The noise of the victory banquet drifted over the rooftop as a dull, distant hum, muffled by the heavy stone parapets of Arashi's central administration building.
Below, the central plaza was an ocean of light and revelry. Torches hissed in iron sconces mounted along the timber walls, their amber glow washing over crowds of celebrating Goblins, Orcs, Dwarves, and Dragonewts. Giant wooden casks of fermented fruit wine were being rolled out from the storehouses, their iron hoops clanking against the cobblestones while Rigurd roared laughter into the night, leading a choir of tearful, boisterous warriors. Every tavern in the district had thrown its doors wide open, and the scent of roasted meat, spiced stew, stale ale, and sweet pine smoke drifted upward on the night air, mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of magicules that always lingered in the atmosphere after a high-tier evolution.
Loki leaned his forearms against the cold granite railing of the balcony, his chin resting near his knuckles as he stared out over the torchlit avenues. He had unbuttoned the top two clasps of his formal Coleusian coat, letting the evening breeze cool his chest. The Western Council sessions had been an exhausting parade of legal technicalities, but standing here, watching the town celebrate Rimuru's return from the brink, offered a rare moment of stillness.
"You always did prefer rooftops when you were trying to look brooding," a quiet, silky voice purred from the darkness behind him. "Though back in the Netherworld, the spires were usually on fire."
Loki didn't turn around. He had known the moment those dark, heavy magicules had coalesced at the top of the stone stairwell.
"Your footwork hasn't gotten any better, Noir," Loki said, his voice flat. "Or am I supposed to call you Diablo now? Takes some getting used to, seeing a proper name stuck to an ego as bloated as yours."
Diablo stepped out from the deep shadows of the roof access door, his dark coat sweeping smoothly against the stone floorboards. He walked with that eerie, weightless grace unique to ancient demons, his steps making no sound at all against the granite. Stopping right beside Loki at the parapet, he rested his gloved hands gently against the stone, looking down at the packed thoroughfares below. A faint, razor-thin smile touched his lips, his golden, dual-ringed eyes reflecting the torchlight from the plaza.
"It is a magnificent name," Diablo murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, reverent warmth that sounded almost out of place on a Primordial. "Lord Rimuru's soul gave it form and purpose. That alone renders it infinitely superior to any title or epithet birthed in the abyss."
"Right. Because everything he touches turns to pure gold in your book," Loki muttered, letting out a short, breathy sigh. He shifted his weight, resting his elbow on the ledge and looking sideways at the demon. "Look at us. The Primordial Black and the Primordial Maroon, standing on a pine deck in the mortal world, talking about a slime."
"Careful, little brother," Diablo said softly. The words were delivered with a light, airy cadence, but his posture shifted immediately. His shoulders locking straight, his spine rigid, his gloved fingers tightening just enough against the parapet to leave faint indents in the granite. "I may have taught you how to condense dark magicules into a stable core before you even possessed a physical shell, but my patience belongs exclusively to one individual in this world. And he is currently down in the plaza, attempting to prevent Sir Veldora from knocking over the main feast table."
Loki turned his head fully, meeting Diablo's gaze. "I know exactly who you are, Diablo. I know you're older than the concept of time and twice as stubborn as any dragon. I didn't ask for this chat to pull rank, and I'm certainly not using our old Netherworld history to give you orders. But don't stand there and lecture me about respect. Rimuru is my sworn brother. We share a surname, and memories of a completely different reality that no one else on this entire planet could ever comprehend."
"Which is precisely what concerns me," Diablo cut in smoothly, turning his shoulder slightly to block the draft coming off the mountains. His golden eyes narrowed into sharp, glowing slits. "You treat him with unmistakable affection. You shield his nation from the Western Council's political traps, you feed him spatial relays, and you drop convenient warnings in his lap whenever trouble brews. Yet, at every turn, you also push him, Loki. You nudged the subtle dominoes that brought Falmuth's army straight to his doorstep. You accelerated his Harvest Festival."
Loki didn't deny it. "He had the Demon Lord Seed sitting in his soul. He needed to awaken."
"Did he?" Diablo took a single, deliberate half-step closer. His dark shadow stretched across the stone, falling heavily over Loki's arm. "Or did you need him to awaken? Tell me, brother... are you building a genuine comrade, or are you constructing a meat-shield for the conflicts you see on the horizon?"
The air on the balcony instantly turned dense. A quiet, high-pitched hum vibrated through the stone as violet static began to crackle around Loki's cuffs, snapping against the air like tiny whips. Across from him, dark, liquid mana pooled at Diablo's fingertips, eating away at the ambient light until the shadows around them seemed to stretch toward the ceiling.
Loki didn't flinch or draw back. He met Diablo's gaze head-on, violet spark hitting black mana without an inch of retreat.
"I accelerated it because the clock is running out," Loki said, his jaw tightening as he spoke through his teeth. "Feldway is back. The phantom kings are stirring in the dimensional shadows, and if the board stays the way it currently sits, Veldanava's return isn't just a distant possibility. It's a disaster waiting to trigger. The ancient Demon Lords are absurdly strong, Diablo, but they're stagnant. They've been sitting in their territories playing territorial chicken for millennia. This world doesn't just need another powerful fighter. It needs an impossible being. Someone who shatters established logic just by taking a breath."
Diablo tilted his head, watching the violet sparks dance across Loki's coat. He remained silent, allowing the silence between them to stretch.
"And my foresight..." Loki paused, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes toward the cloudless, moonless sky above Arashi. "It isn't infinite, Diablo. There's a massive wall coming. A point where my vision cuts off entirely, dropping into absolute pitch black. Beyond that line, I can't see who survives. I can't see if Rimuru makes it, I can't see if you make it, and I can't see if I make it. I pushed him to awaken now because he needs the raw muscle to survive when I'm flying completely blind."
Light Novel Volume 18, Loki thought bitterly, the text and chapter numbers burning behind his eyelids like an phantom brand. That's where my memory ends. That's the hard wall. I don't know who survives the final war, I don't know Feldway's ultimate endgame, and I can't speak a single word about the world I was born in without shattering the absolute foundation of my existence here.
Diablo let out a low, dry hum in the back of his throat. A cold, analytical sound that carried no warmth whatsoever. "A convenient justification."
"It's the truth—"
"It is a weapon," Diablo interrupted, stepping directly past him to rest his hand on the railing, looking down at the bustling town square below. "You speak of preparing him for an uncertain future. You dress it up as fraternal care and strategic foresight. But in doing so, you risk turning Master Rimuru into a calculated piece on your personal board. A tool forged specifically to address a crisis you anticipate. You claim to defend his agency and freedom, yet you continuously nudge his path from the safety of the shadows."
Loki stared down at the dark granite ledge, his knuckles turning white as his hands clenched into tight fists against the stone. "He deserves the choice to be ready. I'm not making his decisions for him, I'm making sure he has the weapons and the standing to make his own calls when the time comes."
"Then see to it that they remain his calls," Diablo said softly.
He turned back around, the black mana gathering at his fingertips evaporating instantly into the cool night air. The oppressive pressure vanished, but Diablo stepped in close. So close that Loki could smell the faint scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to his formal vest.
When Diablo spoke again, his voice dropped into a flat, quiet murmur that didn't travel through the air, but vibrated directly through the stone floorboards into Loki's spirit.
"I remember the sharp demon who clawed his way out of the Underworld's deepest trenches to claim a Primordial title, Loki. I know what you are capable of when you believe the end justifies the means. But listen to me very carefully..." Diablo's golden eyes flared, the inner rings spinning with a narrow, feverish intensity. "...If your grand plans ever trap Master Rimuru, if your foresight becomes an excuse to treat him as disposable, or if you ever endanger his life for the sake of your 'greater board'... I will break your kingdom, tear up your contracts, and cut you down myself. Sworn brotherhood will not save you from me."
Loki stared at him for a long, quiet beat. The silence hung heavy over the rooftop, punctuated only by the distant cheers of the party below.
Then, Loki's mouth twitched. A short, rough bark of laughter escaped his throat, and he shook his head, pushing himself off the railing.
"There he is," Loki said, his eyes flashing with a bright, genuine violet fire. "Cold, arrogant, and completely unhinged. Good. Don't hold back for a second."
Diablo smoothed his lapels with two crisp, practiced flicks of his wrists, offering a slick, perfectly executed mock bow. "I would never dream of disappointing my former pupil. Now, if you will excuse me, Master Rimuru is currently attempting to toast with a full wooden tankard, and he is precisely three seconds away from spilling it down his front. I must be there to catch it."
Without waiting for a response, Diablo stepped backward into the shadow of the rooftop doorway, his form dissolving seamlessly into the darkness as if he had never been standing there at all.
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