Meteorites rained down with the density of a torrential downpour.
Each one bore magical protections that made them difficult to break.
It was almost certainly Balk's doing, but not a spell he himself had cast.
Balk specialized in curse magic, and offensive spellwork of all kinds was his weak point.
A great magic on the scale of splitting a meteor swarm was likely beyond his capabilities.
(...This has reached the level of a forbidden spell.)
I already knew who had cast the magic.
The magical energy reaction I sensed while in the capital must belong to the caster.
I wanted to deal with that myself, but first I had to do something about the meteor swarm.
If left unchecked, the Royal Capital would be annihilated in an instant.
That was a catastrophe I should, at the very least, avoid.
I fixed my gaze on the swarm of meteorites and completed my analysis in a split second.
I observed the flow and classification of the mana.
This would make the spell slightly more susceptible.
I released an upward gravity wave, slowing the meteor swarm's momentum.
Their descent perceptibly slackened.
However, it was only a marginal difference.
The magical resistance imbued in the meteorites made them resistant to the effects of gravity.
(It really seems intent on crushing the Royal Capital.)
Maintaining the gravity wave, I initiated my next spell.
With a wave of one hand, I deployed wither miasma lances forward.
The number was thirty thousand.
Each held enough power to obliterate a mediocre fortress.
It was a spell designed not for anti-personnel use, but for annihilating armies.
The wither miasma lances arrayed before me fired forth.
Accelerated by waves of gravity, they hurtled like a meteor shower toward the target, impacting with deafening booms.
The penetrating tips cracked the meteors' surfaces, and following lances burst through as if splitting them apart.
They pierced through, shattering the meteors one after another.
For all its resistance, it clearly hadn't anticipated this magnitude of destructive force.
Soon, most of the meteors were reduced to powder, becoming a rain of fine rock.
(This has mitigated the damage, but it is still insufficient.)
I layered additional spells onto the assault.
The wither miasma lances dancing in the air lost their form, dispersing into shapeless vines.
These vines ensnared the fragmented meteors, binding them together.
From the points of contact, the meteor fragments were visibly melting.
As a finishing touch, I unleashed ten fire-curse incantations in rapid succession.
Raging jets of pitch-black hellfire consumed the sky, incinerating the vine-bound meteor remnants.
The combined effect of scorching heat and wither miasma annihilated everything completely.
When the flames finally faded, a cloudless blue sky stretched out overhead.
The meteor shower had left not a trace behind.
It seemed I had momentarily escaped that predicament.
Then, from far off in the distance, I felt a killing intent.
I turned and in one swift motion flashed my blade.
(This is...)
The slash bisected the small object hurtling toward me.
I watched the severed halves fall.
What had flown from a blind spot was a tiny shard of ice, no larger than a bean.
Within it was infused a tremendous amount of sorcery.
It seemed to have been fired at high velocity from afar.
The method of attack was probably akin to a sniper shot with a gun or bow.
It was magic that had replicated that technique.
(The meteor swarm was a diversion, and the real attack was that sniper shot just now...)
Half in admiration of their thorough approach, I teleported to the sniper's location.
It was some distance from the Royal Capital.
I stood in the middle of a vast, clear meadow.
Before me stood a man of unfamiliar appearance.
He was a human with neatly styled blond hair and green eyes, dressed in a fashionable noble's outfit.
Despite his refined features, an evil grin twisted his lips.
The malice enveloping his entire being was no longer that of a human.
(—The contents are different.)
There was a dissonance between soul and flesh.
I was not being controlled.
It felt as though my body had been stolen.
The man's uncanny aura triggered a memory.
Having spoken with him moments before, my suspicion solidified.
"You're Balk, aren't you?"
When I asked, the man was delighted.
He beamed with a smile that said he had been waiting.
"Precisely. Some 'one' shattered my previous body, you see. So I had to borrow this one. Really, it's so inconvenient."
Balk sighed dramatically.
He spoke words of reproach toward me, yet a nasty grin remained plastered on his face.
Balk had never been a man who cared about his physical form.
His talk of inconvenience was questionable at best.
Judging the magical power he contained, it was on par with ten years ago.
In truth, he probably didn't mind that much.
Balk turned his gaze toward the Royal Capital.
Seeing it intact, he snorted in displeasure.
"I didn't think that forbidden spell of that magnitude could be completely blocked. Though I hate to admit it, it seems he possesses power worthy of the title Demon King."
Balk placed a hand on his face, staggered, and burst into loud laughter.
It was a mechanical, shattered laughter.
He began speaking rapidly.
“...Ha-ha, you’ve always been like this. You take every careful scheme I weave and dismantle it at the critical moment. Always, always getting in my way. Even now, I want to kill you, I want to kill you, I want to kill you—I can hardly bear it!”
Balk’s eyes peered through the gaps between his fingers.
That unblinking gaze burned with fierce hatred.
On top of that, he was shedding tears of blood.
This was no act.
They were unequivocally Balk’s genuine feelings.
“Why must you ruin my plans...? We were so close. Cease this crude behavior...”
“I don’t know your reasons. I’m simply fulfilling my own objective.”
I replied indifferently.
Even so, I observed Balk’s movements.
Despite his emotional explosion, he left no opening for a surprise attack.
If I were to strike recklessly, a counterattack through sorcery would be painfully severe.
Some curses are irreversible.
Now that I’ve become the Demon Lord, I might repel them easily—but there’s always that one-in-a-thousand chance.
I must not underestimate Balk.
Caution was unavoidable.
“Ah, you were exactly like this ten years ago too... You are the greatest nemesis of my life. Far more troublesome than any hero. Becoming the Demon Lord has taught you the ruthlessness to embrace evil completely. I hate you... I hate you, hate you, hate you!”
Balk screamed, clawing at his own head.
His ragged breathing came in harsh bursts.
Blood flowed from the fingers where the nails had been ripped off.
After a fresh fit of rage, Balk regained his composure.
He ran a hand through his hair, then used his sleeve to wipe away the bloody tears.
The nails had already regrown without his noticing.
With a sigh, Balk offered a strained smile.
"My apologies. I lost my temper. Facing my nemesis seems to have stirred my emotions."
With that, Balk rummaged inside his coat.
What he produced was a demi-human's arm.
It was gray-skinned, dotted with indigo scales at the tips.
Under the sunlight, it cast a vivid, shimmering glow.
"Now then, Dwight. Do you have any idea what this is?"
"..."
I remained silent in response to his question.
I was nearly certain of its identity.
From the arm, I felt an extraordinary magical resonance.
It was the same sensation I had sensed in the Republican capital.
This must have been the source of the meteor shower we'd endured moments ago.
After my silence, Balk gave a theatrical shrug.
He caressed the arm affectionately.
And then, he spoke the words I had anticipated.
If you won't answer, then I'll say it myself. I am the right hand of that great one—the Demon King.