The drums of war thundered across the Blood Rift battlefield.  

On the western front of the high-tier zone, the F-rank **Chalice of Emberlight** stood ready.  

Every member was wrapped in layers upon layers of shimmering shields—  

ten, maybe fifteen each—  

their bodies glowing like walking fortresses.  

Each held armfuls of magical scrolls,  

the sheer volume making them look less like soldiers and more like mobile treasure chests.  

Nearby, the S-rank **Crimson Devils** were preparing their formation.  

Their commander, **Tankaris Akuma**, glanced over at the glittering wall of light and frowned.  

“Try not to drag us down,” he growled. “If you can’t handle it, stay behind us.”  

Jexy Bakian smirked, swirling the whiskey in his glass.  

“Who’s dragging who,” he muttered, “we’ll see soon enough.”

Far away in the Demon King’s hall,  

**Dalph Bakian**, the ruler of the Bakian Dominion,  

sat upon his obsidian throne with his advisors,  

watching the battle projection suspended in the air.

When he saw his grandson sitting comfortably on a gilded chair in the middle of a battlefield,  

legs crossed, drink in hand,  

he burst into delighted laughter.

“Behold!” he bellowed. “That’s the spirit of our family!  

Composed even in the face of war! Look at that posture—magnificent!”  

His advisors nodded furiously, eager to agree.  

“Indeed! The young master exudes power!”  

“Yes, such calm under pressure—truly noble!”  

On the field, the horns blared—  

and the war began.  

The Crimson Devils charged forward in formation.  

The Chalice of Emberlight, under Lyssara’s lead,  

raised their scrolls high and unleashed a synchronized storm.  

Protective domes flared like suns.  

Moments later, hundreds of offensive scrolls ignited all at once,  

and the battlefield vanished under a cascade of fire, ice, and thunder.  

In the midst of chaos,  

Jexy remained seated, sipping his flaming whiskey.  

Freya stood behind him, serene.  

“My lord,” she asked softly, “should we join the fight?”  

“So troublesome,” he sighed.  

“They’ve got enough scrolls to carpet-bomb this place for hours.  

Why ruin a perfectly good fireworks show?”

The bombardment was relentless.  

The Human Realm’s elite forces retaliated with massive holy barriers,  

shields stretching like walls of glass across the field.  

But no defense could withstand that much money.  

One by one, the barriers shattered under the weight of endless explosions.  

Within minutes, the western flank of the human army had collapsed.  

Even the Crimson Devils’ commander, Tankaris, was dumbfounded.  

He stared as the F-rank guild bulldozed through the western front.  

“What… what are they doing?”  

“Their bodies—those glowing layers—are all *shields?*  

High-tier ones? How do they even afford that?!”

Then he saw it:  

the Chalice’s members casually tossing one scroll after another,  

flooding the field with magic until the horizon burned red.  

Back in the Demon King’s hall,  

Dalph Bakian’s laughter had stopped.  

He was now standing, staring in disbelief.  

“Those scrolls… those are *my* treasury-grade artifacts!”  

He slammed his fist on the armrest.  

“That damned spendthrift! I thought he’d matured—he’s just *throwing money at people!*”

His advisors exchanged terrified glances.  

Someone whispered, “The value of those scrolls… that’s two years of royal tax revenue…”  

“Two years?!” Dalph roared. “He’s waging economic genocide!”

Meanwhile, on the scorched western flank,  

a handful of surviving human mages spotted something unusual—  

a demon sitting calmly in a chair,  

a glass in his hand, radiating no killing intent whatsoever.

“That must be their commander! Kill him!”  

Light flared—  

multiple *Radiant-Class* spells shot forward in unison.  

Freya’s eyes narrowed; she was about to intervene—  

but Jexy lifted a hand lazily.  

Just one casual wave.  

And then—silence broke into thunder.  

Dozens of spells erupted around him,  

each a different element, perfectly synchronized.  

There was no chant, no gesture, no delay—only pure annihilation.  

The attackers never had time to scream.  

When the smoke cleared, only scorched ground remained.  

In the Demon King’s hall, the projection went white for a moment.  

When the image stabilized again, the human squad was gone—obliterated.  

Everyone stared.  

Then Dalph Bakian’s eyes widened.  

He slammed his fist into his palm, roaring with pride.  

“Did you SEE that?! That’s my grandson!”  

“One flick of the wrist and an entire platoon erased!”  

His advisors, now emboldened, nodded in awe.  

“Of course! The young master must have been holding back all along!”  

“Yes! The scrolls were a diversion—a clever tactical ruse!”  

Dalph straightened, his earlier anger gone, replaced by radiant pride.  

“I knew it! Strategy and strength—true Bakian blood!  

My heir! My genius grandson!”

“Long live the Demon King! Long live the young master!”  

Their shouts echoed through the grand hall,  

a triumphant chorus shaking the obsidian walls.  

And somewhere far away,  

amid the burning skies of the western front,  

Jexy Bakian poured himself another drink,  

watching the inferno with lazy satisfaction.  

“Mm,” he murmured, “the fireworks look better than I expected.”