The atmosphere in the chamber was, at the very least, uncomfortable. Daion observed the place with a mix of fascination and disdain. Several tapestries woven with golden thread decorated the walls, and at the far end rose a large window, where the figure of a woman stood. Daion had no doubt: it was Seraphine.
The walls were entirely carved, without the slightest trace of decay like in his quarters—only perfectly uniform stone. From the ceiling hung an imposing chandelier that lit every corner of the hall, and in the center stretched a large ring-shaped table, with a narrow passage that allowed movement through the middle.
Daion took a seat. Barely twelve hours had passed since the noble demon Behemoth had sentenced the fortress to death. The Summoned had been detained temporarily, under threat that they would receive no payment if they departed before a decision was made.
Daion knew such a measure would only work for a limited time. In his opinion, it was unlikely that those selfish fools would truly decide to help. He remained seated for a few moments, checking his limbs for fractures that might not yet have healed. The wave Tiberius had unleashed was strange, to say the least.
He drifted into his thoughts until the door creaked open. A group of generals entered—ten in total. The only ones that caught his attention were the idiot guard who had always denied him entry—now standing by the door, frowning at him—and an old man with a long, whitish beard, whose mere presence carried an indescribable weight. Daion felt the urge to rise, bow, or offer a salute, but the certainty that such gestures weren't required from a Summoned held him back.
Seraphine stormed in, furious. Those present looked at her in terror and rushed to take their seats. As she passed, she shot Daion a sidelong glance. To his surprise, all the clever insults he had been preparing for weeks vanished instantly from his mind.
The woman sat in the chair before the great window, crossing her leg with flawless poise that emphasized her bearing and her figure. Daion shook his head and hunched over the table.
"Since the war council is gathered here, and so is the idiot who gave us the date of battle," Seraphine said, pointing at Daion with disdain. He nodded and greeted the others with a slight tilt of his head. "I declare the war council in session."
She placed a thin file on the table and sighed, trying to compose herself.
"As you all know, the noble demon Behemoth has declared war on us. We have twenty-two days to prepare and counter his strength. I believe—"
"Hold it, sweetheart," interrupted the old man, raising his hand. Seraphine gave him a smile full of irritation but allowed him to speak.
"There isn't much to discuss. We should simply do what we always do: pull back, leave a handful of Summoned as slaves, and retreat deeper inland to counterattack later."
"Yeah, clearly that's worked great so far," Daion muttered.
Seraphine shot him a glare that made it perfectly clear this was not someone he could play games with.
"We can't do that," said one of the men beside Seraphine. "He was very clear—he wants to fight Thaloren. We won't be able to escape the wrath of a noble."
"Then let's leave him here," suggested a man at the far end. "He'll fight, the noble will be satisfied, and we can regroup."
"Are you stupid?" snapped a woman this time, her hair sky-blue and her features youthful. "You plan to throw away our best weapon just to die? We won't be able to defend the frontier without him, no matter where we are."
"You're saying we should stay here and expect those Summoned to magically defeat a damned noble and his army?" the white-bearded man retorted. "With all due respect, Aria, that's absurd. Thaloren lost."
"So should we just let everyone die, Alacard?" Seraphine asked, arms crossed as she sat back, her gaze thoughtful. "If the noble breaks through the frontier, we won't be able to contain the Corrupted that follow. Without Thaloren, we're finished here at the border…"
"There are two other Summoned stronger than him," Alacard complained. "We rely far too much on one of them, needlessly."
"We don't even know who those other two are," another man countered.
Daion tilted his head; he was partly surprised they didn't even know the identity of the strongest Summoned.
"We can't take that risk…" someone murmured.
"They'll show up when death comes knocking at their door. Until then, we should focus on keeping this world's leaders alive," Alacard insisted.
Daion sighed and suddenly rose to his feet. The council turned to him, startled. He began to study them one by one, somehow able to sense what kind of leaders they were just by looking at them. Even so, it was insulting that these men only thought of running away.
"Well, I'm not saying running away like chickens isn't a great plan," he said, looking around at them with a mocking smile. "But just from seeing you, I can tell why this world is rotting. You're a bunch of fucking useless cowards."
The others frowned. Seraphine glanced at Daion with curiosity, wondering what he was up to. Daion steadied his breathing to sound confident; he had been thinking about this ever since those Corrupts left, but he needed the logistical support of these idiots—and he would only get it if they decided to fight.
"And who exactly are you, Summoned?" asked the white-bearded man. Daion cast a brief glance at Seraphine, who nodded.
"I'm the Summoned of the Primordial of Gravity. And unlike you, I'm not a complete idiot in combat," Daion declared. The others stared at him, a mix of suspicion and astonishment; some murmured among themselves.
Ever since his encounter with the Alpha God, his mind had been clearer: he instinctively knew what needed to be done.
"And why should we listen to you?" Alacard asked, fingers interlaced on the table, curious to hear his answer.
"Because you've been running for three hundred years. And look where that got you." Daion stepped into the circle with absolute confidence. "But I can propose a strategy to actually win."
"Against a noble demon? No Summoned has ever managed that. Even if you are the chosen of the Supreme God, you can't defeat him," the woman from before countered. Daion knew what she meant.
"Of course I can't… but relax. I wouldn't waste my time worrying about the noble." Daion grinned at them, the question obvious. "Thaloren will."
Seraphine bit her lip, waiting for the reaction.
"He lost," someone ventured.
"Because we were nearby. It's obvious he held back so he wouldn't hurt us," Daion assured them. The generals exchanged uncertain glances.
"Thaloren isn't a fool, but—" Alacard began, "he's still just a Summoned…"
"And you're a bunch of cowardly fucks who would run even if it meant sacrificing humanity," Daion cut him off. "But hey, we can all strive to be better versions of ourselves, can't we?" His mocking, sarcastic tone struck a nerve among those who had never been questioned before.
"Answer me this: two hundred Corrupts sounds insane, but is it impossible to repel them?" Daion challenged, addressing Seraphine directly.
She paused, thinking it through—mentally weighing weapons, resources, time, and the Summoned. A simple analysis, almost like basic arithmetic.
"If we manage to gather the nearby Summoned and prepare as best we can in only three weeks…" she began, staring down at the table in distress.
Daion was taken aback to see her like that. She was still an insufferable bitch in his eyes, but seeing her so vulnerable was impressive.
"It's suicide." Alacard smiled with satisfaction. "But… if we lose the frontier now, there'll be no way to stop the Corrupts. It's even less likely we succeed anywhere else. Here we know the terrain, and the trenches favor us. Not to mention that if the frontier falls, all of humanity…"
Seraphine couldn't finish the sentence. To anyone from this world, the unspoken truth was obvious: extinction—of their species and all life on the planet.
"So, to recap: our biggest problem is the noble," Daion said, raising a finger for each point. "The two hundred Corrupts could be repelled by our forces, leaving Thaloren to focus solely on the noble. In other words, if we manage to keep Thaloren and the noble far enough away from us, we'll have a real chance to win."
The murmurs grew louder; they understood Daion's proposal. Still, it was difficult—everyone's eyes shifted between Alacard and Seraphine. Daion clenched his fists.
"And how do you plan to repel two hundred Corrupts when we have only about forty Summoned, a little over a hundred and fifty soldiers, and maybe a handful of useful demihumans? Not to mention the high-mid ranked demon will be present as well," asked a man from the back, long-haired with a piercing gaze.
"The high-mid demon is my problem," Daion said firmly. The others stared, half-expecting he was joking. "As for the two hundred Corrupts—we only need to set a trap." He paused a few seconds to gather his thoughts. There will be three fronts. First: lure the high-mid demon to a point far from the main battle. He'll likely come with a large group of Corrupts. There, we'll spring the trap, and I, along with a couple of Summoned, will hold them off."
"And why would he fall for it?" Seraphine asked.
"Because he wants to break me. He'll go wherever I am. In that, he's just like the Behemoth," Daion assured her. "Second front: the bulk of the Corrupts will attack the fortress while the Behemoth hangs back."
They eyed him with suspicion, as if waiting for the hidden flaw.
"It's simple: he said it himself. He finds fighting with his army boring. He'll either attack alone or stay behind. And that brings us to our third front: Thaloren. If we manage to separate his army far enough from the Behemoth, Thaloren can fight without holding back."
Alacard leaned over the table, weighing the strategy of splitting the main forces and striking directly.
"It's not a bad plan," he finally admitted. "But it has two major flaws: it depends on you—a rank E Summoned—stopping a powerful demon, and on us successfully isolating Thaloren and the noble from the battle. Distance isn't enough; considering the way they fight, we'd have to confine them to a specific area. How exactly do you plan to do that?"
Daion froze. He had known it deep down, but he'd hoped they'd be too thickheaded to notice he hadn't been that specific. Apparently, deceiving and sweet-talking idiots wasn't as easy as he thought.
"There are twenty-two days left; it's possible to find a solution in that time…" he began.
"Or perhaps not," Alacard cut in, rising from his chair with theatrical flair. "We cannot gamble our lives on a bet. You are weak, and you don't know this world well enough to guarantee your idea will work."
"So you'd rather flee and die for sure instead of at least trying to fight for the last shred of hope left?" Daion asked directly.
Alacard tensed; he surely had a ready excuse, but Seraphine raised her hand before he could answer, demanding silence.
"I think we've heard enough. The question is simple: fight in twenty-two days and risk everything on a slim chance, or run and pray for a miracle to save us the next day?" she stated. Daion smiled at Seraphine, though she kept her mask of disdain. "I suggest we vote. Majority rules. Who votes to stay and fight?"
Seraphine and Aria raised their hands, followed by the brown-haired man and another who hadn't spoken all meeting long: four votes in favor. Alacard smiled to himself.
"And who votes to retreat and wait for reinforcements?" he asked, raising his hand; three others followed. Daion closed his eyes for a moment, surprised to realize no more hands were lifted.
"General Satein, Lady Margot, are you certain you wish to abstain?" Seraphine inquired. Both nodded.
"It's not possible to decide right now. We must consider every possibility," the general explained.
"Then it's a tie. That means we postpone this discussion for eleven days—half our time limit. You'll have time to reflect and choose the path you believe is right," Seraphine concluded. Alacard was about to protest, but the woman reclaimed her threatening aura and struck the table with finality. "I declare this war council adjourned."
The council dispersed quickly. Falling back into routine, the soldier ushered Daion out at the first opportunity. The Summoned held his tongue and didn't insult him. He lingered by the door for a few minutes until Seraphine emerged with grace, casting him a disdainful glance.
Daion stepped forward and began walking at her side.
"I didn't expect you to support my idea," he said, trying to read her expression.
"It was the most logical option. It's obvious that if we retreat, we die," she replied wearily.
"I didn't expect you to be so logical," Daion shot back.
"And how do you think I lead this place, then?"
"By being a terrifying bitch," Daion insulted out of habit. Even if she had backed him, he couldn't trust that woman in the slightest. She was a slaver and a sadist with her troops.
She sighed in exasperation and turned toward him.
"Listen, Summoned. You may have bought some time, but you only have a few days to prove a real strategy that gives us an actual chance at victory. Empty ideas are useless; we need certainty, we need power, we need to win." Her voice was as cold as it was sharp before she turned on her heel and left.
Daion decided to stay out of her way for now.
He let out a long sigh. He still had a couple of matters to attend to: ask Loryn if he knew a way to strengthen himself quickly and, while at it, if there was a battle ring suitable for two near-divine beings. But first…
He hurried down the tower of the fortress until he reached the mess hall. The place was packed with Summoned and soldiers. Some eyed him with suspicion, others with a hint of gratitude, though most ignored him altogether: they had already forgotten, or simply didn't care who he was.
He scanned the hall for familiar faces. He spotted Ken and Amelie sitting at a table with grim expressions, while Marui fetched drinks. Daion wanted to ask about Brut and how he was doing, but it didn't feel like the right moment.
On the far side, Aelith was with the demihumans, tending to the mutilated boy. The youth looked more stable, but pain consumed him—a single dose of medicine wasn't nearly enough. Loryn remained there, guarding them, though making no effort to aid the boy's healing.
Daion kept searching until he saw him. At the center of the hall there was a wide empty space around one table. Thaloren sat there, head resting on his arms. The other Summoned deliberately avoided him; no one wanted to imagine how hard it must have been for the man just to stay conscious after the monumental beating he'd taken.
Daion expected to find some jealous glances aimed at the fallen warrior, but the only thing he sensed in the air was fear.
He strode confidently through the Summoned, who watched him with mild curiosity.
"Hey, loser," Daion taunted.
Thaloren lifted his gaze, confused. Just looking at him, it was clear that even his very existence hurt.
"What do you want…?" he asked irritably.
"Tell me something," Daion began, lowering his voice as he sat beside him. No one else should hear what he was about to say. "In the last battle, you were holding back, weren't you?"
Thaloren stared at him in silence, exhausted.
"What are you implying?"
Daion locked eyes with him.
"If I manage to isolate you with the noble, and you fight seriously… could you beat him?"
End of Chapter 29.