Chapter 3: The Proportional Response
Elara's shock crystallized into furious action. Seeing the Demon Lord dismiss her existence, standing so casually amidst the wreckage of her divine barrier, ignited a fanatical spark. Without warning, she screamed a prayer, channeling blinding holy light into her raised sword..
"**PURIFYING SUNBURST!**"
A searing beam of condensed sunlight, capable of vaporizing stone fortifications, lanced across the short distance and struck Leo squarely in the chest.
**KRA-KOOM!**
The explosion dwarfed her earlier attack. A miniature sun erupted where Leo stood, bathing the shattered landscape in painful radiance. Heat washed over the surviving knights, forcing them to shield their eyes. The shockwave finished what Leo's aura started, flattening the remaining ten knights who hadn't been kneeling.
Elara lowered her sword, breathing heavily, a triumphant, vicious smile twisting her beautiful face. "Fool! That's what you get for defying the Light! May yo find humility as a human in your next life, monster!"
A ragged, disbelieving cheer rose from the knights. Sir Gareth, struggling to his feet, stared at the fading inferno, a flicker of desperate hope warring with the memory of that crushing aura. Had they… had they actually killed one of the Nine? The weakest, but still… a Demon Lord!
The cheers died abruptly, strangled in their throats.
From the heart of the dissipating fireball, a voice echoed, calm and utterly unimpressed: "Annoying."
Leo stepped out of the smoke and fading holy fire. His simple dark clothes were pristine. Not a hair was out of place. He patted his chest where the beam had hit, a gesture almost like brushing off dust. He looked directly at Elara, his expression one of profound boredom tinged with mild irritation. "Been human. Didn't suit me. Too… squishy."
The collective gasp was deafening in the sudden silence. Horror replaced triumph on every face. Elara's smile vanished, her eyes wide with utter disbelief. He stood in the heart of a Purifying Sunburst… and yawned?
Leo raised his right hand, pointing a single finger not at Elara, but at the devastated field where her army lay scattered. "Look," he said, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "I'm feeling generous. One attack. If you survive it, you get five days to crawl back to your Church and tell them to leave me alone. After that…" He let the implication hang. "Fair warning."
He didn't wait for acknowledgment. He didn't chant. He didn't even seem to focus. He simply *flicked* his finger.
It wasn't a beam. It wasn't a bolt. It was the universe exhaling.
A point of impossible darkness appeared before his fingertip. Then, it *expanded*. Not with fire, but with pure, annihilating force. Space itself seemed to scream as it was compressed and then violently decompressed in a microsecond. A sphere of silent, absolute destruction bloomed, swallowing light, sound, and matter.
The impact wasn't heard locally. It was felt. The ground didn't shake; it convulsed. Mountains miles away groaned. Oceans sloshed against distant shores. In the Holy City, stained glass windows shattered. In the volcanic lairs of other Demon Lords, ancient heads snapped up, eyes wide with sudden, primal alarm. Across the five continents, powerful beings – heroes in training, ancient mages, secluded kings – felt a terrifying surge of energy, a ripple in the fabric of reality that screamed *something impossible just happened*.
Back at the Obsidian Reach, the effect was localized devastation. Where the sphere touched, knights, horses, shattered weapons, and scorched earth simply ceased to exist. Not vaporized. Erased. The sphere expanded to the edges of the ruined army encampment and winked out as suddenly as it appeared.
Silence returned. A deeper, more profound silence than before.
Where hundreds of gleaming knights had stood moments ago, there was now only a vast, perfectly smooth, bowl-shaped depression in the bedrock, smoking faintly at the edges. At the very rim of this newly forged crater, spared only by sheer luck of positioning, were eleven figures: Elara, Sir Gareth, and ten knights. They were coated in white-hot ash, their pristine armor blackened and warped, their faces masks of utter, gibbering terror. They stared at the void where their comrades had been, then slowly, trembling violently, their gazes lifted to the figure still hovering in the air.
Leo surveyed his handiwork, his expression unreadable. He looked down at the eleven survivors, their fear a palpable stench in the air. "Five days," he stated, his voice devoid of anger, only cold, absolute finality. "Leave. Or join them." He pointed at the smoking crater.
Without another word, the swirling black portal snapped open behind him. He stepped backward into the abyss, disappearing as if he'd never been there. The portal sealed shut, leaving only the scarred land, the choking silence, and eleven broken souls kneeling at the edge of oblivion.
Sir Gareth collapsed fully, retching onto the hot stone. The knights wept openly, clutching their weapons like lifelines they knew were useless. Elara, the arrogant Holy Hero, simply knelt, her head bowed, her divine sword lying forgotten beside her, its light utterly extinguished. The tremor in her hands wasn't from exertion anymore. It was the tremor of a fundamental truth shattering: the "weakest" Demon Lord wasn't weak. He was an extinction event given human form. And he had told them to go away.