Twenty days later.
Orsaga's Temptation Towers had already been successfully established in dozens of countries.
With them, an invisible mental field began to quietly expand across the globe.
Its function resembled a form of subliminal hypnosis or covert brainwashing.
Anyone within its range would slowly begin to feel more favorable toward Orsaga. It effectively fast-forwarded the process of ideological submission—compressing what would normally take years, even decades, into mere days or weeks.
The result: a population rapidly growing accustomed to Orsaga's rule.
Thanks to the influence of the Temptation Towers, every one of Orsaga's actions appeared beautified in the eyes of those affected—automatically interpreted in a positive light.
But that wasn't all.
Each tower also served as a power node, both fueling Orsaga's energy reserves and reshaping the environment itself.
As their number grew, Orsaga's strength on this planet began to rise exponentially.
And once the towers reached a certain threshold, his position as global ruler would no longer require any formal acknowledgment.
Any discontent, any thought of rebellion, would be slowly dissolved by the towers' influence—transforming even the most defiant citizens into obedient, loyal subjects.
---
Vatican City.
The world's most iconic cathedral—St. Peter's Basilica.
With a ripple in the air, Orsaga suddenly materialized in the plaza before the grand cathedral.
Instantly, dozens of radiant white beams surged forth—fired from the church's cross atop the central obelisk and from sacred statues and symbols—trying to obliterate him.
Orsaga didn't even glance at the attacks.
A golden halo behind him flared, projecting a shimmering golden shield that effortlessly absorbed the assault.
The next second—
The holy crosses, saintly statues, and all sacred symbols spontaneously ignited in roaring Fiendfyre.
The ancient blessings, exorcism seals, and sacred protections that had clung to them for centuries did nothing to stop the infernal flames.
Before everyone's eyes, these holy artifacts melted into pools of pus-like goo.
Only then did the surrounding tourists and devout believers finally process what was happening.
Fear contorted their faces as they stared at Orsaga.
No introductions were necessary.
By now, Orsaga's name had become infamous worldwide—the mere sight of him sent shivers down spines.
And seeing these sacred items burn on their own, everyone knew—he had come with malice.
Tourists and casual believers fled in terror, desperate not to get caught in the crossfire.
After all, in every previous livestream, anyone who had dared stand in Orsaga's way... was now dead.
As for the truly devout and fanatical believers, they charged at him without hesitation—trying to stop whatever came next.
Of course, their efforts were completely pointless.
Orsaga wasn't the type to show mercy.
In fact, bullying the weak and crushing the defenseless was practically one of his signature skills.
He graciously let them enjoy a free trial of Joan of Arc-tier immolation services.
Only after that did he turn his attention to the cathedral itself.
Within seconds, a crowd of nuns and priests had gathered.
At the front stood an old man dressed in scarlet vestments, holding a hand-copied Book of Saints. He raised his voice and shouted:
"Heretic god! This is not your domain—!"
Before the final word left his lips, flames burst forth from his body.
He became the center of a blazing inferno, screaming in agony as he was reduced to ash—right before the horrified eyes of his fellow clergy.
They rushed forward, trying desperately to save him with holy spells and sacred medicine.
But it was all useless.
Nothing could suppress the Fiendfyre.
Orsaga's self-developed Spell Circuit Rotation technique had, by now, reached the Fifty-Ninth Rotation in this particular clone.
In terms of energy levels alone, he was already comparable to a Lesser Demon.
And the Fiendfyre he now wielded had undergone multiple evolutions—no longer something that could be countered by ordinary means.
Once the cardinal had burned into a pile of ash...
Orsaga smiled at the priests glaring at him with righteous fury.
"He said I was a heretic god, didn't he? So why bother arguing with me? Wouldn't it be simpler to fight?"
A stern voice suddenly echoed from the rear of the crowd:
"What exactly do you want?!"
An old man dressed in gold-trimmed white robes, surrounded by dozens of scarlet-robed cardinals, stepped forward.
The current Pope.
Despite being 110 years old, his eyes still gleamed with sharp intensity.
He paused briefly to offer a prayer for the fallen cardinal, then glared at Orsaga and declared:
"This is the domain of the Lord. Even if your power far exceeds that of us mere mortals—don't expect to win easily."
With his words, a soft white mist began flowing throughout the entire Vatican.
This was the accumulated power of faith, built up over thousands of years.
And should the need arise, the Vatican could channel it through an enormous divine ritual formation—unleashing immense power.
It was one of the core reasons the Vatican had remained unshaken for millennia.
But that wasn't all.
From beneath St. Peter's Basilica, Orsaga sensed thirteen unique energy signatures emanating from deep underground.
"The Thirteen Saints?"
He scanned the area for a moment—then shook his head.
"Dead men," he muttered.
Though their power was greater than the so-called Magical World's, it still wasn't enough.
"You still can't stop me. But I'll give you a chance to live. Swear allegiance to me now, and you'll all survive."
The Pope's forehead bulged with rage.
"Not in all of history has any heretical god ever dared to insult us like this!"
He didn't hesitate any longer.
With a roar, he activated the Vatican's ancient, massive-scale ritual—thousands of years in the making.
Blinding white light exploded outward.
And within that light, sacred chants began to echo across the sky.
A pure-white cocoon formed high above the square.
Moments later, it shattered open—
And from it emerged a celestial being:
A four-winged angel, clad in golden armor, wielding a long sword wreathed in holy flame.
Without a word, without instruction, the angel instantly saw through Orsaga's nature—
Pure chaos. Pure evil.
A demon.
Its gaze radiated absolute enmity.
Without hesitation, the angel lunged, sword raised high.
In that instant, the blade radiated like a white sun—
Blinding beams of holy light fanned outward from it, flooding the surroundings and painting everything in pure white.
Those bathed in its glow felt as though they'd entered paradise.
Their illnesses faded, their spirits lifted, and their faith deepened into frenzy.
But for Orsaga, a heretic and an enemy of all that light stood for, he felt only murderous intent and holy fury pouring from that blade.
He laughed.
"Did some backwater demon piss you off or something?"
Then, he raised his right hand and faced the flaming sword head-on.
In the past several weeks, he'd scoured nearly the entire planet, but found no sign of Abyssal Demons.
Only remnants of Demonic Subspecies.
The term Demonic Subspecies referred to beings not born of the Abyss, but rather from other planes—otherworldly demonkin.
Just as some humans were divine creations, while others were evolved primates, the term demon spanned a wide range.
But Demonic Subspecies and Abyssal Demons were fundamentally different.
In fact, the weaker subspecies didn't even possess racial memory—the inherent supernatural heritage that marked true extraordinary races.
Some were so weak, they were indistinguishable from ordinary mortals.
You could kill one in a fair fight with just a strong enough regular human.
That's how pitifully low they ranked.
In the Abyss, they weren't even considered "lesser demons"—the Abyssal ones called them backwater trash, saying even the word "subspecies" was too generous.
.....
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