy spent. Yet the destruction they had wrought, the horrifying strength they had displayed, would sink deep into the hearts of their enemies.

This would terrify them, and terror was a weapon stronger than steel. It would force them to calculate differently, to hesitate, to second-guess. No longer would they recklessly hurl themselves against the tide, blinded by arrogance. At the very least, the allies would abandon their mindless charges.

And then there was the second reason: the results themselves. The devastation caused by the Demon Kings was not something that could be dismissed as minor. Their slaughter may not have been endless, their kill counts not astronomical, yet the impact of their actions was undeniable.

They had shattered the protective arrays woven across the opposite bank, torn down a portion of the enemy’s fleet, and reduced their massive weapons, cannons, and siege machines to rubble. The scale of their interference could not be overlooked.

Already, in this very moment, the ground forces of the Shattering Meteors Empire were surging forward with renewed morale, roaring as they hurled themselves into the fray. Fear no longer gripped their hearts; hesitation no longer slowed their steps.

They charged into the river basin and toward the opposite bank with determination. Of course, the capture of that bank was a dream that would not be realized anytime soon—the enemy was still formidable, the defenses still towering—but none could deny that the current had shifted.

The winds of battle had turned, and Sakaar, standing high above it all, knew that from this point onward, the war itself would no longer flow as it once had.

The army of the Shattering Meteors Empire advanced like a wall of iron and will that befit the reputation of a Millennial Empire. Their cohesion was impeccable, their discipline unmatched, and their morale as sharp as the blades they wielded.

In ferocity, resolve, and armament, they were in no way inferior to any of the three great armies of the True Beginning Empire.

That seemingly small assistance, that brief intervention, would be more than enough for them to seize upon and turn to their advantage.

Beneath the onslaught of such a relentless storm, the allied forces would require months upon months to rebuild their ruined fortifications. During that long and costly time, they would hemorrhage soldiers by the tens of thousands—men who would hurl themselves forward not as warriors, but as desperate shields, offering their bodies to stem the tide and prevent the enemy from breaking across to the far bank.

Each sacrifice would buy but moments, and yet the corpses would pile endlessly. And if they failed to hold even then, they would have no choice left but to retreat altogether, ceding the river, ceding the continent.

Even this much—forcing their enemy into that position—was already a monumental gain, a shift so significant it could tilt the balance of the entire war.

But... that was not the gain Sakaar truly sought.

There was another reason....

One deeper motive behind why Sakaar had unleashed his followers the moment he arrived. That reason was what compelled him to speak with such arrogance, though silence was his nature and preference.

It was because positions had to be made clear—both parties needed to be reminded of their place.

BAM!

The platform shook violently as a figure descended with crushing force. It was Marshal Darvion. His muscles strained and his face was twisted in fury as he carried above his head an immense seat, heavy and imposing, wrought in the likeness of a throne. Landing with a resounding crash, he clenched his jaw so hard his teeth nearly cracked, then strode past Sakar, set the throne firmly behind him, and turned to stand at his side. ”Please—have a seat, Marshal...?”

”Marshal Sakaar,” came Sakaar’s quiet yet steady reply. He lifted the thick cloak that cascaded from his back and lowered himself into the throne. His hands pressed firmly against the armrests, his posture was unyielding, his back straight as a spear.

The long, curving horns that jutted out the place of his eyes caught the dim light and magnified his presence, draping him in an aura that was both oppressive and awe-inspiring. In that moment, he looked every bit the demonic king—an infernal monarch risen from the pit of hell itself, enthroned upon the earth to dominate all who dared to oppose him.

”Oh, Marshal Sakaar.” Darvion’s face flushed red with anger, veins bulging across his temples as he fought to keep his composure. ”You claim you are ready to defend the continent?”

”I am willing to consider it,” Sakaar said, nodding slowly, ”but only if certain conditions are met.” His voice was calm, measured, but heavy with finality. ”My assigned duty is to safeguard the planet itself from full destruction until the time comes for ascension into the Mid Belt. That alone is my charge. Yet, should I wish, I can extend my protection to include your homeland as well—out of courtesy, in honor of my lord’s ally, Lord Hedrick.”

”...” Darvion released a long, heavy breath, then forced his lips into a tense smile. ”And what are these conditions? Tell me. If they are within my reach, I will see them fulfilled without hesitation. Do you ask for Pearls? For rare armaments? For women to fill your halls?”

”I ask for none of that.” Sakaar’s tone hardened like steel. ”When I give an order, I demand obedience. I do not tolerate debate. I do not entertain argument. And above all, I do not take commands from any save my Lord. My Lord alone may command me, and no other.” He lifted his head slightly, ”Understand this: I will remain hidden most of the time, concealed from sight, leaving the reins in your hands to rule and command as you see fit. But should the situation collapse, should you call upon my strength, then leadership—absolute command—will pass to me without delay.”

”You would remain hidden?” Darvion’s brows furrowed deeply, his hand thrust out toward the raging battlefield. ”Then at least send your followers to fight alongside us! Can you not see? The struggle is far from over, there is still much to be done. And yet I heard you command your men to feign injury, to pretend to be weakened—why not unleash them once more? Why let them idle when their strength could turn the tide?”

”We have far better things to do,” Sakar replied, his words clipped and sharp as a blade,