Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World-Chapter 506: Zar’Kaleth – Throne of the Dead

Despite being one of the greater gods, thanks to the limitations of divine force in the mortal realm, Mephisto's presence should've been muted.

It wasn't.

The throne chamber bent around him.

Light dulled to a flat grey, as if colour itself recoiled from his presence. Sound came late. Movement, slower. Like death already ruled time here.

Asmodeus clenched his axe, muscles coiled. Every instinct screamed. The kind of scream that didn't come from fear, but from the ancient memory of prey.

The black-armoured god tilted his head. One hand lifted.

He snapped his fingers.

A whisper.

Then—white.

Dozens of figures materialised around the throne, stepping from cracks in the air like pieces of a broken mirror.

Each wore pale robes embroidered with silver, the sigil of the underworld stitched across their chests in ash-grey thread. Their eyes glowed with muted blue fire. Silent. Weightless. Priests of Mephisto.

No heartbeat. No aura.

Just intent.

One moved forward, drawing a blade of bone and light.

Asmodeus's eyes widened.

"Scatter—!"

The women moved as one.

A streak of white came for Riel, her body still limp against the wall. Before it could reach her, Asmodeus appeared, axe cleaving the priest's body in half with a wet crack that echoed like thunder down the stone hall.

Bloodless.

The body faded into dust the moment it hit the floor.

He turned instantly, grabbing Riel's fragile body and stepping back.

The women flanked him.

"Go," he growled.

His hand sparked with cursed fire—he slammed his palm against the ground, summoning a hex-barrier in a perfect dome around Riel's unconscious body. Runic chains snapped into place, reinforced by blood and binding magic.

Her breath remained calm, but he didn't look back. He couldn't.

Then turned to Mephisto.

And stepped forward.

The axe rested in his grip now like an extension of his will. His eyes shimmered like dark oceans. Not wide with rage—focused. Unmoving.

Behind him, four women advanced in formation.

"Don't die," he said softly, without turning his head.

Asmodea smirked.

"Please. I'm too pretty."

Levia slammed her spear against her shield. "They won't touch her."

Vinea ignited her blade, molten flames licking the air. "Let them come."

Lumina's eyes shimmered in layered red. Threads danced across her arms.

They stepped into the wall of white.

And the throne room exploded into war.

——

Mephisto stepped away from the throne.

No flourish. No theatrics. Just inevitability—like a boulder rolling down the slope of a burial mound. His movements weren't rushed. They didn't need to be. Even gravity seemed to part for him, dragging its feet as he descended the steps.

A god in skin. Wrapped in a shroud of stillness.

His glaive shimmered into his hand. Long, curved, blackened silver with a grip wrapped in faded priest-cloth. The blade gleamed faintly, as though soaked in dusk. It wasn't ornamental. It was a relic meant for one thing.

Harvest.

Asmodeus walked to meet him, axe in hand. His breath came slow. Controlled. He didn't feel fear.

But he felt it in the air. In the walls. In the bones of the throne room.

This was not like fighting Lagun.

This was not vengeance.

This was judgment.

And it came cloaked in silence.

Mephisto's voice finally broke the stillness.

"Do you know what I am?" he asked. Not smug. Not mocking. Just... curious.

Asmodeus didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the glaive.

Mephisto continued. "The gods sent me to retrieve balance. What you've built..." he stepped closer, the shadows pulling toward him, "…offends nature. The dead were not meant to be worshipped. Nor served."

"You're talking to the wrong man," Asmodeus replied flatly. "I'm not building for the dead."

"No," Mephisto said, stopping ten paces away. "You're building for her."

His head tilted toward the barrier. Toward Riel.

"A fragment of a cursed line. A failed seductress. You were always going to choose poorly."

Asmodeus exhaled through his nose.

Then vanished.

The axe hit from above.

A meteor strike, silent and sudden.

Mephisto caught it with the shaft of his glaive, one-handed.

The stone beneath them cracked outward, deep and jagged. Pressure burst across the throne room like a rippling tide. Dust surged. The torches extinguished.

But the godspark didn't flicker in Mephisto's eyes.

He raised his other hand and struck.

The glaive's blunt end slammed into Asmodeus's ribs, hurling him sideways with a thunderous clang.

Asmodeus twisted midair, landed hard on a knee, slid—but didn't stop.

Blood at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away.

"Good," he muttered. His voice was deeper now. A little darker.

Behind his skin, something shifted. His aura flared—no longer just heat.

But weight.

The black flames surged behind him again, billowing like wings as his muscles flexed. Eyes burned blue like buried suns.

Entering his Demon King form.

"It'll be enough for now."

Mephisto raised a brow. "Will it?"

He flicked his glaive once, then surged forward.

Their second clash split the room in two.

The second clash split the throne chamber with a quake.

Cracks spider-webbed from the centre, stone columns moaned, and dust cascaded from the vaulted ceiling. The wind born from the impact scattered white robes like petals in a typhoon.

And in the gale, four women moved like war gods.

A robed priest lunged toward the hex-barrier.

He never made it.

Levia's tower shield slammed into his chest, shattering bone and silence, sending him flying into a spiked pillar of bone. She didn't slow—her spear followed next, impaling a second priest mid-incantation. Her voice rang out like a battle horn.

"None of you pass me!"

A dozen answered with spells and blades—but were swallowed in red.

A tidal wave of blood roared across the floor, vines blooming from its crimson flood. Razor thorns danced through it, curling like serpents.

Asmodea twirled midair, her legs bleeding elegance and murder.

"Bloom—Sea of the Blood Empress!"

Her rose-crown flared, and petals formed eyes that wept cursed droplets—each one erupting into blooming, coiling snares that dragged priests into their roots.

Three more came from above.

Silk lanced through them.

Lumina's form danced beneath the falling bodies, her new humanoid frame moving with eerie grace. Her fingers moved in a blur—thread catching, slicing, binding. She spun once, then leapt backwards, landing with her spider legs gleaming in the torchlight.

She didn't smile. Just whispered:

"Burrow—Brood of the Spider Empress."

The ground cracked beneath her, and an unseen nest of threads formed underfoot—webs that grasped ankles, tore knees, and lifted priests screaming into the air before cocooning them in black silk.

To the left, a priest nearly reached the barrier.

He raised a blade of obsidian.

It met flame.

Vinea landed between them, dragging her molten blade across the floor as she spun into a rising arc, cutting the robed figure in two with one brutal swing. Her horns glowed with molten veins, her golden and silver eyes flashing with fury.

Her feet stopped inches before the sigil-etched runes.

No one would pass.

She stood tall, her blade burning against the cold.

"Burn—Blade of the Emperor."

——

The throne room quaked as Asmodeus and Mephisto clashed again, their weapons screaming across the chamber like rival gods pulling the strings of the world.

But elsewhere, beyond the crater of scorched stone and spiralling frost—

The priests stopped dying.

The last wave didn't scream.They didn't run.They parted.

Like supplicants. Like believers.

Something moved through their ranks—four figures, clad in shadowed robes, untouched by blood or shellfire.

Each step they took silenced a corridor of death.

And when they emerged fully, everything changed.

Vinea felt it first.

Her molten blade trembled slightly in her hand, not from fear, but from something deeper—recognition.

These weren't just priests.

They were sent to kill gods.

——

They stood in silence.

One in robes of forest rot, crawling with thorns that bloomed where they touched the floor.

Another—shrouded in funeral white, her lips sealed, her blindfold soaked with threadbare red.

A third—armed in ruined bronze, dragging a sword that screeched like iron on tombstone.

And the last—grey as ashes, skin wrapped taut around bones, fingers laced before him like a corpse in a casket.

The one in bronze stepped forward first. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Bishop Cruen – War.

He raised his broken sword high and pointed it at Vinea.

"You'll do," he growled. "Your will stinks of fire. Let's see if it burns brighter than mine."

She didn't flinch. "You'll choke on it."

To his left, the withered priest of famine stared at Levia.

His whisper reached her ears alone.

"How long before your legs fail… and your faith dies too?"

Her fingers tightened on her spear. She didn't answer.

The blindfolded woman simply appeared before Asmodea, her silence louder than thunder. Asmodea's breath caught in her throat.

Her voice echoed inside her head, not her ears.

"You exist only in echoes of his desire."

Asmodea snarled and bared her fangs. "Then I'll make you scream."

The last one—Malrath—stepped toward Lumina, dragging a trail of moss and rot behind him. He raised one hand, and the silk web nearest him turned black, dissolving.

"Threads break," he rasped. "Mothers fail. Spider queens rot in their dens. Come—weave your tomb."

Lumina's eyes narrowed.

"Touch my web again," she hissed. "And I'll show you the brood that watches from below."

No horns. No banners.

Just silence.

Then—

Explosion.

All four moved at once.

Steel screamed.

Webs snapped.

Roses ignited.

And Levia raised her shield with a roar as her knees buckled under a crushing weight she couldn't see. The citadel resonated with the power of the four demons' empresses and the four cardinals of death.

The battle had begun anew.