(Narrator POV)

Sara guided Allen through the dim hangar, her boots echoing against the polished floor. The air smelled of oil and cold metal — the kind of place built for secrets. Ahead of them, a sleek black jet waited, its hull glinting faintly under the faint blue light. No insignias, no serial numbers. It was the kind of aircraft that didn't exist on any record — the kind used for operations that officially never happened.

Allen walked in silence, his wrists bound with shimmering restraints that pulsed faintly with holy energy. He didn't resist. He didn't need to. His calm, almost amused expression made Sara's chest tighten with unease. Even stripped of his powers, even shackled like a prisoner, the demon carried himself as though he were the one in control.

Sara didn't look at him as she pressed the panel to open the jet door.

"Move," she ordered curtly.

Allen obeyed, his chains clinking softly as he stepped inside.

The jet lifted quietly into the night, slicing through the clouds toward a destination only a handful of people in the world knew existed.

They weren't flying toward freedom. They were flying toward a performance — one meant to fool the entire world Organization for sake of Yuuta.

The chosen location was perfect in its cruelty.

An abandoned desert expanse once used for nuclear tests in America— Now it's silent, scorched, forgotten. The kind of place where history had already learned to bury its mistakes.

But tonight, it would host the world's greatest illusion.

On every major news channel, anchors announced a "global peace summit." Presidents, agency heads, and military leaders were supposedly gathering to discuss the future of world security. Cameras rolled. Reporters smiled After that submit real Execution start. Audiences watched from their living rooms, unaware that the so-called summit was a cover for something far darker.

In reality, Leaders were gathering for an execution.

Over a hundred and fifty heads of state, dozens of agency chiefs, hundreds of captains and generals, and thousands of soldiers had converged on the desert under strict orders. The entire world's power structure now stood inside one steel-lined arena — built from classified blueprints inspired by long-lost designs of Nikola Tesla and other forgotten inventors.

The facility itself was a masterpiece of hidden science — a ghost of technology the world had chosen to forget. Wires hummed beneath the metal floors. Towers of reinforced glass glowed faintly, each powered by a core that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air buzzed with energy — and anticipation.

The American president sat apart, pale and taut with restrained fury. He had seen Allen's cruelty with his own eyes — had watched the demon barge into the White House, kill a friend who recently Signed Contract, then Allen surrender with that same unbearable, smug smile. That smile did something to a man: it made him small, made him tremble with the knowledge that the instrument of death might yet be amused.

His fists clenched until his knuckles blanched. He had spent fortunes and patience to be here for this moment. If Allen fell today, he would pay whatever it took to see it done. If the world demanded a spectacle, he would make sure it was one of finality.

Outside, the soldiers held their lines. Inside, the leaders waited — not for justice, but for a show that would close a chapter and pretend the threat had truly been erased.

Sara tightened her grip on Allen's escort leash and stepped into the light that would be seen around the world. The engines of the jet cut out behind them. The cameras, already fed with staged footage of presidents at a summit, were only a heartbeat away from switching to a different script — a script where a demon's legacy ended in a controlled, televised silence.

Then summit had ended hours ago. Cameras were shut down. The media had been escorted out, all carrying the same carefully crafted illusion — that the world's leaders had gathered for peace.

But peace was never the purpose of this meeting.

When the last journalist's footsteps faded from the hall, silence took over. What remained inside the sealed steel chamber wasn't diplomacy — it was fear.

The room felt colder now. Presidents, prime ministers, generals, and directors from every corner of the globe sat motionless around a circular table. Their breaths were shallow, their eyes fixed on the center of the hall, where the true reason for this gathering was about to be revealed.

It would later be known as The Execution of Allen.

There had once been two names whispered in dread — Rio and Allen, the twin calamities of the old empire.

Rio, the embodiment of Wrath.

Allen, the vessel of Pride.

Both had walked this earth once, their power so vast that entire nations vanished in the wake of their clash. History called them monsters. The Church called them demons. Yet the truth was simpler — they were forces the world was never meant to contain.

Rio had fallen first, dragged back into his own cursed realm.

When that happened, the global threat meters in every major intelligence network — from the Pentagon to the Vatican's secret archives — dropped by half overnight. Humanity celebrated, thinking evil had finally been defeated.

But the world never understood why Rio had disappeared.

It was Allen who had ensured it — not out of mercy, not for humankind's salvation, but because it was his Eternal master's will.

And now, that same being stood before them.

Chains wrapped around his wrists, forged from an alloy built to restrain divine entities. His body was scarred, his clothes torn — yet his eyes were calm. Too calm.

Sara entered the chamber first, her boots echoing across the marble floor. Her grip was steady, her posture flawless, but even she couldn't hide the tremor in her breath as she led him forward.

Every gaze followed them. Soldiers tightened their grips on their rifles. One of the generals leaned toward another, whispering under his breath.

"Are we certain this is him?" he asked. "The Arch Demon… Allen Manstar?"

Another frowned. "He feels… empty. There's no pressure from him at all."

"Maybe Sara's deceived us," a third voice murmured, "maybe this is some trick—"

Then Allen moved.

He raised his head slowly, the shadows sliding from his face. His eyes gleamed faintly, reflecting the room's dim light — not human eyes, but something far older, deeper.

And then, he smiled.

It started as a faint curve, harmless, almost human. But then it widened — stretching, twisting, until the warmth was gone, replaced by something that froze every heart in the room.

Then came the sound.

A laugh — low at first, then rising, raw and unholy. It wasn't the laugh of a man. It was something else entirely, a sound that split the air like thunder and dragged the scent of blood and ruin with it.

It was the laugh of something that had seen gods fall and empires burn — and had never once bowed to either.

Even the air seemed to recoil.

And in that single, echoing moment, everyone present realized the same horrifying truth:

They hadn't captured Allen.

They had invited him.

The U.S. president snapped. He grabbed the microphone and hurled it toward Allen, the metal clanging uselessly on the stone floor. His voice trembled as he shouted, "What are you laughing at, monster?! You're going to die — idiot!" Fear had turned his anger raw.

Allen's laughter died down to a low chuckle. Then, with the same soft, terrible smile he'd worn the day he walked into the White House, he said quietly, "Finally… it seems I've fooled you all."

The words hung in the air like a knell. No broadcast picked them up now — no microphone amplified them — but they rang through the hall all the same, clear and impossible, like a bell tolling for the living.

Panic rippled across the rows. "What does he mean?" someone whispered.

No one answered.

Only the American president sat frozen, the memory of that smile cutting through him. He remembered blood in the Oval Office, remembered Allen's casual surrender. The recollection slid over him like ice. A terrible possibility realized itself in his mind: Allen had not surrendered to be bound — he had surrendered to set a stage.

He had surrendered to begin.

Sara, still holding the restraint leash at his wrist, leaned in close, her voice a hard whisper. "What are you doing, demon? Have you forgotten the script the Queen gave us?" Her words were barely audible, brittle with authority.

Allen did not reply. For a long, breathless moment he remained still — then, as if a weight had been lifted, he stretched his arm forward.

The holy chain that had held him — chains forged of sacred alloys and consecrated iron, tested against gods — snapped. It shattered as if made of glass, shards scattering across the marble like falling snow. The sound was small and final.

The hall's air changed.

Allen inhaled and let out a slow, deliberate breath. He released his aura.

It arrived like a storm. First a pressure — a crushing weight that pressed against lungs and made the soldiers stagger. Then color: a dark red, viscous and alive, spread outward from him and swallowed the platform. It was not merely power; it was presence — a tyrant-class calamity that bent the light and chilled the blood in everyone's veins.

Men who had stood unblinking in wars took a step back. Somewhere near the front, a captain vomited. Cameras, trained on spectacle, trembled in their mounts as if sensing a new script that no one had authorized.

Sara drew her sword with a sound like metal on silk — the blood-steel blade singing as it left its scabbard. Her fingers tightened on the hilt. "

Sara frowned as the silence in the stadium stretched longer than it should have. Something felt wrong.

She took a step forward, her voice trembling slightly.

"Allen… what are you doing? Why aren't you following the script?"

Allen didn't answer right away.

He stood there, head lowered, a strange grin spreading across his face—one that sent a chill down her spine.

When he finally looked up, his eyes no longer held warmth.

Only something dark. Unfamiliar.

"Script?" he muttered, his tone low, almost a whisper. Then, louder—more sinister—"What script are you talking about, Sara?"

Her breath hitched.

For a moment, she thought he was joking… but there was no trace of humor in his voice.

The air around him felt heavier—thick enough to make it hard to breathe.

Sara's instincts screamed at her to step back.

Before she could, Allen moved.

It happened too fast for anyone to react.

His fist crashed into her chest with brutal force.

Bang!

Sara's body was thrown across the arena like a rag doll, slamming into the wall with a deafening crack.

The concrete split, dust spilling from the impact as the stadium fell into utter silence.

Fiona's eyes widened.

Erika froze mid-step.

Even the President and the world leaders, seated high in the stands, couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

That single blow—so fast, so powerful—had frozen the entire arena.

Allen exhaled slowly.

He gripped his shirt and tore it apart, revealing a body carved with muscle and ink.

Dark tattoos crawled across his skin like living shadows.

On his back, one word burned like a brand—PRIDE.

And below it, near his waist, a crimson mark twisted into a shape resembling a dragon's fang. The symbol of Silent Death.

His aura shifted—dark, suffocating, almost alive.

Every eye was on him, yet he looked like a man who had already left this world behind.

Then, in a voice cold and certain, he said—

"Now... let's begin the world's domination."

To be continue..

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