The throne room fell silent. Nobles exchanged glances. The bishop sputtered.

"I... that is... the corruption alone—" the bishop tried.

"So zero," Advent concluded. "Or close to it. She hasn't actually been killing humans. She's just existing in a way you don't approve of."

The temperature in the room dropped. Power began leaking from Advent—centuries of accumulated strength pressing against reality like a physical weight.

"You woke me up," Advent said, his voice still casual but now carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous, "after two hundred and forty years of sleep, because you want me to kill a demon lord who isn't actually threatening anyone, just so you can claim her territory and eliminate a refuge for people you don't like."

"Lord Reaper, you misunderstand—" the king started.

The power flared.

Every person in the throne room except the king and his closest retainers immediately collapsed unconscious. Dozens of nobles, knights, and advisors hit the floor like puppets with cut strings, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of a being who'd killed twelve demon lords in three days.

Only those with the Goddess's direct protection—the king and his inner circle—remained conscious, and even they were pale and trembling.

"Oops," Advent said, not sounding sorry at all. "Sorry about that. Been asleep for a while. Kind of hard to control my power when I first wake up."

He took a breath and deliberately pulled his aura back in, condensing it until only those with magical sensitivity could feel it.

The unconscious nobles remained unconscious—they'd wake eventually, but the psychic shock of experiencing that much power would leave them traumatized.

"Sorry," Advent repeated, this time sounding slightly more genuine. "That really wasn't intentional. But it does illustrate a point—I'm way too powerful for any of you to control or command. So let's be clear about our relationship here: You can request my help. You can appeal to my sense of heroism. But you absolutely cannot order me around or lie to me about why you want someone dead."

King Aldric had gone from trying to project authority to barely managing not to wet himself. "I... we..."

"It's fine," Advent said, waving away the king's terror. "I'll take the job. I'll go to the Fallen Spires. I'll deal with Seraphine."

"You will?" The king sounded shocked.

"Sure. Why not?" Advent shrugged. "Been asleep for two centuries. Might as well see what this demon lord is about. Plus, honestly? I'm bored. Fighting someone might be entertaining for a little while."

He started walking toward the exit, his casual stride unchanged despite having just knocked out half the throne room.

"Wait!" the king called after him. "What about reinforcements? Supplies? A support battalion?"

Advent paused at the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. A smile crossed his face—not warm, but amused in a way that was somehow more disturbing than comforting.

"Reinforcements?" he repeated. "Your Majesty, I don't need reinforcements."

His smile widened slightly.

"I am the reinforcement."

Then he left, leaving behind a throne room full of unconscious nobles, a traumatized king, and the unsettling certainty that they'd just unleashed something that might be more dangerous than any demon lord.

Advent walked through the capital city, hands in his pockets, completely relaxed despite every person who saw him either fleeing in terror or dropping to worship.

"This never gets less weird," he muttered to himself. "You'd think after three hundred years people would be less dramatic."

He stopped at a tavern—The Drunken Griffin, according to the sign. Inside, he ordered ale and food, much to the bartender's shock.

"Y-you're The Reaper," the bartender stammered. "The legendary hero. What are you doing in my humble establishment?"

"Getting drunk, hopefully," Advent replied. "I've got a week-long walk to demon lord territory. Figured I'd start it with actual food instead of travel rations."

He sat at the bar, and gradually other patrons worked up the courage to approach. They asked questions—was he really going to fight Seraphine? Was he really that strong? Could he actually kill a demon lord?

"Yeah, probably, and yes," Advent answered in order. "Though honestly, calling them 'fights' is generous. More like... demonstrations of why challenging me is a bad idea."

"You sound almost sad about that," an old adventurer observed.

"Do I?" Advent considered. "Yeah, I guess I am. Fighting used to be exciting. Now it's just going through the motions. I swing my sword, they die, everyone celebrates, and I feel... nothing."

"That's the burden of being the strongest," the old adventurer said. "No one to challenge you means no stakes. No stakes means no excitement."

"Exactly," Advent agreed. "That's exactly it. I've been the strongest for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to actually struggle. To worry I might lose. To feel that adrenaline rush of genuine danger."

He finished his ale. "But hey, maybe this Seraphine will surprise me. Maybe she'll actually make me try. Probably not, but a guy can hope."

He left the tavern and began the journey east.

For the next week, Advent walked at a leisurely pace, taking in the scenery, occasionally helping travelers who were attacked by monsters (usually by accident—he'd be walking past and monsters would attack him, adapt to being invincible, and then die from the reflected damage).

He was in no rush. Seraphine wasn't going anywhere, and honestly, what was the point of hurrying? The outcome was inevitable.

But as he got closer to the Fallen Spires, Advent noticed something interesting.

Refugees were fleeing westward. Families, mostly women and children, with hastily packed belongings and terror in their eyes.

"What's happening?" Advent asked one group.

"The Fallen Spires is evacuating non-combatants," a woman explained. "Lady Seraphine said The Reaper is coming. She's trying to protect civilians by getting them away from the battle zone."

"Huh," Advent said. "That's... actually responsible. Most demon lords I've fought didn't care about civilian casualties."

"Lady Seraphine protects us," another woman said defensively. "She's given us safety when nowhere else would. We don't want to leave, but she insisted. Said she wouldn't risk our lives in her fight."

Advent watched the refugees pass, something uncomfortable stirring in his chest. "She's evacuating her people to protect them from me. That's... not what I expected."

For the first time in a very long time, Advent felt something other than boredom.

He felt curiosity.

What kind of demon lord prioritized civilian safety over military advantage? What kind of corrupted angel built a refuge for the rejected rather than an empire of conquest?

"Maybe," Advent said quietly to himself, "maybe this will actually be interesting after all."

He continued toward the Fallen Spires with slightly less casual stride and slightly more genuine interest than he'd felt in two centuries.

Behind him, refugees whispered to each other about the legendary hero who'd stopped to ask questions instead of just assuming all demons were evil.

And ahead of him, in the Fallen Spires, preparations continued for a battle that everyone knew was probably hopeless.

The Reaper was seven days away.

And for the first time in two hundred forty years, he was actually curious about what he'd find when he arrived.

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