Imp to Demon King: A Journey of Conquest-Chapter 474: Hand Me Your Throne 1

The binding of Enkidu had cost more than Gilgamesh’s blood—it had cost precious time and momentum. Even as the wild man knelt cradled in earth and light, his divine corruption flickering like dying embers, the contractor armies pressed their advantage with the ruthless efficiency of predators sensing wounded prey.

StarGazer’s remaining Taoist immortals had regrouped, their celestial techniques painting aurora across the hellish sky as they advanced in perfect formation. Pharaoh’s bronze-armored warriors moved like clockwork soldiers, their enchanted weapons gleaming with the authority of ages. LonelyWolf’s Babylonian cavalry thundered across the volcanic plain, their mounts’ hooves striking sparks from obsidian stone.

Gilgamesh struggled to his feet, every movement sending fresh fire through his cracked ribs. Blood still seeped from the parallel furrows across his face, and his damaged throat made each breath a conscious effort. But his golden axe remained steady in his grip, even as his body screamed its protests.

"Gilgamesh," Zane called out, his dark wings beating as he landed nearby, his twin blades dripping with the essence of fallen immortals. "We need to fall back. The binding worked, but we’re outnumbered three to one, and you can barely stand."

Gawain’s solar radiance had begun to wane as clouds of ash and divine power obscured the hellish sun. His strikes against the Egyptian forces were still devastating, but the light of Galatine flickered with exhaustion. "He’s right," the knight panted, parrying a bronze khopesh with effort that would have been effortless minutes before. "We’ve accomplished what we came for—Enkidu is free of Marduk’s direct control. We live to fight another day."

Morwen’s bone-lyre sang a covering melody, her music turning the advancing armies’ coordination into confusion, but even her ancient power had limits. The Furies themselves, primordial though they were, found their fury wearing thin against the endless waves of divinely-enhanced mortals.

"Retreat," Gilgamesh commanded, his voice rough with damage but carrying absolute authority. "We withdraw to Atlantis. The binding will hold—my brother is safe for now."

The champions of Adam began their fighting withdrawal, each step purchased with blood and determination. They moved like a wounded but unbroken beast, still dangerous despite their injuries, covering each other as they fell back toward the portal that would return them to Atlantis.

Behind them, the contractor armies howled their victory to the hellish sky, but it was a hollow triumph. They had won the field, but their target had been saved—and every soul touched by Morwen’s music, freed by the Furies’ justice, or shown choice by Zane’s rebellion would remember what liberation felt like.

The greatest battles, after all, were not always won on the field of combat.

****

Half an hour ago.

At the opposite edge of the sky, where reality thinned into possibility and dreams took physical form, the Celestial Court drifted like a jade moon against the cosmic void. The Chinese pantheon’s realm existed in that space between what was and what could be—its pagodas and gardens seeming to phase in and out of multiple dimensions simultaneously, their architecture following rules that mortal minds could only glimpse before looking away in vertigo.

Mist wreathed the floating palaces in veils of silver and gold, while dragons the size of mountain ranges coiled through clouds that sparkled with accumulated wisdom. Each structure was a masterwork of impossible engineering—bridges that spanned gaps in space itself, towers that grew taller the closer one approached, gardens where seasons changed with the observer’s emotional state.

And standing at the very heart of this celestial wonder, upon a throne carved from a single piece of star-jade that had witnessed the birth of galaxies, sat the Jade Emperor himself. His presence was like standing at the center of all possible order—not oppressive, but encompassing, as if every law that governed reality flowed from his contemplation. Robes of imperial yellow and gold moved with their own wind, and his eyes held the patient wisdom of eons spent maintaining the balance between heaven and earth.

Around him, the assembled might of the Chinese pantheon prepared for war. Immortals in robes of cloud and starlight checked weapons that could reshape continents. Dragons discussed battle formations in voices like distant thunder. Buddha figures sat in meditation that was itself a form of terrible power, their compassion so vast it could stop armies in their tracks.

It was toward this gathering storm of divine authority that four figures approached across the void—four against an army that had maintained celestial order since before mortals learned to speak the names of gods.

Izanagi strode at their head, his presence like a crack in the foundation of existence itself. The ancient creator-god moved with the terrible confidence of one who had shaped the fundamental forces of life and death with his own hands. His white robes flowed like mist around a form that seemed to shift between states of being—now solid and present, now translucent as morning fog, always carrying the weight of primordial power that preceded organised pantheons. In his grip, the spear Amenonuhoko hummed with the authority of creation itself, its point capable of stirring new worlds from chaos or reducing existing ones to their component elements.

Beside him, Eris danced rather than walked, her every movement a celebration of beautiful chaos that made reality hiccup in her wake. The Greek goddess of discord wore armor that seemed to be forged from arguments given shape—plates that shifted color and texture depending on the angle of observation, always beautiful, always somehow wrong. Her apple of discord spun lazily above her palm, its surface reflecting not light but possibility—every conflict that could arise, every harmony that could be shattered, every perfect moment that could be ruined by a single word spoken in malice. Where her feet touched the void, small tears in space opened and closed like blinking eyes, each one showing glimpses of realities where order had never taken hold.

Shihan moved with the fluid grace of a predator. The nine-tailed fox demoness was a study in contradictions—wisdom wrapped in youthful beauty, savage power contained within perfect manners.