The sky over the Eastern Empire wasn't blue that day. It was covered with artificial golden clouds, emitting a holy and heavy aura that made the very air feel suffocating.
Beneath these clouds, the ground shook with a terrifying rhythm.
*Thump... thump... thump...*
The sound of the footsteps of a million human soldiers marching toward the Great Jura Forest. Steel armor clashing, and the wheels of magic cannons plowing the barren earth. Above them, legions of angels flew in silence, with their pure white wings and expressionless faces, like marble statues watching over a herd of cattle.
At the heart of this massive army was a giant flying platform pulled by winged beasts. And upon this platform stood *he*.
The former Demon Lord, Clayman.
He wore his signature elegant tailcoat and held his magical cane, his fingers playing in the air as if he were a maestro conducting an invisible orchestra. His face no longer bore the fear that Rimuru had crushed him with. Instead, it radiated with supreme arrogance and absolute confidence.
"What a breathtaking sight..." Clayman muttered with a wide smile, looking at the sea of soldiers beneath him. "Angels and humans hand in hand. Who would have thought the Higher Administration possessed such refined theatrical taste?"
Behind him, a human general of the Eastern Empire struggled up the steps of the platform. The general wore heavy armor and panted heavily, his eyes filled with anger and exhaustion.
"Lord Clayman!" the general shouted, trying to be heard over the sound of the march. "The soldiers are collapsing! You've forced them to march for three consecutive days without rest. Healing magic is no longer enough, and the angels refuse to help us or heal the wounded! If this continues, we will lose a quarter of the army before we even reach the borders of Tempest!"
Clayman stopped moving his fingers and slowly turned toward the human general. His eyes narrowed with extreme disdain.
"Lose a quarter of the army?" Clayman asked with a feigned tone of sorrow. "What a tragedy. Human flesh is so fragile, and your minds are even weaker. You feel pain, hunger, fear... these are all design flaws."
The general took a step back, sensing the genuine danger radiating from Clayman. "I... I am only asking for a few hours of rest for the troops..."
"Rest is for the dead, General," Clayman interrupted coldly, raising a hand that glowed with a corrupted golden light. "Fortunately for you, I possess the ultimate cure for your human frailty."
**[Ultimate Skill: Puppet Emperor, Mephisto - Activation: Threads of Absolute Enslavement.]**
From Clayman's fingertips shot millions of transparent threads invisible to the naked eye. They launched at the speed of light, piercing the bodies of every soldier, every knight, and every mage in the Empire's army, anchoring directly into their souls.
The general standing before him bulged his eyes and opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was cut off in his throat.
Below, the army of a million soldiers came to a sudden halt.
The coughing stopped, the groaning stopped, and the panting of exhaustion stopped.
A deadly, horrifying silence fell over the plains, broken only by the rustling of angel wings in the sky.
Clayman smiled a broad smile that showed his teeth, and began to move his fingers again as if playing an unseen piano.
"Rise."
In one perfectly synchronized motion—like a giant mechanical machine—a million soldiers raised their heads. Their eyes were completely empty, devoid of pupils, glowing with a faint golden light. They were no longer human. Their free will had been erased, their sense of pain wiped away, and their bodies turned into mere puppets manipulated by the maestro.
The general, who had been demanding rest moments ago, slowly turned toward Clayman and bowed at a ninety-degree angle, like a wooden doll suspended by strings.
"You see? No one feels tired anymore," Clayman laughed hysterically, his voice echoing across the silent plains. "There is no pain, no retreat, and no fear! They will march until their muscles tear, and they will fight until their bones shatter!"
Clayman pointed his magical cane toward the dense forest looming on the horizon... the Jura Forest.
"You damned slime who erased me from existence... and you fake god guarding his city... brace yourselves! The Army of Salvation is coming!" Clayman roared, his eyes burning with black malice. "I won't leave a single stone standing in Tempest! I will make you beg for death, and I will refuse to give it to you!"
With a sweeping motion of his hand, the million soldiers resumed their march toward the forest. But their steps weren't weary this time. They were fast, terrifyingly synchronized, and as forceful as a moving wall meant to crush everything in its path.
Tempest was about to face the worst nightmare the Central World had ever known... an army that does not die, does not retreat, and is protected by merciless angels.