Chapter 586

【 NEVERENDING BATTLE 】

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“So this is the key to the Demon Lord’s Palace? Once we use it, we should be able to access the new boss chamber, right?”

Inside the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth, Black Cat, who’s actually a middle-aged man and professional manhua artist in real life gazed at the golden key in his hand, eyes filled with anticipation.

At last, after several months of playing, he had finally reached level 40.

Due to a bug in the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth a few days ago, he had not been able to grind for a class advancement slot.

But now that the new version of the dungeon had been released, he immediately joined a raiding party in hopes of finding an opportunity to advance to Silver-rank.

As for why a raid team would recruit a mere Iron-rank player like him, well it all came down to the unique mechanics of the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth.

In truth, the strength of the bosses within the labyrinth is not fixed. Instead, it dynamically scales based on the overall strength of the respective attacking party.

In addition to the generous contribution Black Cat had payed them being a wealthy player, his inclusion into the group also served a strategic purpose:

That is, lowering the boss’s overall combat power.

“That’s right. This is the key to the new palace added in the latest update. It’s said that thirteen new bosses have been introduced all at once. Each one features unique appearances and combat mechanics. The official website even released concept art, with each boss looking more impressive than the last. Well, let’s see which one we’ll be facing this time.”

The party leader, an Archdruid specializing in crowd control abilities and currently ranked at the Silver rank, responded. Due to the Druid class’s extensive range of support and control skills, it is widely regarded as the most Jobclass suitable choice for a team leader.

“So when do we get to fight the Dungeon boss? The one that drops the class advancement slot… What was it called again? Azazel?” asked Velodis, Black Cat’s assistant, Cáo Língxuān.

She too had reached level 40.

As his assistant, she had become just as addicted in Elven Kingdom as her mentor.

Because of this, not even the game’s quadruple-speed cognitive acceleration feature could save the duo from constant delays in their manhua.

“According to the official explanation, after defeating the new bosses, there’s a chance they’ll drop the key to the Demon Lord Palace. But… each week only one or two such opportunities may appear. Apparently, whoever triggers it first gets it.”

A player who had studied the new content in detail explained.

“Exactly,” the team leader nodded.

“However, with the latest update, these new bosses also now have a chance to drop class advancement slots. The final boss, Azazel, is guaranteed to drop one and may also drop a divine artifact repair voucher as well.”

He added with visible excitement.

“I see!”

Black Cat and Velodis’ eyes lit up.

With this update, the odds of acquiring a class advancement slot had significantly improved.

The team leader smiled at them, then adopted a more serious expression.

“Alright, everyone, get ready. I’m about to open the Demon Lord Palace.”

With that, he raised the golden key, closed his eyes, and began the summoning ritual.

In the next moment, the key emitted a radiant light before gradually vanishing. In its place stood a massive crimson gate, now visible to all.

The gate was adorned with grotesque relief carvings that radiated an eerie and malevolent aura.

“The palace gate’s been summoned!”

The players’ spirits lifted instantly.

They rolled their shoulders and cracked their knuckles, visibly eager to enter the gate.

The party leader smiled, then said firmly:

“Let’s go. Time to head in!”

With that, he pushed the doors open.

༺⟐༻

The dim, flickering lights that once barely illuminated the palace suddenly flared to life, casting a solemn and awe-inspiring glow throughout the grand hall. Shadows moved across the towering walls, and the oppressive silence shifted into a tense stillness.

To Baal’s astonishment, a group of well-equipped humanoid figures entered the chamber with steady, deliberate steps. Their formation was disciplined, and their expressions remained calm and alert. It was evident that these were not ordinary intruders.

Among them were archers with longbows across their backs, warriors clad in armor bearing swords and shields, mages in pointed hats gripping elaborately carved staves, and hunters dressed in reinforced leather, eyes sharp and watchful.

They were tall and slender, each possessing a distinct appearance. However, they all shared two unmistakable features: pointed ears and fair, radiant skin. More striking than their appearance was the faint, sweet scent that surrounded them. It carried the unmistakable essence of pure life, something found only in sentient beings from the material world. That scent awakened a primal urge within him, a deep desire to consume and corrupt these beings.

As Baal scrutinized the intruders, he was taken aback.

Elves?

More importantly, every one of them was quite weak as well.

The moment they stepped into the chamber, all of their eyes immediately turned to him. Then, he heard their excited voices echo throughout the room:

“Wow! There is indeed a new boss! That’s so cool!”

“Hey guys, look at that armor it’s wearing! It looks so amazing! Will it drop as loot?”

Baal: “…”

What in the world is going on?!

Before he could make sense of the situation, a voice suddenly rang out within the palace.

“Hmph! A bunch of lowly insects like you dare to intrude upon the palace of the Greatest Demon Lord, His Highness Azazel?”

The voice was deep, commanding, and carried an unmistakable tone of arrogance and disdain.

However, upon hearing those words, Baal was momentarily stunned. His expression revealed a clear sense of confusion and disbelief.

Because… it was his own voice.

What is going on?!

Who was impersonating him?

Don’t they know he despises Azazel more than anything?! So why did that voice make it sound as if he was a loyal subject of that pompous tyrant?

Baal opened his mouth, only to realize he was still completely unable to produce a single sound.

Baal: “…”

It must be Azazel’s doing!

Only that shameless bastard would have the audacity to call himself the “Greatest” Demon Lord.

Realizing this, Baal gritted his teeth in fury.

Meanwhile, the elves continued their chatter with casual enthusiasm:

“So this is one of the new thirteen Demon Kings?”

“Hmm, not bad… Looks like things are going well for old man Azzie, now that he has his own lackeys after the recent update.”

“Let’s get started, everyone. Analyze his attack patterns first.”

To Baal’s utter shock, these elves—most of whom had not even reached Silver-rank—unsheathed their weapons with excitement and charged directly at him. Their eyes sparkled not with fear, but with the thrill of battle, as if this were a game or a hunt for sport rather than a confrontation with a high-ranking demon.

Their behavior was utterly baffling. They shouted commands to one another, laughing as they closed in on him like a band of goblins eager to ambush their prey.

Rhythmic chants echoed through the hall as incantations filled the air. Arcane symbols blazed to life, illuminating the chamber with brilliant hues. Waves of magical energy burst from all directions, while sword techniques imbued with glowing force streaked toward him. Offensive spells of every element rained down in rapid succession, forming a chaotic and relentless storm.

Faced with the sudden onslaught, Baal narrowed his eyes and let out a cold, contemptuous laugh.

He had no idea where he was, nor did he understand why these foolish elves were acting with such reckless abandon.

None of it made sense at all.

But one thing was certain.

These insects actually had the audacity to challenge him, despite the fact that barely any of them had even reached the Silver-rank?

Their fragile bodies and mortal blood were practically being offered to him on a silver platter. So would be foolish—no, disgraceful—for a demon of his stature to refuse such a gift.

If they dearly wished to throw themselves into the jaws of death, then Baal would gladly oblige.

Azazel and that mysterious female Elven God were far beyond his reach for now, but these weak, pitiful elves standing before him?

They were something else entirely.

Baal let out a low, contemptuous snort.

Perfect.

He had no way to vent the building pressure from his inability to speak. The helplessness burned within him, and now, these arrogant intruders had presented themselves as ideal targets for his fury.

They would do nicely.

“Hmph! Foolish elves. Do you truly believe you are worthy of challenging the Great Lord Azazel? You must get through me first.”

But just then, that same arrogant voice rang out again from within the chamber.

Baal: “…”

It was that damned voice mimicking his own again, and once more, the tone of reverence toward Azazel made Baal feel physically ill.

Disgusting.

Utterly revolting.

An unbearable insult to his pride.

Azazel, you narcissistic bastard!

Baal screamed inwardly, his fury boiling over.

His gaze snapped back to the elves, and his eyes burned crimson, glowing with murderous intent. The humiliation he had endured, the suppression of his pride, and the insult of being made a puppet all converged into a storm of uncontrollable rage.

Without hesitation, he drew his massive greatsword, a weapon forged in the deepest pits of the Abyss and stretching ten meters in length. With a roar of fury, his towering twenty-meter form launched into the air. The very ground beneath him cracked under the force of his leap.

He descended like a living calamity, bringing the colossal blade down upon the advancing elves with the full weight of his wrath.

A violent surge of Abyssal magic erupted around him, engulfing the area in a wave of twisted, malevolent energy. The air quaked, and the walls trembled as his presence consumed the chamber.

But the moment his blade struck the ground, Baal froze in disbelief.

The mighty slash, a blow that should have torn through stone and split mountains with ease, had only carved a shallow scar into the floor.

Even more incomprehensible, those feeble, low-ranking pests had not been crushed or vaporized. Against all expectations, the elves had reacted in time. With quick movements and surprising coordination, they had all managed to evade the attack.

Baal’s eyes widened.

This was not the result he had anticipated.

Not even close.

Although a few of the slower ones were slightly injured by the shockwave, the majority had evaded the blow entirely.

Such a result was unimaginable for a high-ranking demon like him at the peak of the Legendary-rank.

Only now did Baal realize with a jolt:

His power had been sealed!

His strength had been forcibly suppressed down to the peak of the Silver-rank.

Baal: “…”

As a Demon King who had lived for ten thousand years, Baal was not merely a creature of brute strength. His mind was also sharp, honed by millennia of conquest, thus he was no stranger to manipulation or deceit.

In that moment, memories began to surge through his mind in rapid succession. He recalled how they had been summoned to this realm. Then came the strange, fragmented scenes that had followed, along with the bizarre and almost surreal surroundings. Most of all, he remembered the cryptic conversation between Azazel and that enigmatic Elven Goddess, along with the unfamiliar terms that stood out to him such as:

“The Demon Lord’s Labyrinth,” “Raiding Elves,” and “Stand-in as Dungeon Boss.”

Now, fragments of that conversations began connecting within his mind, forming a much clearer picture.

And then, like a bolt of lightning cracking through the fog of his confusion, realization finally dawned upon him.

Baal suddenly understood what Azazel had been planning all along.

Now it all made sense.

Everything had become painfully clear.

Azazel had not summoned them for war or anything befitting their status as Demon Kings. Instead, he had dragged them out of Hell for a far more humiliating purpose, which was to serve as opponents for these elven intruders.

Their powers had been bound and suppressed, not by accident, but by design. They were nothing more than tools, dulled blades meant to be used as training fodder.

And behind it all, Baal could sense the subtle hand of the true mastermind of it all—that mysterious Elven God.

It was more than likely that this female deity had engineered the entire scheme all along, using Azazel as a willing intermediary or perhaps even a servant.

In other words, they had taken Azazel’s place, standing in the line of fire while he watched from thr sidelines.

The realization sent a bitter surge of fury through Baal’s chest.

That had to be it!

There was no other explanation!

Otherwise, these weak elves who had charged in wouldn’t have shown such eager and excited expressions.

After all, in this world, no ordinary sentient beings could face a high-ranking demon without fear, let alone look as if they were enjoying themselves.

That mysterious female god… she could very well be the new deity rumored to have recently sealed Azazel away.

If that were true, then everything made sense. And that made it all the more infuriating.

This was not merely an insult—it was a betrayal of the highest order.

Who could have imagined that the mighty Seventh Demon Lord, the once-feared Azazel, had fallen so far from grace?

He had not only submitted to a righteous deity, but had gone so far as to collaborate with her. And for what? To train a group of fledgling elves, using his own kind as sacrificial pawns, all for their benefit.

It was utterly disgraceful.

He was just recently sealed and yet he already had knelt before his captor, obediently playing the role of a bootlicking servant.

When had he become so pitifully weak?

When had he abandoned his pride?

Such behavior was beneath a Demon Lord. No, it was beneath a demon of any rank.

To Baal, it was nothing short of a blasphemy against their kind. A complete and utter disgrace to the title of Demon Lord.

Alongside his confusion, Baal’s rage surged like a wildfire, growing more uncontrollable with each passing moment.

He had his pride.

He had always taken pride in being a demon.

But now, after witnessing the truth behind Azazel’s actions, after realizing the depth of this calculated betrayal, that pride was burning in indignation.

The fury within him boiled to its limit, until it could no longer be contained.

Azazel! You shameless coward of a Demon Lord!

He roared in his heart, his thoughts trembling with fury.

How dare you throw away your dignity? How dare you drag your own kind into this humiliation?

Then he looked toward the attacking elves again, his eyes now glinting with killing intent.

His murderous aura surged.

So what if his power was sealed?

Today… he would prove with action that a true demon like him, even in a weakened state, was not someone these pitiful elves could stand up against.

He was nothing like Azazel, that pathetic traitor.

༺⟐༻

Half an hour later…

The once-grand demon palace had been reduced to a battlefield in ruins.

Scars of the brutal conflict were etched into every surface.

The ground was fractured and uneven, marred by deep craters and jagged cracks. Chunks of shattered stone and splintered debris littered the vast hall. The towering walls, once symbols of infernal majesty, were now riddled with gaping fissures. Scattered across the floor lay broken fragments of elven armor, twisted and stained with blood, like remnants of a war that had raged far longer than it truly had.

At the center of the devastation lay Demon King Baal.

Collapsed on the cold, cracked stone, his massive frame was torn and battered. Deep, gruesome wounds covered his once-imposing body. His breathing was shallow, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. Blood seeped from dozens of cuts, forming dark pools beneath him.

He stared up at the ceiling in silence, where his proud sigil was carved in stone—a symbol of dominance that now felt like a cruel joke.

He had been defeated.

He, Baal—the proud and fearsome Demon King who once held dominion over nearly a third of the First Layer of Hell—had fallen in battle.

And not to a god, not to a rival demon, but to a group of elves. Mere mortals whose average strength had not even reached the level of Silver-rank.

It was absurd. Impossible. And yet, it was reality.

Baal’s gaze was hollow, his crimson eyes staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. Even now, he could not fully grasp what had just happened. His thoughts were in disarray, tangled with disbelief.

How could he, a being forged in the fires of the abyss, be brought low by such insignificant opponents?

Even with his powers suppressed, even with his strength shackled, he had been utterly convinced that they stood no chance. He should have torn through them with ease.

That was how it was supposed to be.

His breathing had grown shallow, and his vision blurred. He turned his head slightly, forcing his battered body to respond, and looked toward the few remaining elves who were slowly making their way toward him.

They no longer looked like prey.

And for the first time in centuries—perhaps even millennia—a flicker of something foreign appeared in Baal’s eyes.

Fear.

These were no ordinary elves.

They may have looked the part with their pointed ears, graceful forms, and fair skin but their behavior in battle betrayed something far more dangerous.

They were lunatics!

Maniacs wearing the skins of elves, fighting with a level of reckless abandon that defied all logic. They charged without hesitation, ignored their injuries, and attacked with a ferocity that made even seasoned demons wary. It was as if they had no fear of death, as if pain only fueled their resolve.

But what unsettled Baal more than their madness was their uncanny familiarity with his combat style.

How?

How could they know?

He was absolutely certain that this was the first time he had ever encountered them. He had never crossed blades with these individuals before. And yet, every time he raised his weapon or cast a spell, they responded as though they had already seen it happen. They moved preemptively, dodging or countering with unnatural precision.

They knew his battle style. They understood his rhythm. It was as if they had studied him, memorized him, and trained specifically to bring him down.

Now, as his colossal form lay broken and bleeding, his life force rapidly slipping away, Baal could do nothing but stare up at the fractured ceiling.

His thoughts were heavy. His pride was in tatters.

And all that remained within him was a bitter, suffocating blend of humiliation and confusion.

Had Baal known the kind of demons these players had been battling over the past few months, he might have understood the reason for their confidence and precision.

Though he was a Demon King, Baal belonged to the Horned Demon lineage, whom were a pure-blooded and traditional class of demon that followed ancient infernal archetypes. His power was immense and his lineage noble, but his traits were well-defined and predictable.

Unfortunately for him, the players had become intimately familiar with horned demons.

Throughout their time in the Demon Lord’s Labyrinth, Azazel had flooded the trials with wave after wave of horned demons of all sizes and variations. From lowly foot soldiers to hulking elites, the players had seen and fought them all. They had studied their behaviors, learned their attack patterns, and optimized their strategies to deal with them efficiently.

And now, with Baal’s strength sealed and many of his advanced demonic abilities locked away, the players saw him not as a Demon King, but as just another high-ranking horned demon.

From their perspective, he was no different than a stronger version of the same enemies they had already grown accustomed to defeating.

In fact, some of the other demons within the labyrinth, particularly those who had undergone bizarre mutations by absorbing chaotic bloodlines were seen as even more dangerous. Their unpredictable abilities and grotesque forms made them harder to read, more difficult to counter.

Compared to them, Baal’s combat style was almost…too familiar.

And that familiarity was what sealed his fate.

The players let out triumphant cheers as they raised their weapons high, stepping over the rubble and closing in on the fallen demon.

Victory was within their grasp.

And within Baal’s heart, there was only desolation.

It was over.

Who would have thought that he, a proud Demon King, would meet his end at the hands of a group of lowly elves…

Just as Baal was sinking into despair, a deep red light suddenly enveloped his body.

In the next moment, Baal felt himself being teleported out of the palace.

Yet in the final instant before the transmission was complete, he vaguely heard a familiar voice:

“Hmph! Even if you lot defeat me, you will never overcome the great Lord Azazel! Make no mistake! I, Demon King Baal… shall return!”

Baal: “…”

Azazel! You sick bastard!

Even if you are a Demon Lord, this is no way to humiliate him!

Baal roared inwardly in grief and fury.

His vision faded as sorrow overtook him, and consciousness slipped away…

༺⟐༻

No one could say how much time had passed before Baal finally stirred from his deep, unconscious state.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying within a place both familiar and foreboding.

It was the same palace once more.

The very same grand hall that had always reflected his stature and authority.

Grotesque, nightmarish demon statues lined the walls, their twisted visages frozen in expressions of eternal torment. At the far end stood his throne, magnificent and imposing, carved from black stone and etched with infernal runes. Above it hung the sigil of his dominion, a symbol known and feared throughout the First Layer of Hell.

The chamber glowed dimly under the cold, flickering light of soulfire torches. Shadows danced across the high walls, casting an eerie, reverent stillness across the space.

Everything was as it had always been as if the brutal battle he had just endured, the humiliation, the defeat—all of it had been nothing more than a fevered dream.

Gazing at the familiar surroundings, Baal was left momentarily dazed and baffled.

What was this?

What was going on?

Could it really have all been an illusion?

And yet… the pain, the fury, the humiliation he had felt during the battle had been far too vivid. The clash of blades, the spells, the blood—all of it had felt real.

He glanced down at his body.

There were no wounds.

No torn flesh, no scorched armor, not even a scratch. Apart from his power still being sealed, he was completely unscathed.

But then, he noticed something strange.

Deep within him, faint and nearly imperceptible, was a lingering presence. A residue of a familiar energy pulsed faintly through his being.

It was unmistakable.

It was Azazel’s power.

And then, Baal suddenly remembered the conversation between that goddess and Azazel before her departure…

A foreboding sense of dread crept over him.

A dreadful silence followed.

Then suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of creaking hinges.

The great doors of his palace began to open once more.

Light spilled into the hall as the massive gates parted, and through them stepped another party of elves—fully armed, eager expressions on their faces, eyes wide with anticipation.

Baal: “…”

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