Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest
Chapter 435: Beneath the Burning Sky

Chapter 435: Beneath the Burning Sky

Garduck’s blade plunged deeper into Bahamut’s scales, the dragon’s roar tearing across the sky like a shockwave. White-hot light pulsed from the wound, igniting the air in blinding bursts.

Ifrit’s laughter rang out—sharp, triumphant—as he hurled another infernal blaze into the fissure. The fire clashed against radiant energy, sparks showering down like divine rain, while above them, arrows screamed, spells cracked through the sky, and the airships roared with cannon fire. Each impact chipped away at Bahamut’s once-untouchable majesty.

But while the skies burned, a different kind of reckoning stirred below.

Maxwell stepped through the veil of the portal, the shimmer behind him collapsing like dying glass. His golden eyes glowed, emotionless and calculating, as twin wings of tempered light folded behind his back. The battlefield was chaos—shrieking metal, twanging bows, and demon howls—but his gaze ignored it all. He searched for one face. One name.

Adam.

The traitor. The usurper. The man who had dared to mock all the other lords—to mock him.

Power rippled beneath his skin, his claws flexing as radiant energy licked up his arm in humming waves. Around him, the portal’s defenders—a scattered wall of mortals, elves, and demons—watched in terror. Their numbers were nothing. Their stance brittle. Their fear, perfect.

A flick of his wrist. A surge of white mana. A dozen went down in a heartbeat—pierced through by javelins of searing light that exploded in rippling brilliance.

And then—

"Halt."

The voice cut through the clamor like a scythe through silk.

Maxwell turned, light flaring from his eyes. Six figures stood across the blood-soaked field, their presence halting the flow of battle like a blade to the throat. They were not divine. Not sacred. They were something worse.

Ascended.

Once demons—creatures of madness and ruin—they had evolved. They had crawled from the pits of filth and forged themselves anew. Now their wings bore jagged feathers, torn and reformed by sorcery and pain. Their eyes glowed with hunger. Their weapons pulsed with enchantments that had long since burned away any trace of their former selves.

They were here for him.

Zane stepped forward, twin blades thrumming with inverted energy, their cores whispering in tongues no longer mortal. "You’re not going any farther, lizard."

Zephyr spun his crackling whip between his fingers, his smirk razor-thin. "We’ve been sharpening these edges for you."

Silas hefted his warhammer with one hand, the ground groaning under his stance. "Come on, glow-boy. Let’s see what makes you shine."

Morwen’s fingers drifted across the strings of her bone-lyre, the chords vibrating with a tension that made the very air flinch. "Your theatrics bore me."

Victoria, still as death, lowered her spear and pointed it straight at Maxwell’s chest. "This battlefield doesn’t need another pretender."

And last, Sarah raised one hand toward the sky, where a void of swirling night condensed into a tight vortex. Her voice was a whisper. "We know what you are. We know how to end it."

Maxwell’s lip curled. He spread his wings, light flaring in golden waves behind him, casting their shadows long. "You traded evolution for delusion," he spat. "Mutts in feathers. Playing soldier. Playing savior."

A pulse of energy burst from him, cracks spiderwebbing the ground beneath his feet. "You want a king? Then kneel. Or be burned."

The battlefield shattered into motion.

Zane was the first to reach him, blades colliding with Maxwell’s claws in a hail of sparks. Each strike sent shockwaves through the earth, their speed too fast for mortal eyes.

Zephyr’s whip darted out, electricity coiling around his wrist—but he yanked him close with a snarl, his knee slamming into his ribs with a thunderous crack.

Zephyr gasped, teeth bloodied—but didn’t fall.

Silas roared, swinging his hammer in a deadly arc. Maxwell spun, narrowly avoiding the blow, but the sheer force cratered the earth. A geyser of stone erupted beneath them. Maxwell countered with a beam of radiant energy from his palm—Silas raised his arm, absorbing it with a cursed gauntlet, though smoke trailed from his armor.

Morwen’s melody shifted. Her music twisted the battlefield, distorting light and sound. Maxwell staggered, vision warping—until he let out a guttural roar, his will slicing through the enchantment like a blade of light.

Victoria moved in silence. Her spear struck like lightning, almost catching his throat—until a blast of energy from Sarah’s vortex detonated between them.

BOOM.

The shockwave hurled both Maxwell and Victoria away. Dirt, dust, and shattered stone blanketed the field. Maxwell landed hard, his scales smoldering from the vortex’s edge. But his grin had grown.

He rose slowly, flexing his fingers as radiant mana gathered at his back—six rings of glowing light forming behind him like a halo of weapons.

"I see," he growled. "You think numbers give you a chance. That power alone makes you worthy."

He raised his hand—and the light obeyed.

Dozens of spears of radiant energy formed in the air behind him, each one screaming with heat.

"Let me show you what Bahamut gave me."

The sky burned.

Zane wiped blood from his lips. "We’ve seen what light does. We’ve survived it."

Zephyr’s eyes glowed as lightning danced up his arms. "We’ve torn through it."

Silas smashed his hammer into the ground. "Let’s rip off his wings."

Morwen strummed a single, sharp note—one that cracked the sky.

Victoria leveled her spear again, unmoved. "No kings left here. Just fire and ash."

Sarah’s vortex narrowed into a singularity.

They charged.

Blades met light. Whips tangled with radiance. Hammer clashed against burning spears. The field erupted in a clash that bent magic and will into raw force. The six came at him like wolves—flawed, imperfect, scarred—but unrelenting.

Maxwell’s form blurred with motion, radiant glyphs igniting across his body. Every strike he delivered could incinerate, every movement carved arcs of brilliance into the air. He was power, unbound.

But they did not falter.

They adapted.

They resisted.

They endured his wrath—not because they were pure, but because they were hungry.

And in the heart of the maelstrom, as Bahamut roared above and the battlefield descended into chaos, a new storm raged below.

Six imps who had clawed their way into evolution.

And the last dragon who thought himself untouchable.

Neither side would yield.

Only one would remain standing.