A stillness hung in the chamber. Ahriman's question faded unanswered. Sarvest didn't even glance his way.
Instead, his eyes swept across the "U" shaped obsidian table, studying the assembled council—villains, overlords, monsters, and destroyers of worlds, each seated in shadows and silence, thirsting for chaos.
His voice, when it came, was calm and composed.
"Andras was killed when I sent him to handle a task involving the isolated dwarves in the border."
As he spoke, a procession of red-clad dark elves entered the room—maids in pristine uniforms, their movements silent and fluid.
They poured fresh tea into everyone's cup and discreetly scrubbed away the blood trail left behind by the human's corpse.
"Unbelievable," a youthful voice rumbled.
It belonged to Baal, seated sixth at the Megiddo table—a Devil King swathed in soft peach robes, his eyes glowing faintly beneath a furrowed brow.
"Andras was cautious. Calculated. A Marquis with formidable strength. You're saying he was eliminated that easily?"
Sarvest sipped his tea with quiet dignity, like a noble at court. His gaze didn't shift.
"He veered too close to the coastal sea," he said evenly. "There, he encountered the immigrants."
He paused, letting the words hang.
"Then for a brief moment, everything within a mile radius became completely imperceptible. Completely veiled. Then—an explosion. Sudden. Ferocious. It descended directly on him. And I sensed nothing afterward. Whether he died in that blast or was finished off later… is irrelevant."
A mocking chuckle followed.
"If you could sense all that, why didn't you act?"
The voice came from Dagon—the First Seat of Megiddo. Very young in appearance, crimson-skinned and bright-eyed, he leaned forward with an amused glint.
"You could've crushed the threat yourself, no?"
Sarvest finally turned his head slightly, acknowledging the boyish demon at his side.
"The entire confrontation lasted less than thirty minutes," he said coolly. "The power warping the air was immense—far beyond what any hastily assembled force could manage. There was no time to intervene significantly."
He raised his cup again. Porcelain white with blue trim.
"Andras was a pawn. One who served his purpose well. At the very least, he showed us what we're up against. Let's offer him that small credit."
Dagon grinned. "You never planned to back him up, you cold-hearted taskmaster."
Sarvest was calm. He was always calm—that was what made the sudden flicker of irritation in response to Cthulhu's earlier words so surprising to Ahriman.
"In addition, my body isn't in fighting condition at the moment. I'm still recovering," Sarvest said evenly.
That single statement stirred the room. All eleven seated figures shifted slightly, reacting in their own way.
"Heh... does that mean I could claim your head now?"
It was Apophis, Third Seat of Megiddo—a rugged, wild-eyed man with unruly brown hair and the aura of a predator. His lips curled into a grin as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
Sarvest looked at him—nothing dramatic, just a quiet, measured glance.
"Do you want to try?" he asked. "I've never been so weak in my entire life."
Apophis threw his head back and laughed.
"I was only joking. But keep an eye out—I've already marked you for termination."
Sarvest gave a small nod. "Duly noted."
Then Dagon spoke up, light and teasing as always.
"Is this about that mutt Cthulhu mentioned? The one that wrecked you?"
A hush fell. Somehow, the silence deepened further, stretched as a cord.
Sarvest didn't draw back. "One could say that."
He sipped his tea before continuing. "But if it had only been about the damages I received from the wolf, I still could have intervened to save Andras."
"Hoh? So there's more?" Dagon leaned in, interest piqued.
"Yes." Sarvest's tone stayed neutral. "The human girl he was with... she struck my jaw. With her fist. And for a moment—I almost collapsed."
An eruption of murmurs and startled gasps followed.
"What?!" Typhon, the Fourth Seat, barked.
Broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, he slammed a hand on the table. "That's impossible. Even though, with utter concentration, one could manage a hit, it's like squeezing a bar of soap. The force never fully connects."
"Oh my, are we speaking from experience, Typhon?" came a silky voice.
Medusa, Seventh Seat, toyed with the green snake coiled around her neck, her unusual eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Come on," Typhon sighed. "Everyone here knows exactly what I'm talking about. Sarvest is too elusive to be hit cleanly—too damn refined."
"That human girl," Sarvest began, his tone level but carrying weight. "She's abnormal. The origin of that monstrous, impossible surge of magic that erupted in Gihon."
Even Dagon, normally the embodiment of mockery, frowned at the revelation.
That surge hadn't come from a god, nor a celestial, nor any known hierarchy of power. It hadn't even felt human. It was pure uncertainty—like a newborn force too vast to be classified.
A living question mark.
"If that's what hit you," said a composed voice, "then your survival is nothing short of proof of your unmatched durability, Sir Sarvest."
It was Loki—the Second Seat—refined in his dark green robes, his sea-green hair falling gracefully over one eye. Always calm. Always watching.
Sarvest nodded slightly.
"I weighed the outcome. I was up against a wolf that refuses to die and still managed to injure me, a girl surrounded by layers of secrets, and a troublesome death reaper. Even I had to withdraw."
He clasped his hands, resting them beneath his chin, elbows on the grand table.
"We don't have the luxury of dawdling. Let's move on to the next issue: Leviathan is missing."
A fresh wave of unease pulsed through the chamber.
"Hold it right there!" Baal growled, his peach-toned robes and red earrings ruffling as he shot forward in his seat. "How many more revelations are you hoarding for today?!"
Typhon chewed a knuckle, his brow low. "Leviathan... that haughty abyssal queen. Why would she leave her domain? Any beast too proud to bow to me should just rot away in the void."
Then, a soft voice—so subtle it seemed to rise from the air itself—broke through.
Yaldabaoth, the Fifth Seat, finally spoke. His curtain-white robe shimmered faintly, and his eyes... his eyes were a garden in bloom, as if vines continuously grew and withered inside them.
"Leviathan is not foolish. She's cunning—cold, even. A being who rarely listened to even Satanas himself. What interest could she possibly have in the surface world now?"
Sarvest's gaze swept the room again. His next words silenced everything.
"I didn't finish." He paused. "Leviathan disappeared the day after Ruben arrived in Gihon. According to data from my best trackers, she engaged something powerful. Two of them, in fact."
Dagon groaned and buried his face in one hand. "Of course she did. And what—this stranger slew Leviathan?"
Sarvest shook his head slowly. "No. I don't believe she's dead. It's more plausible..."
His voice thinned with restrained disbelief. "...that Leviathan is now serving him."