The Central Plains.
A land where warriors from every corner of the world converged—a realm teetering on the edge of chaos, ruled not by gods, but by demon lords. The air was thick with uncertainty, emotions running high, a volatile storm ready to erupt at the slightest spark.
Would peace become nothing more than a fleeting whisper, lost in the winds of battle?
Or would salvation emerge from the abyss?
No one could say.
But one thing was certain—every fate was now intertwined.
---
The air was thick—damp with sweat, tension, and the pungent bite of blood that had long since dried on the clothes of restless warriors. The crowd pressed close, bodies packed so tightly that movement was reduced to subtle shifts, shoulders brushing, hands twitching toward weapons at the slightest provocation.
At the center of it all stood a stage, looming like an altar, its crimson banners swaying ominously in the breeze. They bore no insignia, no claim of nobility—only the deep, unsettling weight of something unseen. The kind of presence that didn't demand respect. It devoured it.
The atmosphere rippled with unspoken challenges. Eyes gleamed with hostility, rivalries simmering just beneath the surface. A place like this needed only the smallest spark to set the whole thing ablaze.
And then, a voice cut through the thick air.
Low. Detached. Unapologetically indifferent. Yet carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.
"Move."
A warrior scoffed, turning with a smirk. "Huh?"
A breath. A shift. A blur—
Then, a crack rang out like a whip striking stone.
The man barely registered the impact before he was airborne. The slap sent him careening backward, bodies scattering like brittle leaves as he crashed into the ground with a strangled gasp.
Silence.
Eyes widened. Spines stiffened.
Some warriors surged to their feet, hands twitching toward their hilts. But the moment their gazes locked onto the figure who had struck, their anger twisted into something colder. Sharper.
Hesitation.
They didn't need to be told. They could feel it—an instinctual warning, carved deep into their bones. The kind of presence that made even seasoned killers pause.
Nine didn't spare them a glance.
He simply kept walking.
And the crowd's attention shifted to the thing he was dragging behind him.
A man.
Long, tangled hair trailed across the dirt as Nine hauled him forward, his grip casual, effortless—like one would drag a sack of grain. The man's robes were in tatters, his limbs hanging limply at his sides.
Honu, the so-called embodiment of Sloth.
Yet, what unsettled the onlookers wasn't his state. It was his complete lack of resistance.
Not a twitch.
Not a sound.
Just… soft, rhythmic breathing.
Snoring.
Nine barely slowed as he came to a stop before a trembling warrior, leaning down ever so slightly, his presence swallowing the man whole.
"Where are the Lords?"
The warrior swallowed hard. "T-there!" He frantically pointed toward the grand platform.
Nine didn't hesitate.
His body tensed—then, in a single effortless motion, he launched into the air.
Wind snapped against his robes as he landed atop the stage, the movement so fluid, so precise, it was as if he had merely stepped onto a higher floor rather than soared several meters. He released his grip on Honu's hair, letting the man drop unceremoniously to the ground.
Honu remained exactly where he landed. Face-first. Still snoring.
Nine barely acknowledged him as his gaze swept across the platform. Counting.
Eight.
Including himself. And the unconscious heap.
A voice, rich and measured, broke the silence.
"You must be Lust."
Nine turned, arching a brow.
A woman stepped forward, draped in fine silks woven with gold-thread embroidery. But it wasn't the opulence of her garments that commanded attention.
It was her presence.
Heavy. Calculated. Like a chess master surveying the board before the first move.
Nine's lips curled slightly. "Ah? I see."
She smiled. "I am Greed."
Nine didn't step back. Didn't waver. His gaze met hers—steady, unreadable.
Another voice joined in, slow and amused. "Just in time. You even brought Sloth with you. How considerate."
Nine's eyes flicked to the speaker—a man reclining in his chair, expression unreadable, posture too comfortable for a battlefield, yet commanding acknowledgment.
He didn't need to ask.
"Pride."
And not just any Pride. A familiar face.
Shin's brother.
Pride inclined his head ever so slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
Nine exhaled, already bored. "Should we start already?"
A scoff. Then another.
"You'd rather chit-chat here, huh?"
Nine tilted his head—then, without hesitation, took the nearest seat.
"That's my seat."
The voice rumbled with barely restrained fury.
Nine didn't even look up.
He simply raised his middle finger.
A sharp crack split the air. The ground beneath them fractured, deep fissures snaking outward from the sheer force of Wrath's rage.
The Lord of Wrath loomed, veins pulsing against his temples, fists clenched so tightly they trembled.
Before the tension could snap, Pride raised a hand, stepping between them.
Nine let out a low whistle, smirk deepening. "Of course, you'd be the leader." His voice dripped with mock amusement.
Pride shot him a withering look before turning to face the expectant crowd.
Then, Reijin—Shin's brother—stepped forward.
When he spoke, his voice resonated with a power that dug into the bones, amplified by a qi technique that made each syllable ring with absolute clarity.
"Today, you have gathered to witness the ascension of the Seven Deadly Sins—the new gods of this realm."
Not a single cheer.
No applause.
Only silence. Thick. Suffocating.
"The demon clan has aligned itself with the Seven Lords," Reijin continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembly, daring them to defy him. "But we are no longer alone. The gods abandoned us. And in their absence—" He paused. Letting the weight of his words settle. **"—the gates of Hell itself opened.
Realms collided.
Demons. Monsters. Dragons. Elves. Spirits.
One by one, they emerged. And that means only one thing—"**
A loud thwack cut him off.
All eyes darted toward Gluttony, who was clutching his head, whimpering.
"But I'm hungry..." he mumbled.
Nine casually flexed his fingers after smacking him.
Reijin exhaled sharply, regaining his composure. His voice deepened, sharp as steel.
"We are no longer a world of just humans. We now coexist as one. And under the Lords' supremacy, know this—you are not alone."
The air shifted. Not relief, but something close to consideration.
Reijin's voice rose once more, carrying the force of an imperial edict.
"I present to you—Pride!"
A man of perfect composure stepped forward.
"Greed!"
The old woman smirked, every inch of her adorned in excess.
"Wrath!"
A fire-clad warrior glowered, his glare burning into Nine—who idly scratched his temple.
With his middle finger.
The Seven Lords Ascend
"Envy!"
A small girl peeked out from behind an ornate throne, her dark eyes flickering with wariness. The moment attention settled on her, she flinched and withdrew, vanishing into the folds of her oversized robes like a shadow retreating from the sun.
"Lust!"
Nine remained seated, elbow resting lazily on the chair's armrest. He barely seemed to hear his own introduction, his gaze drifting toward the crowd—searching for something. Or someone. Whatever he was looking for, it clearly interested him more than the grand theatrics unfolding around him.
"Gluttony!"
A lanky man clutched his stomach, groaning. His shoulders sagged as if the mere act of standing was a laborious task. The moment his name was called, his head snapped up, eyes shining with barely contained hunger. "Are we eating after this?" he asked, voice hopeful.
"And Sloth!"
A hand lifted weakly from the ground. "...Here."
Then it flopped back down. Snoring resumed.
Reijin stood firm, his presence a sharp contrast to the mess of personalities surrounding him. If he was frustrated, he didn't show it. Instead, he let the moment settle before delivering his final decree.
"The Lords are positioned throughout the realm, encircling it. From this moment forward, they are officially accepting guests."
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Not just fear—anticipation.
Power was shifting. Lines were being drawn. And everyone in attendance knew that from this point forward, nothing would be the same.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And in the growing silence, Nine stood.
A slow, deliberate stretch. His fingers flexed. His shoulders rolled back. He looked like a man who had just woken from a nap and found himself in the middle of something mildly inconvenient.
Eyes followed him.
The Lords watched, expressions ranging from intrigue to irritation.
And then, Nine smirked.
He met their gazes, tilting his head as if considering something—then turned on his heel.
And without a word, he walked away.