NOX slowly materialized into existence, his flesh reforming from a swirling red mist. The last remaining soldiers watched in silent horror, their minds frozen, their mind refusing to process the nightmare before them.
At this moment, they finally understood what a true devil looked like.
The creatures they had spent their entire lives fighting, the so-called demons and fiends of the battlefield—those were nothing. Third-rate soldiers. Weak imitations.
NOX, his blindfold in place, turned his gaze upon the surviving Dharma Soldiers.
They gripped their weapons instinctively, knuckles whitening, but the cold sweat pooling in their palms betrayed them. Their conviction had been a fragile illusion, one that had already shattered.
A Rank 7 soldier finally stepped forward, his eyes bloodshot with unrestrained fury. His comrades—his juniors, the men and women he had fought beside, nurtured, trained for thousands of years—had perished under NOX's cruelty. And yet, he wasn't even given the dignity of honoring their remains.
He clenched his fists.
"Young Master NOX," he spoke, his voice strained, barely containing his seething rage. "We deeply apologize for enraging you like this. We were merely performing our duties…"
And then he continued, rambling on in a desperate attempt to mask his grief with diplomacy.
NOX lost interest halfway through.
He tilted his head, a playful smirk ghosting his lips. Through his blindfold, he saw it—this Rank 7 fool was teetering on the edge. His emotions pulsed like a dying star, red waves of rage and wrath trembling at the brink of eruption.
Just one push… and he would explode like a supernova.
"Don't beat around the bush," NOX interrupted, his tone laced with feigned seriousness. "What do you want?"
The Rank 7 soldier stiffened. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Then, with an almost painful effort, he forced himself to bow his head. Every fiber of his being screamed against it, but he endured.
"C-can you at least allow my soldiers to be honored properly?" His voice wavered. "Their families—"
"Ah, so this is what you're begging for?" NOX cut him off abruptly, his voice edged with amusement.
He snapped his fingers.
And the world shifted.
Reality itself twisted, space distorting in a sickening lurch.
The Rank 7 soldier's breath hitched. His pupils shrank.
NOX—who had been standing on the ground just a second ago—was now high above the sky.
And beneath him…
A mountain.
A mountain of corpses.
The remains of his fallen comrades—his friends, his brothers and sisters in arms—stacked like lifeless debris, a grotesque monument to their meaningless deaths.
The stench of blood was suffocating.
The soldier's lips parted, but no words came out.
His mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.
This… this wasn't war.
This was hell.
[+310 Rage…]
[+500 Wrath…]
NOX gazed through his blindfold at the Rank 7 soldier and the remaining Dharma Soldiers. With a playful smirk, he lifted his hand. In the next instant, a tiny spark of crimson fire materialized in his palm.
Under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, he flicked it toward a corpse atop the mountain of bodies he sat upon.
Before their eyes, the soldier's comrade was consumed by flames, reduced to ash in mere moments.
"Nooo…" the soldiers screamed, watching in horror as their fallen comrade turned to dust.
Then—
Boom!
Their emotions exploded, just as NOX had intended. A wave of raw power surged through them as they released their auras, preparing to fight to the bitter end rather than endure the humiliation any longer.
[+1500 Wrath…]
[+5607 Hatred…]
NOX watched with amusement.
In this moment, he truly embodied his title as the 'God of Myriad Emotions.' His transformation allowed him to see the world not in solid form, but as a swirling mass of colorful pulses—emotions made visible.
To him, the soldiers were no different than any other lifeforms, just creatures pulsing in red with wrath and rage. He felt their emotions like strings at his fingertips, ready to be manipulated.
A dark smile crossed his face as he raised his hand once more. Crimson fire materialized in his palm, and again, he burned another comrade's body to cinders.
His actions were slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Each second was drawn out, allowing the soldiers to witness every detail, every molecule of their comrade disintegrating before them.
Anger. Wrath. Rage. Despair.
They understood now—it was a warning.
If they dared step out of line, NOX would burn their comrades to ash, one by one.
He observed them as they struggled to contain their emotions. They were pitiful.
The Rank 7 soldier stepped forward again. His body was shaking, not with fear, but with barely restrained fury.
"Young Lord NOX," his voice was hoarse, "the soldiers you killed, the corpses you defile… they were warriors who swore to protect humanity. They were honorable. Kind. They do not deserve this—"
He swallowed. His breath trembled.
"Please, allow them to rest in peace." His plea was nearly a whisper, almost a begging.
NOX's blindfolded gaze flicked toward him. His voice was calm—too calm.
"And why would I do that?"
He paused.
"I killed those who tried to brand me a devil," he continued. "You are my enemies. Tell me… why would I show mercy to my enemies?"
"We were just doing our—"
NOX cut him off with a chuckle. "And I am killing my enemies."
The Rank 7 soldier wasn't a fool. He was older than Professor Varion, and he could sense the situation clearly. He knew that NOX was doing this on purpose.
They hesitated not just out of fear of NOX but because they couldn't bring themselves to fight someone who was once, and perhaps still, one of their own. But their duty remained—bound by an oath they couldn't easily break.
Maybe they were only fooling themselves, justifying their hesitation by insisting NOX was still one of them. Or maybe they truly believed it. Who knew? And at this point, did it even matter?
As NOX had once said, these soldiers were pitiful—Buddhas with Hair, just like Lucas. Always trying to reason with every villain. And NOX was exactly that: scum and a devil. He wouldn't deny it.
The Rank 7 soldier was trying—desperately—to reason with NOX, to bargain for his remaining comrades and grant his fallen ones the dignity of a peaceful rest.
"Now, that was a question worth asking," NOX mused, his voice laced with amusement. He purposefully nudged a corpse beneath his feet, letting it roll slightly before coming to a stop.
The Rank 7 soldier's fists clenched, his blood boiling at the blatant disrespect. But still, he held himself back.
"What I want is… simple."
NOX's head tilted slightly, his blindfold shifting toward the trembling soldier holding an orb—a student, naïve and foolish, yet bold enough to record everything.
The student stiffened under NOX's unseen gaze, his fingers gripping the orb tighter as if it could shield him.
NOX smirked. Then, slowly, his blindfolded gaze turned to the floating white orbs—Aether artifacts, more than mere recording devices. Their purpose was greater, their reach wider.
His voice was calm, almost casual.
"Fear me."
That was all he said.
The students flinched, confusion flickering across their faces. But the soldiers and professors understood.
This was a message. A declaration.
The deaths of the Dharma Soldiers, the merciless carnage, the deliberate cruelty—it was all a warning, broadcast to the world. NOX was not bound by the morals of the Human Supreme Society. He would not play by their rules.
This was a world governed by law and order, a society that rejected the barbaric notion that "the strong shall rule, and the weak shall perish." Power alone did not grant dominion here; it was shackled—by laws, by structure, by the will of civilization itself. The strong were restrained, either by the doctrines of their own race or by the very fabric of the universe.
And yet, NOX stood here, proving that he would not be restrained.
What he had done today was everything this world was not.
And because of that, the world would fear him.
But it would also revolt.
That, too, was inevitable.
Still, NOX had not spoken these words for the world at large. His warning was meant only for those who dared to move against him and his family—those who schemed in the shadows, believing themselves protected by law and morality.
He wanted them to understand one simple truth:
Their fate would be the same.
And the Dharma Soldiers before him?
Utterly pitiful.
Because NOX knew that sooner or later, those who would suffer most under his wrath were these very soldiers. For a fleeting moment, he wondered—Should I warn them? Should I tell them to save themselves?
And then, just as quickly, the thought faded. His pity vanished.
That was all the compassion he had for them—a passing notion, nothing more. That was their worth.