"Kneel," Satou repeated, his voice carrying absolute command. "You tried to kill me while I was standing. Now you'll accept your marking while you're beneath me. Kneel, Chronus the Timeless. Or I'll inform Lord Malakor that you're refusing the Rite, which would be yet another violation of law."

The humiliation of the demand was worse than any physical strike could be. Every demon lord present, every retainer, every spectator—all of them would see Chronus, tenth-seat, master of time itself, kneeling before a three-month-old provisional demon lord.

Chronus's hands clenched into fists. His jaw worked as if he was physically chewing on words too bitter to swallow. His entire body trembled with suppressed rage.

But slowly, with the mechanical movement of someone forcing themselves through absolute torture, Chronus lowered himself to one knee.

"Good," Satou said. He raised Void Fang, the blade positioned horizontally above Chronus's bowed head. "This mark will remind you that laws exist for a reason. That power has limits. That even demon lords can face consequences."

Then he brought the blade down in a precise, controlled arc.

Not on Chronus's head—that would have been too easy. Instead, Satou struck across his back, from left shoulder to right hip, carving a diagonal line through clothing, flesh, and into bone.

The blade's Existence Erasure property activated. The wound was deep but not fatal, cutting through layers of temporal defenses like they didn't exist. Blood welled up—crimson rather than the black of Richard's corrupted essence, proof that Chronus was still fundamentally humanoid despite his power.

But more importantly, the wound wouldn't heal normally. The Existence Erasure meant that "intact flesh" had been deleted from that diagonal line. It would have to be rewritten back into existence through concentrated effort and considerable time.

Chronus screamed—a sound of rage and pain and humiliation that echoed across the arena. His temporal nature flickered wildly, different ages appearing and disappearing as his control shattered under the agony.

[Critical Strike Delivered] [Existence Erasure Active] [Permanent Scarring: 97% Probability]

Satou stepped back, sheathing Void Fang. "The Rite of Marked Grievance is complete. Rise, Chronus. And remember this moment the next time you consider violating sacred law."

Chronus struggled to his feet, one hand pressed against his back where blood was seeping through his robes. His face was twisted with fury, but beneath that, Satou could see something else.

Fear.

Because the wound wasn't healing. Because his temporal manipulation couldn't reverse it. Because he now carried a permanent mark of his failure, carved by someone he'd considered beneath his notice.

"This... isn't... over," Chronus managed through clenched teeth.

"Oh, but it is," Malakor said coldly. "You have your marking. Satou has his compensation. The matter is settled unless you wish to elevate it further, which I strongly advise against."

The skeletal lord's eye sockets blazed with cold fire. "Now collect your champion. Leave this arena. Return to your domain. And pray I don't decide to investigate exactly what you're hiding that made you risk so much."

Chronus didn't respond. He couldn't, not without risking further humiliation. Instead, he gestured sharply, and temporal energy wrapped around Richard Clay's fallen form. The champion's body lifted from the blood-stained obsidian, hovering in a stasis field.

Then Chronus opened a temporal portal—the edges of it ragged and unstable, showing his lack of control—and stepped through with his defeated champion.

The portal snapped shut behind them.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Volcanus began clapping—slow, deliberate applause that echoed across the arena. "Well done, young Satou! You just made a permanent enemy of one of the most dangerous demon lords on the continent, but you did it with style! I approve!"

Several other demon lords joined in the applause—Grimfang's claws creating sparks as he struck them together, Azshara's water tendrils creating rhythmic splashing sounds, even Thalassian's starlight form pulsing in time.

Malakor didn't applaud, but his skeletal features somehow conveyed approval. "You handled that well. Politically astute while maintaining strength. That's the balance required of demon lords. Continue developing that skill, and your provisional status will become permanent."

He gestured to the arena. "This challenge is concluded. Satou, provisional seventh-seat, has defeated Richard Clay in fair combat and has claimed appropriate compensation for Chronus's interference. Let it be recorded in council history that the Arena of Fallen Stars has witnessed the rise of a new demon lord."

The other demon lords began dispersing, opening portals back to their domains or simply vanishing through their preferred methods of travel.

Seraphine lingered, her corrupted wings folding gracefully as she approached Satou with predatory grace. When she spoke, her voice was pitched for his ears only—sultry and dangerous in equal measure.

"That was magnificent, darling. Forcing Chronus to kneel? Marking him permanently? Showing no fear even before Malakor himself?" She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You've become even more interesting than I thought. I must have you. One way or another, eventually, you will be mine."

Then she vanished in a swirl of corrupted light, leaving only the scent of something sweet and dangerous.

Loki walked up, shaking his head with a mixture of pride and exasperation. "You realize you just made the most dangerous enemy you could have, right? Chronus will never forgive that humiliation. He'll spend the next century plotting your death."

"He was already plotting my death," Satou pointed out. "At least now he'll think twice before acting on it."

"Fair point," Loki conceded. He clapped Satou on the shoulder. "You won, Satou. Definitively and spectacularly. Richard Clay, the champion who'd killed multiple heroes, defeated. Chronus, tenth-seat demon lord, humiliated and marked. And you, provisional seventh-seat, now have the respect—or at least the attention—of the entire demon lord council."

He gestured to the scarred arena around them. "Your year to prove yourself starts officially now. But I think we both know you've already proven more than most candidates ever do."

Satou looked around the Arena of Fallen Stars—the mirror-smooth obsidian scarred by combat, the channels of lava still flowing, the elevated platforms where demon lords had witnessed his victory.

He'd done it. He'd survived the Dungeon of Eternal Nightmares. He'd defeated Richard Clay. He'd marked Chronus himself.

And now he had a year to prove that his vision of monsters building civilization rather than just surviving could actually work.

"Take me home," Satou said to Loki. "I have two women waiting to hear that I survived, and a settlement that needs to be told their chief isn't dying anytime soon."

"Then let's not keep them waiting," Loki replied, opening a portal with a flourish.

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