Before the plasma blade could erupt in all its blazing glory, however, Astaroth raised his palm and shook his head.
"Do not doubt our strength, least of all our intelligence. You're more powerful than us. But that's merely on paper. We're ancient—a team that has survived the universe's darkest age, where tiers or divinity meant nothing. Only survival mattered. And to survive, we've battled gods and demons, impaled angels, and witnessed devils rise, then fall."
He pointed his finger at the God Slayer, smirking as the other three demon nobles rose from the sofa. "Believe it or not, we can repel you. And to put your head on a spike, all we'd need is to drag the fight out for five seconds. I'm sure Vinéa would rush back with Paimon, Zagan, and Balam."
His voice turned into a slow whisper, insidious—tempting. "Yet, we didn't. We have other plans."
