Transmigrated as an Extra: Awakening of The Ex‐Class'-Chapter 71 : Demon King part 2

The mere mention of the human bergugo (hero) was taboo in the demonic realm. Hearing that the hero already possessed the sacred sword shook the room like a bolt of lightning on a moonless night. The echo of those words resonated with a force that seemed to shake the castle’s foundations. Lumière, the Sacred Sword. The weapon that had been the bane of the ancestors of that being on the throne, that had ended the lives of his predecessors countless times. Its edge had torn through his flesh and his thoughts throughout the ages, and each time the sword returned, it was as if the cycle of pain repeated itself once more. The demon, whose voice began to tremble due to the dark aura emanating from the king, added, his voice cracking with fear:

"My lord, we are unsure of his intentions, but if the sword is already in his hands, if the Hero has truly risen, the chances of his existence threatening his plans... are very high... we must do something."

A shudder ran through the figure of the Lord of the Throne. His body seemed to absorb the darkness itself, as if he were at the center of the abyss. A slight movement of his arm caused the shadows surrounding him to writhe and lengthen like hungry snakes. The room fell into a deathly silence, where not even the air dared to move.

With icy calm, the Lord of the Throne’s voice cut through the air like a dagger:

"The Hero..." he said with disdain, almost whispering. My ancestors have died by his sword thousands of times. Hundreds. Every time we thought we had won, he returned. Every time we thought the cycle was broken, he resurfaced. This matter is not light... I feel like someone or something is interfering with this world.

The demon who had spoken remained kneeling, his body now rigid with the palpable terror emanating from the throne. But the Lord of the Throne seemed unwilling to show mercy.

"Gather the Dukes to this hall. At once. We cannot afford a single mistake."

The king’s words echoed off the castle walls, resonating with unstoppable force. The darkness itself seemed to respond, as if the shadows were preparing for an awakening.

The atmosphere was filled with a heavy, even more violent, and dark air that seemed to shake the castle’s very foundations. The doors of the utility, corroded by the passage of time, kept the place with dark dignity. The shadows dancing around the throne stirred, twisting as if something invisible were pulling them into a dark maelstrom. The feeling that war, that imminent abyss, was just around the corner was palpable in every corner, in every corner of that fortress.

The Lord of the Throne remained motionless, his presence so overwhelming that the air around him seemed to become tangible. Without moving a muscle, he raised his hand almost imperceptibly, a gesture that overflowed with all the authority emanating from his being. As soon as he did so, the shadows around him shook violently, taking on grotesque shapes, as if his will were directing the very fabric of darkness. A beam of dark light emerged from his palm, spreading across the room with trembling slowness. The light was neither warm nor welcoming; On the contrary, it seemed to tear the room from the calm of oblivion, the implacable coldness of the darkness making the air even heavier.

The castle began to vibrate with the arrival of presences. Firm, resonant footsteps filled the castle halls, as if the earth itself parted before the approaching presences. One after another, the first figures made themselves known. The Duchess of Zadoma appeared, her figure tall and erect, her dark robes adorned with details of black blood that seemed to absorb all light. With inhuman grace, she advanced toward the throne, her gaze fixed on the Lord, her presence almost as intimidating as the king’s.

"Monarch of the Void, lord of all Demons," he said in a deep voice, resonant off the castle walls, his tone reverent yet laden with solemn smugness, "today I pay tribute to the king."

The Duchess’s bow, though marked by respect, carried with it an air of self-sufficiency. The Lord of the Throne, without taking his gaze from her, raised his hand lightly, a simple gesture that nonetheless implied the full power of a being whose Măĝî had transcended existing limits. He needed no words to convey his will. It was a warning.

Shortly after, the other figures began to appear. The first Duke appeared, followed by the other two, their faces stern and marked by time, their lineages visible. One after another, they approached the throne with solemnity and respect.

"Monarch of the Void, lord of all Demons," they intoned in unison, their voices resonating with fearsome force, like an echo of old promises and old victories, "today we pay tribute to our king."

The perfect synchronicity of the words, the intensity of their submission, filled the room with a vibrant sense of power and control. The silence that followed their words was more eloquent than any speech. The lord of the throne stood there, motionless, like a figure, flaunting his power with his gaze fixed on the Dukes and Duchess, his voice cutting the air like a dagger, deep and authoritative.

"You have arrived late." His words trailed through the room like an ominous promise, leaving a palpable emptiness, as if the room itself was holding its breath. His eyes, two red abysses that reflected the meaning of darkness itself, settled upon those present. No words were needed; the weight of his will was enough to overwhelm them.

A deathly silence fell over the room, a silence that carried with it the feeling of something much larger, much older than life itself. The Duke and Duchess stood motionless, reverence for the presence of the Lord of the Throne, and fear of what his next command might bring, keeping them in a state of absolute stillness.