Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World - Chapter 512

Chapter 512: The Fall of the Demon Emperor
The blackened space trembled. Not from collapse.

From resistance.

From five beings refusing to yield.

Mephisto’s divine form shook beneath their collective assault. Wings, once untouchable, now frayed and trembling. His robe was in tatters. Flesh of godhood peeled back, revealing something older. Uglier.

Not holiness.

Not divinity.

But arrogance rotting from within.

He screamed again, and the sound fractured the false sky, sending a rain of silver ash down upon the battlefield. Symbols danced in the air—holy glyphs, divine chains—but they burned and unravelled the moment they touched Asmodeus’s flame.

Asmodeus was no longer roaring.

He was silent.

Utterly focused.

The axe in his hands trembled with restrained violence, its black flame coating his arms, licking his ribs, spiralling into the ground.

One by one, his wives flanked him again, breathing hard, covered in wounds, but their eyes burning.

Mephisto was panting.

Glaring.

Broken—yet not defeated.

“You’ve… you’ve turned this world into a mockery,” he spat, staggering to one side, his wings twitching. “What is this… this heresy? A demon and his concubines… wounding a god?”

He slammed his hand down.

And the floor responded.

The entire chamber inverted again—the mirrored floor cracked open into an abyss of screaming mouths and clawed hands. The air turned toxic, the gravity twisted, but they all held steady.

Even Lumina, her silk-weaving fingers bleeding, dug into the fabric of the world and held firm.

Mephisto grinned—wild, cracked.

“You think you’ve won? This isn’t over. I still possess the Word.”

A sigil bloomed behind him.

Ancient.

Pure.

White.

And wrong.

He lifted his hand—

But Asmodeus was already there.

He appeared in front of Mephisto not with a sound, but with a silence that crushed everything else.

Their weapons met with a ring of metal.

Shockwave.

Everything beyond them shattered.

And in the distance, a new sound echoed—

A bell.

One toll.

Far away.

Not part of this world.

Asmodeus blinked.

Mephisto’s grin widened.

“You heard it too… didn’t you?”

Then—

The light went out.

The entire chapter ends in pitch black.

Total void.

A new force is coming.

The air hissed.

Not with flame or frost—but tension. The kind that lived in drawn breath, in the silence before two blades met. The kind that stretched thinner with every heartbeat.

Asmodeus exhaled slowly.

The black fire spiralling from his axe dimmed, focusing tighter around the runes etched into the steel. His steps echoed against the warped, glassy floor of Mephisto’s dimension—but no echo returned.

Behind him, the four women gathered again, breathing hard but unbroken.

Levia adjusted her grip on her spear, sweat streaking across soot-darkened cheeks. “You’re lucky I don’t charge by the kill. This one’s overtime.”

Vinea grinned, her greatsword resting over one shoulder, the blade hissing where divine blood sizzled against it. “It’s okay, our husband will pay you in orgasms.”

Asmodea leaned her weight into Asmodeus’s side briefly, her cheek brushing against his arm. “Let’s finish this before my roses wilt. Or before I do.”

Lumina didn’t speak, but one of her threads brushed Asmodeus’s wrist gently. He glanced down, and she met his gaze with all eight red eyes and smiled. Quiet. Steady.

Mephisto snarled at them all—his wings twitching, his divine blood still dripping.

“This is the end,” he said.

“No,” Asmodeus replied, lifting his axe.

“It’s the beginning of your end.”

The flames roared.

Then the void shattered.

The moment shattered.

Mephisto’s foot stopped sliding. His scythe lifted. And the silence that followed cut deeper than any blade.

Black mist spilt from his mouth.

Not smoke—something denser. Slower. Alive.

A tendril of it curled along the floor, and where it passed, colour died. Even Lumina’s glowing threads turned grey before dissolving into ash.

Then he moved.

No spell. No theatrics.

His third eye snapped wide—and the world darkened.

A tremor ran through his frame. One heartbeat, then two. His divine aura pulsed outward like a heartbeat—pitch-black, thick, endless. It didn’t radiate heat or light. It absorbed them. The air grew still. The walls stopped breathing.

And then his body began to change.

Not transforming—deteriorating.

Veins bulged, black and rotting, up his throat and across his jaw. His left eye cracked like porcelain. His hand clenched tighter on the scythe, and his knuckles split from the pressure.

He was burning something.

Not magic.

Not stamina.

Essence.

He walked.

The moment his foot touched the ground, the glass floor shattered in a perfect ring beneath him.

Levia threw her spear, but it slowed before reaching him as if the space around his body refused motion. It veered, crumbled, and vanished before hitting his chest.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran to close the distance.

He raised one finger.

A black loop of script—thick, circular, ancient—appeared beneath her feet.

Levia’s body locked mid-step, every muscle seizing at once. Her weapon fell from her hand with a dull clang. Chains of lightless iron burst from the ground and coiled around her torso, legs, and throat—not burning, but sealing.

She sank to one knee, jaw tight, unable to move. Her heart still beat. Her mind still screamed.

But her body was already lost.

Mephisto didn’t spare her a glance.

He turned toward the next.

Lumina darted from strand to strand, flickering around him in a blur of venom and silk. Threads stitched into the floor, walls, his limbs—but each time they took hold, they turned brittle. Dead.

He opened his palm.

A single sigil ignited in the air above her.

She vanished.

Not destroyed—devoured.

Her body reappeared a moment later—twenty meters above, falling limp, tangled in her own threads, unconscious.

He caught her midair with a gesture and lowered her gently, almost mockingly, beside Levia.

Two down.

Asmodea screamed.

Roses exploded outward, vines lashing forward in desperation. Her blood magic coiled through the cracks in the floor and reached for his feet, his arms, the scythe—but Mephisto simply stepped through it.

Each vine he touched withered into fuel.

Her magic fed him.

He raised the scythe and brought it down once, not at her.

On the floor.

The vines recoiled. The blood hissed. Asmodea’s spell unravelled all at once—and her eyes widened before she collapsed forward, coughing crimson onto her sleeve.

Vinea alone remained.

She met him with a roar, greatsword dragging through the ground behind her. She leapt, blade high.

He waited.

Then moved past her before the swing could land.

A flick of his hand struck her in the chest—not brutal, not even visible—but the blow sent her crashing into the far wall with a sound like stone splitting. She didn’t get up.

Four bodies.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

But broken.

Mephisto stood alone again, his black aura rising like smoke from a corpse pyre. His third eye flickered. His body continued to rot in patches.

He didn’t care.

His voice returned—low, quiet, steady now.

“I warned you,” he said.

“You can burn your kingdoms. You can forge loyalty in fire and pain. But even love dies.”

His scythe spun once in his fingers.

“And everything dies before me.”

Asmodeus didn’t speak.

The silence was weight enough.

His axe hung low at his side. The fire around him had dimmed, but not died. It breathed in time with him, slow, defiant, refusing to vanish.

Mephisto turned toward him.

“Still standing?”

Asmodeus’s voice came low and hoarse. “I’m the Demon Emperor.”

He stepped forward.

And the flames answered.

“And they are my beautiful wives!”

His cloak reignited, black fire wrapping around his arms, his legs, his chest. The blade of his axe brightened, etched runes lighting one by one. Magic surged beneath his skin, and every step cracked the glass beneath his boots—not from weight, but from sheer intent.

Mephisto raised his scythe.

“Foolish.”

The air between them bent. Gravity folded inward. Shadows twisted around Asmodeus’s feet, trying to hold him in place, but he walked through them.

He swung first.

The axe came down in a heavy arc, dragging flame behind it like a comet. Mephisto met it mid-swing. Their weapons struck with a blast that tore the air apart, but neither flinched. The next blow followed instantly—axe, scythe, fist, claw. There was no more technique. Just will.

Asmodeus fought like a storm, each strike fueled by agony. His ribs were broken. His arms were trembling. But he kept moving. He kept striking. He gave no room to breathe.

Mephisto didn’t need room.

He stopped holding back.

His aura exploded outward, thick and cold, and this time, the world dimmed completely. The fire died. The colours bled. Even the Empresses—still breathing, barely—seemed to fade into silence.

Asmodeus struck once more.

Mephisto caught the axe with one hand.

And shattered it.

The haft snapped in half, the rune-lit edge falling uselessly to the floor.

Asmodeus stumbled. A pulse of pain surged through his chest. His knees buckled—but he stayed upright.

Mephisto’s hand closed around his throat.

“You called yourself Emperor,” he said. “But your pride was always going to be your grave.”

The grip tightened.

Asmodeus tried to answer, but no sound came. His body cracked. His vision dimmed. His legs gave out.

Mephisto raised his scythe for the final blow.

Then the light changed.

A soft sound echoed through the broken chamber—not divine, not infernal. Just footsteps, steady and calm.

Mephisto turned.

And his scythe met resistance.

A wall of golden flame had risen between them—clean, bright, impossibly still. It held.

And from within it, a figure stepped forward.

Robes tattered, sword in hand, burning with light so intense it cast shadows backwards into the void.

Alan stood between them, his expression calm, one hand still glowing with golden fire.

He looked down at Asmodeus, crumpled, bleeding, eyes still open.

“I’ve got you, brother,” he said.

And Mephisto, for the first time, took a step back.