Pandemonium (3)

"The assembly will now resume."

It was a brief phrase, just five words, but its impact defied description.

In the blink of an eye, the Pandemonium Main Assembly Hall snapped back into looking like an actual legislative chamber. Silence rushed in to fill every corner of the titanic expanse, so completely and abruptly that no further explanation was needed.

Moments ago, these Demon Lords had been tearing at each other's throats in vicious, bloody brawls. Now, every single one sat primly in their assigned seat, smoothing their rumpled garments and clearing their throats with theatrical decorum. The sheer speed of the transformation left me in dumbfounded awe.

"...Are these seriously the same guys who were spraying blood all over the floor two minutes ago?"

Granted, I had witnessed similar spectacles on the gallery. I was plenty familiar with forum arsonists who torched entire threads with bait, only to be instantly suppressed by the moderators while the chat abruptly pivoted to polite small talk. But flame wars on an anonymous board and a literal brawl to the death in meatspace belonged to entirely different realms.

"Oh, that?" Leon let out a quiet chuckle as he overheard my baffled murmur. "It's just muscle memory burned right into their souls. An instinct, you could say. When you've been beaten within an inch of your life enough times, your body remembers on its own. After the Chief Manager chopped me into ribbons a couple of times, my body started reacting automatically too."

"Wait, what?"

"You could probably count on one hand the number of Demon Lords in this hall who haven't caught a beating from the Chief Manager. And every single bastard who took a hit walked away with enough trauma to last a millennium."

Leon's nonchalant explanation shattered whatever common sense I had left. To plant psychological trauma so deeply that a person's body reflexively stood at attention even in the middle of a berserk, bloodthirsty frenzy—it was utterly barbaric. Then again, looking at it from another angle, perhaps that crude brutality was the only governance befitting a ruler of Demon Lords.

"Besides, barely anyone fighting earlier was actually out of their mind," Leon added. "If you wanna see people losing their sanity, wait until the assembly wraps up and the arena opens. What happened earlier was just them loosening their joints during the recess. Think of it as a casual conversation between Demon Lords."

"..."

A couple more sentences of that casual conversation and a few dozen corpses would've piled up, I wanted to retort, but I swallowed the words back down. I was gradually beginning to realize that measuring these entities against normal human standards was an exercise in futility.

"Just take it at face value and listen to the session," Leon said. "As a matter of fact, the agenda items on the docket today ought to be pretty damn useful for you, Suhyun."

"Really?"

"Let's see, the stuff they discussed before you arrived... I wrote up a summary and posted it to the board, but... Wait, why isn't it loading? Did the Chief Manager lock down the forum?"

"Come to think of it, I couldn't open the gallery on my way here either. Still won't connect now."

At Leon's complaint, I quickly conjured my own gallery interface, but just like when I first crossed into Pandemonium, the window terminated with a blunt error message. Why was the gallery down? Both the Marquis of Wolves and Odin had assured me that browsing the forum during the assembly wouldn't be an issue.

Yet whatever doubt flickered in my chest was brushed aside by Leon's breezy wave of the hand.

"Eh, the Chief Manager's probably running maintenance or something. Anyway, there wasn't much earlier that concerned you. It was mostly redefining magic circle tiers, establishing the permitted boundaries of magiteck we're allowed to leak to humans, standardizing the formal Pandemonium swordsmanship syllabus, stuff like that."

"If it's about magic, it wouldn't have helped me anyway."

"Yeah, I heard from old man Odin that mages literally can't exist at your dimension's Depth."

"We have supernatural abilities, but actual magic seems to play by entirely different rules."

No matter how many times I mulled it over, the physical laws governing my home world felt profoundly unfair. We had catastrophic Gates, dimensional incursions, and psychic awakenings, so why the hell was classic spellcraft an absolute impossibility?

Just as I was about to vent another round of bitter complaints about Earth's rigid metaphysics, Leon casually dropped a bombshell.

"If you've got some free time later, want me to teach you some swordsmanship? Just purely physical technique, zero mana required."

"...Come again?"

The offer struck me so hard my complaints vanished on the spot. He wanted to teach me swordsmanship?

It defied belief. This was one of the Three Great Swordmasters of the Demon Lord Gallery—a peerless warrior who had stood toe-to-toe against Moses's dimension-cleaving blade. And he was casually offering private lessons out of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clear blue sky.

To someone in my position, it was an absurdly generous proposition.

"No need to look so shocked," Leon chuckled. "Without mana in your dimension, my techniques won't exert anywhere near their real power anyway."

"...Wait. Isn't this supposed to be some guarded secret art or something?"

Twenty or thirty years ago, when humanity still walked the surface of Earth and psychic hunters risked their lives to conquer Gates, I had crossed paths with several awakening-users who practiced swordsmanship and martial arts. Without exception, every single one had reacted the same way whenever training came up.

"This is an esoteric martial style passed down only within our lineage; I cannot instruct an outsider."

"I fear this blade technique is fundamentally ill-suited to your temperament."

"This curriculum is classified as state defense intelligence; unauthorized dissemination is strictly prohibited."

They rattled off every excuse under the sun to hoard their knowledge and experience. Even with the apocalypse looming over their heads and human extinction guaranteed by tomorrow, they had clung desperately to their petty little secrets until the very end.

Yet here was Leon, offering to hand over his personal combat techniques with zero strings attached. What was I supposed to call him? A chivalrous hero? A savior? Whatever label fit, he felt as far removed from the concept of a 'Demon Lord' as a person could possibly get.

"Even if I teach someone, only the bastards with real ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grit and talent ever amount to anything," Leon remarked with a shrug. "Besides, what's the point of hoarding sword techniques like some dragon sitting on gold? It's not like I can pawn them for cash. Might as well take an apprentice and play sect founder for a bit."

"If that's how you feel, I'd be beyond grateful. I'll give you all the respect a proper master deserves. No—I mean, Master!"

"Drop the honorifics, man. Makes my skin crawl."

As we struck up an amicable agreement, outlining rough schedules and promising to exchange private messages once the gallery came back online, a stray question crossed my mind.

"By the way... do any other Demon Lords try to learn swordsmanship from you?"

No matter how often people slurred him as a Hero Collaborator, the martial prowess he had displayed in the arena was undeniable. Wouldn't anyone with an ounce of sense look past the political slander and beg for instruction?

Leon's answer was quintessentially Demon Lord.

"Demon Lords survive on sheer ego. You think any of those arrogant bastards would swallow their pride and bow their heads to learn from someone else?"

"Ah..."

"Aside from the Neutral and Moderate factions hanging around here, you won't find a single soul with that kind of humility. And most of the Moderates are already overpowered monsters who have no reason to borrow my sword."

"The Moderates are that strong?"

"Of course they are. Peace isn't a wish; it's a luxury that only the overwhelmingly powerful can afford to dictate."

He was right.

When the weak preached moderation and peace, it was nothing more than a pathetic plea. True peace was forged entirely from crushing, unassailable strength. Considering the horrific fate that had befallen those without power on my own world, and the nightmare I had endured because of it, no statement felt closer to absolute truth.

"Anyway, the only guy I've ever taught is Ferma over there," Leon said, jerking his thumb toward the corner. "He's obsessed with winning at all costs, so he swallowed his pride and learned whatever he could."

"And it was totally useless," Ferma grumbled without looking up. "Didn't work against the Hero at all."

"How many times do I have to tell you that Hero was a freak of nature?!"

As I watched the two of them bicker with amused fascination—

Clack—!

A crisp strike echoed through the chamber.

My gaze snapped reflexively toward the center of the hall, where the Chief Manager stood lowering his gavel.

I had been so engrossed in conversation that an entire resolution had passed without me catching a single word.

"Damn it..."

Guilt washed over me. Gathering intelligence on the assembly's deliberations had been my primary objective here, yet I had let myself get completely sidetracked by swordsmanship. Lately, my attention span seemed to be slipping, and the realization brought a wave of quiet frustration.

"Do not fret, young friend," a calm voice rumbled nearby. "I have transcribed the entirety of the proceedings."

To my profound relief, the Neutral lounge actually contained some sensible individuals.

Puffing gently on a cigar ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as he inscribed neat lines into a weathered paper notebook with a worn lead pencil, 'Fallout'—Edward—exuded an aura of profound gravitas mixed with vintage elegance.

He must carry quite a past of his own, I thought.

His posture, his vintage attire, the tactile instruments he preferred, and that solemn, measured gaze all pointed to a long and tragic history. In fact, his demeanor felt oddly reminiscent of my own.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"Think nothing of it. Speak to me once the session concludes, and I shall gladly share the transcripts. For now, pay close attention to the matters about to unfold."

Though his tone was warm, his underlying message was clear: Focus on the meeting. Taking the gentle reprimand to heart, I turned my eyes back toward the assembly floor.

Time lost its meaning as the session dragged ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on.

Disciplinary measures against Demon Lords violating gallery bylaws, the retirement of Pandemonium Grand Elders and the selection of their successors, strategic status reports on the War of Gods and Demons... Subjectively, it felt like dozens of hours had ground past before the assembly finally approached its climax.

At last, the final topic parted the Chief Manager's lips.

It was an agenda item of singular importance—one destined to shock almost every Demon Lord in existence.

The specific article numbers of the Lemegeton were gibberish to me, but the operative clauses spelled out a terrifyingly clear picture.

Lowering barriers for interdimensional trade and travel, raising the walls to enter the community, and legally compelling Demon Lords to pool tactical data on Heroes.

When combined with the breadcrumbs Odin had dropped recently and the rumors that had been circulating through the forum, only one conclusion remained.

The Demon Lords were preparing for an organized, all-out offensive against the Heroes—a coordinated counterattack spanning across entire dimensions.

It was a staggering revelation, yet Leon showed no trace of shock.

"Well, look at that. The Marquis wasn't blowing smoke after all."

"I told you I heard it directly from him, didn't I?" someone chimed in.

"Come on, you can't just blindly trust whatever a Succubus Queen whispers in your ear."

"...How many times do I have to remind you that's outright succubus discrimination?"

Unlike the rest of the colossal chamber, which was already murmuring and seething like a boiling cauldron, the Neutral faction remained remarkably placid. They had known this was coming.

"Did you all receive advance notice about this?" I asked.

"Indeed," Moses replied with a dry chuckle, leaning his weight onto his wooden cane as he gestured toward the podium. "Not that it would have troubled us either way... But if the Marquis's information holds true, the announcement following this one will carry far greater shockwaves."

"Pardon?"

Seeing my blank look, the old patriarch merely smiled and pointed his staff toward the center of the amphitheater. "Observe. The Chief Manager is about to deliver his closing decree."

The moment Moses pointed his stick toward the podium, the final amendment spilled from the Chief Manager's lips—a solitary spark cast directly into a mountain of dry tinder.

Abolition of institutional immunity for Pandemonium's sovereign lords.

The shield of collective protection had vanished in an instant.

It was nothing less than the implicit sanction of murder among their own kind—an official license for Demon Lords to hunt Demon Lords.