Bathed in that same dim, honey‑gold glow, people argued like sparks crackling in twilight.

Like sages in a golden age trading doctrines, they crossed blades with words over a hundred hues of thought.

Right and wrong. Good and evil. The tide kept crashing.

“I say artificial beings are a mistake, a sin. The Creator forged a complete weave of life for His youngest son. We shouldn’t spin up crippled life on our own.”

“How does wholeness exist without flaw? Is the Creator flawless? Are His works just as great as He is? Clearly not. He gave mortals a curious nature, so perfection comes salted with error. We chase bigger success through missteps. Homunculi are born by the same logic.”

“I reject that. Wrecking countless lives now for a distant ‘perfection’ isn’t the right path. Maybe the Sorcerer Emperor or the Creator can amend what they make. Mortals can’t. We’ll repeat failure, and a multitude of pitiful newborns will be discarded at first breath. Do you call that a ‘necessary mistake’?”

“Let’s admit it—we’re all Primordial Nine Races, yet gulfs remain. How can humans stand beside dragons? For the future, for evolution, for thriving—any sacrifice is necessary.”

Here, people locked horns without end, their voices like iron on iron, their chests hot as forge‑fire.

They fought with language over questions no one ever settled, over riddles that never yielded. Year after year, month after month, day after day—like waves gnawing the shore.

Daviya guided Anna, her Giant Scythe trailing a cold crescent like moonlight on steel, to a set of chairs and a table. He let her watch two mortals conduct a Dispute.

“This is… your power? You built your domain in the mortal world like this?”

Puzzled, Anna asked, her brows drawn like storm‑clouds.

Daviya laughed at his elder sister’s reaction, a low ripple in still water.

It wasn’t strange she thought that way. A Son of the Demon King invading the mortal world first worries about mana. If you can erect a domain under your own authority here, the big headache ends.

In their domains, gods and demons are near all‑knowing, all‑capable. A Son of the Demon King can’t reach that height. But if he can summon a domain, he can drink mana from it without end. Once the summoning stands, even a bona fide Hero would struggle to crack his Demon King Castle.

Yakfarro died because the Hero Squad ambushed him right before his summoning. His mana lagged; his recovery failed. You can taste how hard domain summoning is.

Of course, the combat field a Son of the Demon King unfolds mid‑fight isn’t this. At best, he unfurls his true form, resonates his demon armament with the Ocean of Darkness, and broadcasts the concept that defines him—turning the nearby world into a temporary fief. That battle‑field won’t feed him mana. It burns it faster, like oil on a blaze.

Daviya isn’t one of the heavy hitters among the Sons of the Demon King. No wonder Anna thought he was sheltering behind a trick.

“It’s not what you think. I’m doing what you’re doing—climbing toward Demon King.”

“I don’t get it. What did you do?”

Daviya pressed a finger to his lips, the hush like a feather on water.

“Shh. Softer. You’ll disturb them. I set a rule here—‘No one gets interrupted during a debate.’ But your Slaughter authority frays my rules without trying. So, keep it gentle.”

He led Anna again, into a sparser corridor of shelves where arguments thinned like mist.

Unlike the two in fine robes, many in rough clothes worked with backs bent, serving the disputants like shadows serving fire.

Daviya spread his hands like an opening scroll. “Lady Anna, what do you see?”

“Power. Suppression. Hierarchy. And you, a Son of the Demon King, playing at leisure.”

“No, no.” Daviya sighed, a philosopher’s melancholy drifting like autumn smoke. His voice was low yet proud. “This is a society, Lady Anna.”

“The power, the ranks, the unequal cut of resources—those are tools. What I want to build is society.”

“I write rules—not just the physics of stones and rain, but the rules between people. I raise the silver‑tongued, the flame‑stirring speakers to the top, and leave the tongue‑tied, the clumsy, at the bottom. Daily rations split by rank. Food, mates, justice—language decides all. I merely enforce.”

“So you’re a Son of the Demon King, yet you guard rules like a Divine Being!”

Anna stabbed a finger at a mortal who, bitter at his station, tried to run and was felled by Daviya’s retainer—a Two‑Headed Chain Fiend whose chains hissed like serpents. Her Giant Scythe breathed sharper blood‑scent.

“We’re doing the same things. Don’t you and your retainers rank yourselves? Isn’t hierarchy a rule? We aren’t pure chaos—remember, darkness by itself is nothing; it turns into nothing. I am Dispute. You won’t beat me at arguing. Let’s keep to the society I’m building.”

“…Sorry. I was impatient.”

Annoyance cooled first, then her words came, still held high like a blade she wouldn’t lower. Even so, it surprised Daviya.

“You apologized? That’s… not like you.”

“Andor’s a bastard, but he’s right. With allies, you tolerate flaws. I need you, so I’ll apologize.”

“Andor… that man’s lively anywhere you toss him. Enough about him. My society’s ranks are strict. Supplies won’t fail, but I cut the normal allotment by a tenth. Know why?”

“Because you hate mortals. You want to savor their dying wails and curses.”

Daviya shot a helpless glance at the proudly smirking Anna. He wasn’t Andor; he didn’t dare flick her forehead.

Muscle‑brained brutes never charm anyone—no matter how terrifying their power. Oil and water don’t mix.

He even missed those idle chats with Andor. But first, pass Anna’s trial—or he might get knocked home in one swing.

“It’s to give them a reason to climb.”

“?”

Of course she didn’t get it. Daviya met her puzzled look with calm water in his voice.

“If you grant fairness, mortals think, ‘We’re equal anyway; take it easy and get the same cut.’ They lose the urge to rise. When I draw ranks, and they learn they can’t break rules, they’ll grit their teeth and push upward to the next rung.”

When they can’t change the weather, people change their sails.

Even a Hero, if offered a choice, will pick the easier path. Few ram their heads on the rule‑stone.

“Like that winged girl you’re drilling lately. Give her a choice—kill one or kill ten—and she’ll sob, cut down one poor soul, and save ten. Mine works the same.”

“How do you know my business?”

“Because you and your subordinates held a Dispute. Then I know.”

Daviya smiled through Anna’s flicker of anger until it ebbed like a wave, then went on.

“If you want to sift everything grain by grain, move into my domain. My point is simple: I judge fairly, I set rank by argument. That’s the society I’m building.”

“In the end, you’re just shaping a domain. Self‑preservation isn’t shameful. Why not admit it?”

Daviya decided, silently, to cut the riddles next time. She couldn’t catch meaning between lines. Long‑lived Demonfolk hoard knowledge, but knowledge isn’t wisdom.

“If I wanted a domain fast, I’d seize a human city. Force endless debates. Anyone who can’t speak dies. Wouldn’t the Dispute I’d reap come quicker? Why pamper them? I’m building a society, a thought—and I’ll spread it outward.”

“What’s the use? It’s pointless.”

He met the sneer like rain on stone, unbothered.

“When I become Demon King—or get killed and sent back to the Demon Realm—I’ll free these mortals.”

“They’re cursed, aren’t they? Something like a curse to make them your proxies. Useless. The ‘Sealed’ Demon King and the ‘Pestilence’ Demon King tried it. When all Demon Kings returned to the Demon Realm and the gods slipped the Primordial Pact, divine power blew away every trace of Abyssal mana.”

“I said it already. I’m spreading an idea. I laid no curses on them. No magic can prove I tug their strings. But the longer they live here, the more language‑first seeps into their bones. Negation, doubt, suspicion will become reflex. Mortals bend to weather, and culture is weather. Then the idea passes down, one generation to the next. A hundred or a thousand years later, the mortal world may birth a new nation that ranks by tongue. That’s the result I want.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed, thoughts turning like wings over a cliff. After a beat, she asked:

“How can you be sure you’ll root Dispute in them? Maybe the moment you die, they’ll choose to forget. All this might mean nothing.”

“It won’t. No one is spotless. Everyone gets stained by the room they’re in. It’s only a question of how deep the dye runs.”

Daviya beckoned a senior retainer. From a timid page dressed like a book‑boy, he took two cups of wine and handed one to Anna. The cups glinted like starlight on a pond.

“Even if it fails, so what? Our ascent to Demon King hangs on the Abyss accepting us. You are Slaughter. The more you kill, the brighter your path. I am Dispute. I want to kindle Dispute in the mortal world.”

He sipped. The drink was a luxury he’d bought through Kadula, who holds the Value authority in his domain. Eighty Colonna gold a cup.

Sun‑glow essence and stardust blended within, brewed with high‑purity HolyWater and the faerie ring herb known as the Elf King’s Blessing. It left a light aroma, like dawn on grass.

It suited him. A cup before a killing puts a good moon over the mind.

“Alright. You’ve toured my domain. Now tell me—who do we kill?”

“You still haven’t answered me. Why did you agree to help me so readily?”

Daviya spread his hands, palms open like empty sky, then pointed at the mortals like a man pointing at seedlings he’d planted.

“That’s the answer, Lady Anna. As you see, I’ve raised the sapling of a society. I don’t want to lose my work, my army, my domain, my ascent. If I refuse you, you’ll kill me. Then all this turns to ash.”

“How can you be sure I’d kill you?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Daviya smiled in quiet peace and took another slow sip. Inside, he replayed the feedback his Dispute domain had just fed him—every turn of the argument with Anna about whether to help, and the conclusion it had already written in the air.