And somehow, Satou was caught in the middle of it.

"ENOUGH."

The single word cut through everything. The bloodlust, the tension, the building violence, all of it stopped as if someone had thrown a switch.

Malakor the Eternal had spoken.

His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it carried absolute authority. Every demon lord at the table immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to face the First Seat.

The Lord of Undeath had still not moved since the meeting began. He sat perfectly motionless, his skeletal hands folded on the table in front of him. But now, for the first time, he lifted his head slightly to look at them.

The temperature dropped another ten degrees. The frost that had been slowly spreading from his seat suddenly exploded outward, covering half the table in seconds. Not magical ice, not frozen water, but something else. The cold of the grave. The chill of death itself made manifest.

"You will both be silent," Malakor said, his voice soft but carrying weight that made even Loki's bloodlust seem like a child's tantrum. "You will stop this display immediately. You will remember where you are and who you are. You will not turn this council meeting into a venue for your personal vendettas."

Neither Loki nor Chronus responded. They just stared at Malakor, and Satou could see something he'd never expected to see in beings this powerful.

Fear..

They were afraid of him. Not just wary, not just respectful, but genuinely afraid. And from what Satou could sense, they had good reason to be.

The power emanating from Malakor was different from the others. Volcanus's heat was impressive but straightforward. Azshara's water magic was versatile but comprehensible. Even Loki's bloodlust, terrifying as it was, followed rules Satou could understand.

But Malakor's power was something else entirely. It was the absence of life. The negation of existence. Death as a fundamental force of reality. And it was so vast, so absolute, that Satou couldn't even begin to measure it.

This was the strongest demon lord. This was the being who sat at the First Seat not because of politics or longevity, but because no one, not even the combined might of the other ten, could challenge him.

"Loki," Malakor said, still not raising his voice. "Withdraw your bloodlust. Resume your seat properly. Control yourself."

Loki's bloodlust vanished instantly, pulled back so quickly it was like it had never existed. His pleasant smile returned, though it was slightly strained now. "Of course, Lord Malakor. My apologies for the disruption."

"Chronus," Malakor continued. "Cease your provocations. Your personal issues with Loki do not concern this council. If you wish to challenge him, do so outside of official meetings. Do not waste our time with your grievances."

"Understood, Lord Malakor," Chronus said stiffly.

"Good." Malakor's hollow eye sockets swept across the table, taking in each demon lord in turn. When his gaze reached Satou, the young Hobgoblin felt like he was being measured, weighed, judged by something that understood death on a fundamental level.

"Now," Malakor said. "Let us address the actual purpose of this meeting. The candidacy of Satou for the seventh seat. I have reviewed the reports. I have examined the evidence. I have consulted with my sources regarding the death of the hero Vegeta."

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"The reports are accurate. Satou did, in fact, kill Vegeta in single combat. The method was unconventional, the transformation he underwent was unusual, but the result is undeniable. A hero blessed by the gods fell to a goblin who has existed in this world for less than three months."

Several demon lords shifted at this confirmation from Malakor. If the First Seat said it was true, then it was true. He had no reason to lie, and more importantly, he was never wrong about these things.

"However," Malakor continued, and now his gaze focused entirely on Satou. "Killing a hero, while impressive, does not automatically qualify one for a seat at this table. The seventh seat has remained empty for twenty years because we have not found anyone worthy to fill it. Many have tried. All have failed to meet our standards."

He leaned forward slightly, and Satou felt the full weight of his attention like a physical pressure.

"Tell me, young Satou. Why should we accept you? Not why Loki vouches for you. Not what you've already accomplished. But why should we, the eleven most powerful beings on this continent, agree to seat you among us as an equal? What do you bring to this table that we cannot find elsewhere?"

Every eye in the room turned to Satou.

This was it. The moment that would determine everything. Not Loki's vouching, not the evidence of Vegeta's death, but Satou's own words right now.

The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation.

Satou took a breath, organizing his thoughts. He could feel Seraphine's hungry gaze on him, Chronus's contemptuous dismissal, Loki's tense hope, and above all, Malakor's absolute judgment.

What did he bring to this table?

Satou met Malakor's hollow gaze without flinching. Every instinct screamed at him to look away, to bow, to show deference to the overwhelming power before him. But he remembered what Loki had told him: Demon Lords respect strength, and they respect those who don't cower.

"What I bring," Satou said, his voice steady despite the pressure bearing down on him, "is something none of you have. Change."

Several demon lords shifted. Chronus scoffed openly. But Malakor remained perfectly still, waiting for Satou to continue.

"Look at this table," Satou gestured around. "Eleven demon lords, each commanding vast territories, each ruling through power and fear. You've held your positions for centuries. Your domains are established. Your methods are proven. And in all that time, what has actually changed?"

"Careful, goblin," Volcanus rumbled. "You're bordering on insult."

"I'm stating facts," Satou replied. "The humans still hate and fear demons. The various monster races still fight amongst themselves. The heroes still hunt us. And we, the so called monsters of this world, remain exactly what we've always been. Isolated. Fragmented. Reactive rather than proactive."

"And you think you can change that?" Azshara asked, her black eyes gleaming with interest. "One goblin against millennia of established order?"

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