Baimon's life as a Devil had, on the whole, been a smooth one. Gifted from childhood, it had risen through the ranks in succession, becoming a duke in its own right with tens of thousands of Devils under its rule. Among Devil ranks, it had already approached the highest tier. So long as it did not seek to challenge Asmodeus's position, its life could be said to have known no setbacks, only pleasure.
As for challengers coveting its position, honestly, changes in rank within the Devil Race were not frequent, especially once one had reached the level of duke.
The overwhelming majority of challengers posed no real threat. They were merely toys for amusement.
If its devilish life were written into a novel, everything so far would have been a fast-paced wish-fulfillment story, full of gains.
But now, quite suddenly for it, this Devil wish-fulfillment story was about to be cut short and end in a complete mess.
And the Caster Association had arranged that abrupt ending down to the last detail.
Everything happened very quickly.
Baimon was weaving through the thin morning mist, using the not-yet-fully-bright sky as cover as it advanced toward the human camp it had observed, continuing its goal of killing more humans and avenging everything it had lost.
Completely unaware that every movement it made was being broadcast from every angle to the people at Association headquarters.
When it was less than a hundred meters from the camp, the command team issued the order to act.
Almost instantly, a golden rift appeared before the moving Baimon.
Neither too close nor too far—the distance between the rift and Baimon's body was exactly within sword-swinging range.
The moment it saw that golden rift, Baimon realized something was wrong. That demigod it could not defeat had found it.