Chapter 74: Twisting Space and Awakening Darkness
The space in which Beelzebub advanced had seemed perfectly straight. To his own senses, every step forward was direct and unimpeded. But Solomon had subtly and masterfully warped that space into a curve—an illusion that even those inside it couldn't perceive. Like the Earth itself: though round, it appears flat from the vantage point of one's feet.
Beelzebub realized something else. When he had leapt back to create distance, why had he landed in the same spot?
Solomon's territory—an altered zone of space with a ten-meter radius—had become an infinite treadmill. Every motion within its bounds was drawn back to origin, as if one were running endlessly yet never moving.
His earlier attack had failed not because of poor aim, but because the vibrations he sent outward had been reflected back by the distorted space, striking him like a cruel echo.
So when had Solomon cast this spell?
The answer: when he summoned his magic earlier, the spatial warping had come along with it.
Beelzebub closed his eyes, attuning himself to the hidden threads of spatial fluctuation. The warped zone centered around Solomon, a ten-meter radius—small, but impenetrable.
It seemed impossible to break through. But not entirely. If one could unleash magic that exceeded Solomon's own output, the distorted space would collapse.
Still, Beelzebub hesitated to charge again. His earlier strike, though deflected, had stirred the magical air around Solomon—and what he sensed made cold sweat bead down his spine.
Invisible to the naked eye, countless magic circles were woven into the space around Solomon like landmines. Beelzebub had already stepped on one, but Solomon had refrained from triggering them.
"Did you underestimate me?" he muttered, wiping blood from his lips. His eyes darkened ominously.
He raised his hand—and countless summoning circles erupted around him. From his secret laboratory came his monstrous creations: grotesque, bioengineered demons lunged toward Solomon with feral fury.
But the seventy-two demon gods were prepared. Not a single monster broke their line.
"Beelzebub is summoning endless waves of modified demons. A brute force strategy?" Heimdall commented, his voice tight with disbelief.
The summoned creatures charged, their numbers seemingly infinite. A flood. A tide. Was he attempting to wear down the enemy by sheer volume?
Why did he create so many? What war had he been preparing for?
The gods watching raised Beelzebub's threat level once more.
"Wait—what is that?!" Heimdall's voice sharpened.
The slain monsters… were reviving.
No—he realized—they were reconfiguring. Their torn corpses fused together, transforming into new abominations. Chimera-like, even more grotesque than the originals.
And they were stronger. But the demon gods shredded them easily.
Understanding the risk, the seventy-two abandoned brute force. They began annihilating every fragment completely, using techniques that left nothing behind.
"How many of these damn things has he made?!"
"This is endless!"
"Also—this arena is too damn small!"
Indeed, the arena designed for one-on-one combat couldn't handle seventy-two warriors versus a tidal horde. The space grew claustrophobic—hardly ideal for the gods to maneuver freely.
Then a metallic orb flung from Bal's hand, and—
The entire arena vanished.
In its place stood a vast barren plain.
Had they broken the rules?
No. They still stood on the arena—only now within a sandbox, an artifact forged with Solomon's design. This device, built with divine craftsmanship and human ingenuity, showcased Solomon's unparalleled brilliance. The gods had created it, but Solomon had architected it.
Within this sandbox, the seventy-two demon gods' power surged—but so too did their energy consumption.
Even more cruelly, any being marked as a foe would have its strength cut in half.
With expanded space, the gods could finally move freely, and their vengeance could unfold without restraint.
"An unexpected development indeed," Heimdall muttered, now immersed in the sandbox world alongside them. As realization spread, awe and dread followed.
What came next could only be described as a war between hells.
The battlefield turned crimson with blood and fire. Beelzebub struggled now—his vibration shield couldn't deflect everything.
Without his demon army absorbing some of the attacks, he would've already collapsed under the onslaught.
"This is madness…"
"Infuriating!"
The divine spectators bristled. Only Solomon remained seated, sipping tea calmly from a table and chair he'd conjured for himself.
Was this arrogance? Or contempt? Did he refuse to sully his hands?
No one realized the truth: Solomon was delaying things—strategically.
If Ragnarok ended too swiftly, the hidden players wouldn't have time to move. Their shadows wouldn't surface.
This delay not only allowed Beelzebub to exhaust his forces, but prevented their technology from falling into darker hands.
Yes, Solomon had already sensed Beelzebub's intent.
More importantly, Solomon's sixth sense—given by Revelation—whispered that the optimal outcome would arise only if he followed his instincts.
Chapter 75: From the Giant Egg, Darkness Hatches
Though the sandbox now covered nearly half the arena, the combatants within it had been scaled down enormously. To spectators, it resembled a miniature war.
But Heimdall projected the scene above in holographic splendor, allowing all to witness the chaos clearly.
This wasn't mere battle—it was war. A mythic war of a scale not seen in tens of thousands of years.
The sheer brutality made many divine factions reflect on their own complacency.
They had grown lazy. Their military forces hadn't been trained in ages. Their alertness had dulled.
What if they were invaded? Caught unprepared?
Some gods resolved to immediately reinstate martial drills when Ragnarok ended.
Others grew paranoid and ordered their armies to mobilize now. After all, it was precisely during Ragnarok that divine defenses were weakest.
"Ugh, Lord Solomon is really something…"
Grey, watching the carnage, couldn't help but comment.
This was supposed to be humanity's final war against the gods—the fate of mankind hung in the balance. It should've been tense. Gruesome. Desperate.
And yet their king sat sipping tea like a tourist.
Well… the war was happening. But it was the demon gods doing the fighting.
Usually, such calmness signaled the human side had the upper hand. Shouldn't Solomon seize the momentum and help finish the battle?
His indifference was unsettling.
Grey glanced at her sister beside her. Brünnhilde, too, looked uneasy.
"What is he thinking?" Brünnhilde whispered, gnawing her thumb in frustration.
Was this pride?
Was this arrogance?
She turned her gaze to Beelzebub—whose expression hadn't changed even as the tide turned against him.
That composure deeply unsettled her.
He wasn't simply stalling. He was concealing something.
Scratch that—he was hiding something. That was certain.
Until now, he'd only summoned monsters and defended himself.
But this was Beelzebub—the one cursed by Satan, devourer of hearts, slayer of ancient hellbeasts whom even gods feared.
Clearly, he hadn't truly revealed his power.
Solomon must have seen this. That was why he remained seated.
After all, the King could read the future.
And then…
Beelzebub's face, so stoic until now, curved into a quiet smile.
Brünnhilde's heart clenched. Something was coming.
In the sandbox world—
"Stop! No more pure energy attacks!"
A voice cried out—one of the Four Pillar Demon Gods.
He had noticed something alarming.
Their energy… wasn't merely dissipating upon release.
It was being absorbed.
Not just the attacks—but even the corpses of fallen monsters were drawn toward one source.
That source… was Beelzebub.
He was consuming their power. Feeding.
And it made sense.
He was, after all, the Priest of Gluttony, one of the Seven Deadly Sins.
The demon god raised the alarm to his allies—
But some of them did the opposite.