At the appearance of the "demon," the three of them froze. No—more than that. They didn't even have the chance to tremble. Their bodies turned to stone the instant it appeared. They were seasoned adventurers—veterans who, at the first sign of an ambush, would instinctively draw weapons, cast spells, and brace for combat. But now, they couldn't move. From the moment the demon emerged, not a single finger would obey them. It wasn't the effect of magic or martial arts. There had been no spell cast, no technique used—yet their bodies refused to respond. Like mice before a cat, or frogs before a snake, their instincts simply surrendered. Before this overwhelming predator, their bodies reacted on their own, paralyzed by sheer dread. If they had been mere civilians—weak, ignorant, ordinary—it might have been better. A normal person wouldn't even understand what was happening. But they were too strong to be ignorant and too weak to endure. And so, they could feel it all—the crushing weight of that demonic presence, suffocating every nerve. Only Dean, the strongest among them, managed to force his stiff lips and tongue to move, stammering out a question. "Y–you… what are you?" "Me?" the demon replied smoothly. "Before I answer, I must ask that you quietly listen. I am nothing more than a humble servant—a pitiful vassal serving my most exalted and glorious Master. You may call me… Yaldabaoth." "Y–Yaldabaoth?!" Dean shouted. That name—he had heard it before. The one who murdered their clan lord, Monkyspanner El Dragon's Dream. The Great Demon, now called the Demon Lord, rumored to exceed level 200… To think that monster would appear here! It was true then—the demons had targeted the clan. Rot's warning had been right. The corruption had already begun back then. Dean's eyes widened in fury. "Oh? You know me? Ah, of course—he must have told you beforehand. As expected of him… quite capable indeed. I like that. I appreciate those with value." "You bastard! You're the one who killed the Lord!" Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡✶𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚✶𝙣𝙚𝙩 "The Lord? Ah—that monkey, you mean?" Yaldabaoth tilted his head in mock recollection. A flicker of golden light crossed his mind's eye—the final moments of his prey, the desperate resistance, the futile yet impressive last stand. "Yes, yes. He was strong indeed. His last struggle was… magnificent. A fitting end for the head of a 'great family.'" "Of course… he still died in the end." "And now," the demon continued, his grin stretching unnaturally wide behind his thin, round glasses, "I must thank you." The three, trembling with rage, could only glare as Yaldabaoth bowed theatrically—one hand to his chest, his back bent with mocking grace. It was such an exaggerated gesture that the mockery behind it was unmistakable. "T–Thank… us? For what?" Dean managed to grit out. "Why, for your affiliation, of course. You were members of… what was it? Ah yes—Dragon's Dream." "We recently took over your clan. After your leader and guiding center fell, your house descended into chaos. So, naturally, we decided to 'adopt' it. And surely, we should offer gratitude to those who raised such a delicious morsel for us to consume." Dean clenched his jaw until it cracked. He was shaking—not from fear, but fury. Their clan—one hundred and fifty years of legacy, of honor and contribution to the continent—was being spoken of as nothing more than food. The rage boiled inside him until his face turned crimson and veins bulged on his forehead, but still—his body would not move. His magical equipment should have resisted any paralysis. No curse had been cast. So why—why couldn't he move?! "D–Damn you… what did you do to us?!" "Oh? I didn't do anything, really. Well… perhaps just one little trick. A simple command. You see, my Word of Command is particularly effective on lesser beings." It was Rohaim who cried out this time, his voice filled with disbelief. He was as furious as Dean, yet what the demon said was beyond comprehension. Word of Command—language that manifests reality through the power of speech. When a magician casts a spell, it follows a formula. When a priest performs a miracle, it follows divine order. But this was different. This was not calculation—this was declaration. When someone who wields Word of Command says "Die,"—the world obeys. When they say "Do not move,"—the body stops. When they say "Fall,"—the skies themselves bend to that will. Such power existed only in myth—abilities said to belong to Demon Gods or True Dragons. Yet this creature—this thing—was using it casually. Rohaim's face went pale, drained of all color, and darkened with despair. "Word of Command… that kind of power… that can't be real—ugh!" "Now, now—don't strain yourselves. I've only restricted your movement. If you force yourselves too hard, you might damage those precious bodies of yours. You see, since your clan now belongs to us, you're valuable property. You should take care of yourselves." Colton gritted his teeth so hard that veins bulged on his neck. To be insulted like that—to be owned—how could anyone stay calm? But no matter how he tried, his body wouldn't move. He gathered his strength, invoked his Talent, lightning crackling over his skin—and yet, not a single finger obeyed. With just one word, that monster—Yaldabaoth—had subdued them all: Dean, Rohaim, and Colton alike. Sweat poured down their faces, veins stood out, and their eyes burned with rage—but they couldn't move an inch before the sneering demon. They were heroes in their own right. But the being before them—a Great Demon, one said to exceed level 200—was simply on another plane. Despair shadowed their faces. "Now then," Yaldabaoth continued pleasantly, "for your sake, we've prepared a very special reception. Hmhmhm… you may resist as much as you wish. You're valuable assets, but as long as you don't die, there's plenty we can do with you. Personally, though, I prefer when my guests struggle. Submission without resistance… is ever so boring." The crushing malice of the Great Demon pressed down on them. This was him—the one who slew Lord Monkyspanner. They had refused to believe the stories before, but now that the monster stood before them, denial was impossible. The Great Demon was real. Against this immensity of hatred and power, the pride and will of the once-great clan bent like reeds in a storm. And yet, none of them knelt. Even if they could only stand for a moment before death, they were still members of the Great Clan—adventurers among the finest in the world. Their legs trembled, their knees threatened to buckle, but they forced themselves upright, refusing to bow. Yaldabaoth—no, Demiurge—smiled wider. "Splendid. Truly splendid. You do not disappoint me." He liked humans. Even filthy ones. But his favorites were the shining kind—the ones who believed, endured, and rose again. Among the crawling vermin of humanity, such rare lights fascinated him. Such beings did not break easily. They did not fall easily. That made them perfect. He delighted in breaking them. To torment them until they screamed, to drive them into despair, to see them collapse, crawling like worms and licking his shoes like dogs—that was Demiurge's idea of love. Every act must be done with sincerity, after all. Without love, true pleasure could not be born. Just as Mare claimed that training requires love, Demiurge believed torture required it too. Only through love could he feel such ecstasy. He had not been allowed to "play" with Rot—Ainz-sama's command forbade it. But many of the Dragon's Dream members had proved excellent subjects. Thanks to them, his "hobbies" had been quite fulfilling. And these three before him—these stubborn, radiant souls—they would be the best of them all. Breaking their will would be exquisite. And it would be a long time before he found new toys as fine as these. Demiurge's angular face lit with a pure, childlike smile—one steeped in unfiltered malice. The three were once again overwhelmed, crushed by that beautiful horror. "Excellent. Truly excellent. Now then—shall we be going?" "There's someone who's very eager to meet you. I'm sure you'll be thrilled when you see who it is. Come along, now." He raised his hand, intending to open a portal—to subdue them fully, transport them, and report directly to Ainz-sama afterward. But before the rift could form, a voice came from the corner—quiet, unhurried, and utterly calm. A boy, who had been watching silently all along. Someone Demiurge hadn't even noticed. The voice was soft, but the moment it was spoken—the overwhelming, suffocating evil that filled the air vanished without a trace. If you want to read 10 advance chapters ahead.