Game of the World Tree-Chapter 585

【 WELCOME TO THE DEMON LORD’S LABYRINTH 】

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TL/N : Changed the term Demon Liege to Demon King.

Demon Hierarchy are as Follows:

Seven Demon Lords > Demon Kings > Demon Nobles > Greater Demons > Lesser Demons > Abyssal Worms

Whilst bathed in radiant light, Demon King Baal suddenly sensed the disappearance of the uniquely malevolent and chaotic aura of Hell.

In its place came the heavy stench of sulfur.

Instantly becoming alert, he prepared himself to flee the moment the teleportation ended.

He definitely was not mistaken…

This familiar sulfuric scent definitely belonged to the Seventh Demon Lord, Azazel.

As the light gradually faded around him and the surroundings became much clearer, Baal found himself within a magnificent palace.

At its center stood a fearsome, horned demon, his entire body engulfed in roaring flames. The figure’s massive form exuded a terrifying yet awe-inspiring sight.

Azazel!

Baal narrowed his eyes with utmost fury.

Around the Seventh Demon Lord, crimson flashes flickered continuously, conjuring one summoning array after another, from which more Demon Kings emerged, with each one summoned over at this place just like Baal.

In fact, among them Baal saw several former enemies of his and rivals he defeated in the past.

Yet Baal paid them no mind.

His full attention was fixed on the horned demon at the center who’s far larger than himself…

Azazel’s gaze slowly swept over the assembled Demon Kings, his burning eyes narrowing as they passed over the intricate, gleaming armor and ornate weapons each of them bore, which was far superior to the crude, battle-worn gear they had wielded ten millennia ago.

For a brief moment, the horned demon paused then let out a low, sardonic laugh, one that echoed through the vast chamber hall like smoke curling from a smoldering pit:

“Hah… So this is what’s become of you lot in my absence. All of you seems to be living so well while I was gone… it seems life in Hell has been kind to all you, eh?”

Baal, who’s ever watchful and wary could’ve sworn he caught a trace of something deeper beneath the mockery.

A bitterness laced with a quiet venom or a resentment not easily masked.

And truly, anyone who saw the current from of the Seventh Demon Lord now would understand why.

Despite the suffocating force of his presence…

Despite the sheer weight of authority that radiated from his every movement…

He simply stood there wearing nothing but flames.

His once legendary weapon, which was Azazel’s companion for tens of thousands of years, had long been destroyed in countless battles against the Heavenly Gods.

His majestic battle armor had been completely dissolved by the sealing powers during his millennia-long imprisonment.

Now, he had nothing left but his physical form.

Even during his battles against the elves, Azazel could only manifest a blade of flame drawn from his own dwindling power. The legendary weapons he once wielded, forged in the deepest fires of Hell and tempered through countless wars against the heavens, were long gone. So too was his once-glorious armor, stripped away by the divine forces that had bound him for millennia.

By comparison, the Demon Kings who had responded to his call appeared almost ostentatious.

Thirteen in total had answered, each one tall, broad, and overflowing with vitality.

Although they instinctively showed fear and deference in Azazel’s presence, they could not fully hide the air of decadence and ease that clung to them like perfume. It was the scent of demons who had grown too comfortable in his absence.

Their armor was dazzling, every plate polished to a flawless shine. It was obvious these suits had not seen true battle in ages, kept pristine through constant attention from loyal, low-ranking demon attendants.

Their weapons were equally extravagant—massive, finely-crafted, and brimming with menace. Many seemed to be custom creations, likely forged by captured dwarven or human smiths pulled from the Material Realm through rituals or projection magic.

More troubling still, Azazel could sense faint traces of corrupted divine energy emanating from some of their weapons. These were no ordinary infernal arms.

They were Fallen Artifacts—tainted relics forged with shattered fragments of divine power.

While not true divine weapons, they carried enough power to rival them. The realization that these Demon Kings had acquired such items while he had been sealed away filled Azazel with quiet fury and bitter surprise.

After all, ten thousand years ago, he had never permitted his subordinates to hoard such extravagant items.

Any powerful artifacts or enchanted relics they acquired were to be surrendered without question. He alone would determine their distribution, ensuring they were only used when necessary—typically during campaigns against other rival powers. Luxury was a privilege he tightly controlled, and no demon under his command had dared defy that rule.

But comparisons are always cruel.

Nothing needed to be said. Just looking at these smug, well-groomed bastards was enough to see how lavishly they had been living during his absence.

And what of him?

He had not been just any ordinary demon. He was one of the Seven Demon Lords, a supreme sovereign of Hell, the undisputed master of the First Layer.

Yet what fate did he suffer?

He had been sealed away for ten millennia, and even when he finally clawed his way out of that damned prison, the freedom he acquired was rather short-lived.

Ultimately, he was captured and bound once more.

This time, the one responsible was Yggdrasill, who for reasons still unbeknownst to him, had become something altogether terrifying—a being more demonic than any true demon, more merciless than the cruellest devil he had encountered in all his long and blood-soaked life.

There had been no justice in it.

Only humiliation, layered upon humiliation.

To add to his grievances, as if being sealed wasn’t enough, As if the torment of being sealed away for ten thousand years were not enough, fate had twisted the knife even deeper. He, the exalted Seventh Demon Lord, once feared across the universe, had been reduced to nothing more than a toy. A pathetic plaything at the mercy of lowly elves, subjected to torment after torment with no reprieve and no dignity left to cling onto.

Each day brought fresh mockery. Each moment stretched into an eternity of suffering.

How tragic it was.

Truly, heartbreakingly tragic.

Was there any Demon Lord more miserable than him?

Upon hearing Azazel’s words, the summoned Demon Kings exchanged uneasy glances.

In that instant, though none of them spoke, nearly all shared the same unspoken thought:

How could we not be living well?

With you gone, no longer draining power from us, no longer monopolizing the offerings of lesser demons or hoarding the sacrifices delivered by mortals in the Material World, we were finally free.

Free to wage war when we pleased, free to seduce mortals at will, to expand our territories without fear of your interference or your demands. Free to enjoy the pleasures of rulership without a greater power looming overhead.

Who wouldn’t thrive under such conditions?No obligations, no hierarchy, no one to remind them of their place.

It had been paradise…

Of course, not a single one of them dared voice such thoughts aloud.

Meanwhile, Baal’s eyelid twitched uncontrollably.

Something in the atmosphere had shifted.

He could feel it—Azazel’s gaze was no longer casually sweeping the room. It had landed squarely on him and lingered with unsettling focus.

The Demon Lord’s eyes took on a scrutinizing gleam, as if evaluating a product. After scanning Baal from head to toe, he nodded slightly:

“Indeed. Very similar. Remarkably so.”

He spoke softly, yet every word carried a weight that pressed down on Baal’s chest.

“No wonder… you were my work. My creation. I shaped you with my own power. To think you’ve already reached the pinnacle of the Legendary rank…truly impressive.”

A faint, pleased smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“It seems calling you all back at this moment was more than just a coincidence—it was fate. Whether I can truly stabilize my position this time will depend entirely on you… all of you.”

Baal: “…”

Although he didn’t understand exactly what Azazel meant, his long years of experience dealing with Demon Lords made one thing absolutely certain:

This couldn’t possibly be anything good.

The tone in which Azazel spoke of his strength, laden with implication made Baal’s eye twitch even harder.

At that moment, he finally realized…

Azazel had already begun to regard each of them with malice.

Seizing the opportunity, Baal allowed himself to quietly assess Azazel’s current condition.

Though the aura Azazel projected was undeniably powerful, to Baal’s trained senses, it felt more like an echo than the real thing. The pressure in the air was heavy, yes, but hollow. It lacked the substance and raw intensity of true strength.

It was a façade, a carefully constructed illusion meant to inspire fear and submission.

And Baal, who had already reached the peak of the Legendary rank, could sense what others likely could not.

Faint, yet unmistakable, there was another energy lingering in the chamber. A divine presence. Calm, regal, and suffused with a quiet authority that made even the air feel sacred.

It was not Azazel’s.

That presence most likely belonged to the god who had sealed him.

Even so, regardless of how weak Azazel might currently be, Baal had no intention of picking a fight.

There was simply no point.

What would defeating a Demon Lord truly accomplish?

Even if one succeeded, all it would mean is aiding in their resurrection, allowing them to return to Hell once more, perhaps even stronger than before.

It would be an empty victory. A futile gesture.

At that moment, Baal had only one thought racing through his mind:

Take this rare chance and escape.

Flee, as fast and as far as possible.

The farther he could get from this cursed palace and from Azazel’s presence, the better.

As long as he managed to leave this place, the realm of Seigües would become his new playground!

He would raise fortresses more grand and imposing than his old one. He would feast daily on the sweet blood of virgins, savor the tender flesh of captured elves, and revel in sacrifices laid before him by trembling cultists.

Then he would find a way to ascend to being an evil god.

All of this possibilities were waiting for him out there!

With that thought, Baal did not hesitate. He turned, ready to flee toward the great doors of the chamber.

But before he could make a single move, he suddenly heard Azazel’s voice but this time, with a tinge of unease:

“Your… ahem, Lady Evé, do you think these demons are sufficient enough?”

Baal froze mid-step.

Lady Evé?

That name stirred something in his memory, but before he could fully recall where he had recently heard it, the ground beneath him erupted.

Without warning, several thick vines tore through the obsidian floor, coiling upward and ensnaring him before he could react.

W–What is this?!

The vines were dark green, their surfaces glistening with an unnatural sheen. Each tendril pulsed with a subtle but terrifying energy, and as they wrapped tighter around his limbs and torso, Baal’s confident expression twisted into one of raw horror.

From all around the chamber, similar cries erupted.

He was not alone.

Lifting his head, Baal saw that every other Demon King who had been summoned was caught in the same trap. Each of them was bound, struggling helplessly as vines wrapped around their bodies like serpents tightening their grip.

But this was no mere demonic magic.

These vines radiated a sacred energy that was utterly foreign to Hell. Baal could feel it pressing against his very soul—a divine presence, serene yet commanding, impossible to resist.

It was the same godly power he had sensed lingering within the chamber earlier.

So there really was a True God hidden here all along.

But why would Azazel, of all beings, ally with a deity?

What was he scheming?

The realization crashed into Baal like a tidal wave.

He opened his mouth to speak but to his shock, the vines didn’t just restrain his power…

They even silenced him entirely.

Suddenly, a light, ethereal voice echoed through the surroundings.

“Indeed, not bad at all. I didn’t expect you to summon thirteen Legendary-ranked demons in one go. That was… unexpected.”

A breathtaking goddess emerged beside Azazel, her form shrouded in radiant divine light that shimmered like a veil of stardust. Her presence was serene yet overwhelming, the very air around her humming with sacred energy. Even the shadows in the chamber seemed to recoil from her brilliance.

And then, something happened that left every Demon King in the room completely dumbfounded.

Azazel turned to the goddess and offered her a smile.

Not a sneer. Not a smirk.

A smile of deference.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and, with an expression that could almost be called polite, said, “A-Ahem… So… do you think they can take my place?”

His voice held a nervous edge. His eyes flickered with a strange mixture of hope and desperation.

The moment was surreal.

The Demon Kings stood frozen, their minds struggling to process what they were witnessing.

This was Azazel!

The same demon lord who had mocked the gods and defied their decrees.

And yet, here he was, his tone meek, his posture humble, as if he were trying to curry favor.

The sight triggered a rush of memories among the Demon Kings.

They recalled the countless times, ten thousand years ago, when they themselves had groveled at Azazel’s feet, desperately trying to earn his approval.

More often than not, their efforts had backfired. He had mocked their flattery, scorned their gifts, and punished their incompetence.

But now?

Now it was Azazel groveling—before a True God, no less.

It was such a bizarre, impossible scene that none of them could find the words to speak.

In that moment, the chamber fell into an unnatural silence.

Not out of fear.

But pure, absolute disbelief.

In that moment, many of the Demon Kings found themselves asking a question they never thought they would entertain.

Was this truly Azazel?

Could this actually be the Seventh Demon Lord of Hell, the being whose very name had once sent tremors through various realms of the Abyss?

Or had centuries of imprisonment finally broken his mind?

When in history had the undying, immortal Demon Lords ever shown fear toward a True God?

It was true that certain evil deities recoiled at the mere presence of divinity, flinching like vermin before a predator. But Azazel had never been one of them. He was not a minor deity skulking in the shadows, nor a desperate lesser demon begging for power.

He was a Demon Lord.

At worst, he had been merely sealed.

But never broken.

So then, what had this True God done? What force had she unleashed that could bend even the Great Azazel into submission, enough to draw out an expression of anxious flattery?

The thought unsettled them.

Each and every Demon King, no matter how proud or powerful, felt a chill rise through their core.

Their confidence faltered.

Their understanding of Azazel faltered.

Everything they thought they knew was slipping out from under them like sand.

Yet Azazel himself seemed entirely unaware of their spiraling thoughts.

He remained focused, entirely and almost obsessively, on the radiant goddess at his side. Whatever fear or confusion he had caused among his peers meant nothing to him now.

What mattered, above all else, was earning this goddess’s approval.

And that, more than anything else, terrified them most of all.

With an expression strangely reminiscent of human flattery—almost groveling, even—Azazel lifted a hand and pointed toward the still-stunned Baal.

“And that one… doesn’t he look just like me? Couldn’t he serve as a perfect stand-in for the role of the ‘Dungeon Boss’?”

Baal: “…”

His eyes were wide with disbelief, and though he strained against the thick vines restraining him, his body refused to budge.

Then, as if in response to Azazel’s suggestion, the silver-haired goddess slowly turned her gaze toward him. Her violet eyes were cool and discerning, glimmering with a quiet authority that made Baal’s blood run cold.

She studied him carefully, her expression thoughtful and just slightly amused, like an artist considering whether a flawed statue might still be salvageable.

“Hmm… he certainly looks the part. That imposing presence, the horns, the expression—it fits the image of a boss quite well,” she said calmly. “But… his aura lacks something. He’s not quite as compelling as you.”

She turned her attention back to Azazel, her tone shifting into something a little more businesslike.

“You will still need to make an appearance yourself. Of course, I will honor my side of the agreement. From now on, you’ll only need to show up once per day. You may also choose which group of elves you want to confront.”

“I’ve already designated roles and areas for the other demon kings. As for the remaining logistics, handle them however you see fit. Once everything is prepared, summon me.”

“Only then will the Labyrinth Dungeon be reopened to the elves once more.”

Her words hung in the air like a final decree, leaving no room for negotiation.

And with that, the mysterious goddess concluded her instructions to Azazel.

Every word the goddess spoke was clear. None of the demons had trouble understanding the language itself.

But when her words were strung together into complete sentences, the meaning behind them became increasingly perplexing.

Reopen?

Elves?

Labyrinth Dungeon?

What was she talking about?

They exchanged uncertain glances, trying to make sense of it all, but the goddess seemed unbothered by their confusion.

She wasn’t finished.

After pausing briefly, as if sorting through her thoughts, she spoke again, her voice calm and almost casual:

“Ah, that’s right. If memory serves… Legendary-ranked demons possess exceptional vitality, don’t they? Unless they’re outright killed on the spot, a Demon Lord like you should be capable of restoring them, isn’t that so?”

Her gaze fell back on Azazel, who gave a small, affirming nod without hesitation.

“Yes. As long as they aren’t slain completely, I can always bring them back.”

“Oh? Very good,” the goddess replied, her eyes lighting up with a spark of delight.

A satisfied smile curved across her lips, but to the Demon Kings watching in silence, that smile was anything but divine. It reminded them more of a devil’s grin—a twisted mask of elegance veiling something far more sinister beneath.

“In that case,” she continued, her voice as smooth as silk, “let them be beaten within an inch of their lives in every round. You’ll be responsible for managing the damage. Once they’re nearly dead, heal them… then send them right back into the next battle.”

Her tone remained pleasant, even encouraging, as if she were discussing some trivial administrative task rather than the endless torment of powerful demons.

“If everything proceeds smoothly, I might grant you the privilege of appearing even less often. Perhaps once every three days… or even just once a week.”

“Of course, that depends entirely on whether these demons can meet the expectations of the labyrinth.”

She tilted her head slightly and looked at Azazel with expectant eyes.

“What do you say?”

Azazel’s eyes lit up at once. His previous unease evaporated like smoke, replaced by an eager enthusiasm.

“Yes! I can handle it! Lady Eve, please leave this responsibility to me! I ask for nothing more than the chance to reduce my appearances to once a week.”

The goddess gave a slight nod, though her expression became more measured.

“That will depend on your performance. Be sure to suppress their strength. Legendary rank is still far too high for this phase of the game. And… if any of them happen to die along the way, you know what must be done, don’t you?”

Her words were soft, but the underlying command was unmistakable.

Azazel responded immediately, his head nodding with vigor.

“I understand. I’ll summon replacements and restore the roster. The dungeon will always be ready.”

“Excellent,” the goddess said at last, offering a final word of praise.

“Then I leave this place to you. From this point forward, how often you are required to appear will depend entirely on your performance.”

She smiled one last time, her expression serene and unreadable.

A radiant light of gold and green began to swirl gently around her, enveloping her form like a divine cocoon. Her body began to fade, dissolving into shimmering motes of light. With her presence diminishing, the immense spiritual pressure that had blanketed the chamber also began to lift.

Moments later, she was gone.

The goddess had left the palace.

Only once her divine aura had fully disappeared did Azazel finally exhale, as if releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders dropped ever so slightly, and the flickering flames around his body dimmed.

It was then, in that lingering silence, that the absurdity of his situation truly struck him.

Somehow—without even recognizing when it had happened—he had transitioned from being a helpless prisoner trapped here within the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth… to a reluctant pawn, then to a half-willing subordinate, and now, unmistakably, a cooperative collaborator of Yggdrasill herself.

It defied everything he thought he was.

Yet what disturbed him most wasn’t the betrayal of pride, or the abandonment of purpose—it was that he felt no resistance to it.

On the contrary, as he turned to look at the bound Demon Kings around him—each of them trembling, confused, and stripped of their arrogance—he felt something unexpected rise within him.

Satisfaction.

Even a hint of vindication.

Perhaps it was their fear. Perhaps it was the poetic irony of it all.

But deep down, in a place even he hadn’t known existed, Azazel was… amused.

And to his own disbelief, something else crept into his heart.

A flicker of anticipation.

For the first time since his imprisonment, Azazel found himself genuinely looking forward to the Labyrinth’s grand reopening.

“…What’s happening to me?”

He muttered aloud.

Shaking his head to dispel such irrational thoughts, Azazel turned once more to the trembling Demon Kings and let out a sinister, gleeful chuckle:

“Heheheheheh…”

“Little ones… welcome to the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth.”

Upon seeing the unmistakably malicious grin on Azazel’s face, Baal’s expression turned completely ashen.

Farewell…

My new magnificent palace…

My elven slaves…

And my dream of ascending to being anevil god.

The next second, he finally lost consciousness.

→⟐←

Some time passed.

From the depths of darkness, Baal began to stir.

His mind, dulled by unconsciousness, slowly clawed its way back to clarity. Sensation returned to his limbs, and with it, awareness. Fragmented memories drifted through his thoughts like drifting ashes—Azazel’s towering figure, the oppressive divine presence, and the final, terrible words that echoed just before everything went black.

Suddenly, Baal’s eyes snapped open.

His body jerked upright as panic surged through him.

The Demon Lord’s Labyrinth…?

He mouthed the words, but no sound emerged.

His voice was still sealed.

Trying to orient himself, Baal lifted his head and took in his surroundings and what he saw made his already pounding heart skip a beat.

He was seated upon a lavish, obsidian throne, carved with snarling faces and jagged demonic motifs. It rested at the highest tier of a dais, elevated like the seat of a god.

All around him stretched an enormous, majestic hall.

The chamber was a marvel of infernal architecture. Its towering walls were adorned with grotesquely beautiful reliefs of demons locked in eternal torment, twisted and ornate in design. Every corner seemed to echo with malice. The scent of brimstone lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the soft crackle of blue-black flames flickering in wall sconces and massive chandeliers above.

And yet, to Baal… it was perfect.

Exactly the sort of domain he had once fantasized about ruling. It felt like a throne room pulled from the deepest corners of his ambition.

His dream palace.

His ideal throne.

Yet beneath that initial wonder, a creeping dread began to rise within him.

Why was he here?

Even more shocking, in the very heart of the palace, he spotted his personal sigil.

In demonkind, a sigil is no trivial matter. It is a symbol of sovereignty which was something that only appears in a palace that truly belongs to the demon in question.

What was going on?

Was he still dreaming?

Baal felt utterly confused.

And just then—

The great doors of the palace began to slowly open…

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