As Warmonger watches his servant fly off, he gracefully ascends into the sky, heading toward a towering structure that dominates the horizon—the castle, his stronghold. It looms with an ominous presence, an architectural masterpiece resembling an old European castle, vast and intimidating. Its tall spires pierce the sky, casting long shadows across the floating island beneath it. The stone walls, dark and ancient, exude an air of untold history, and the gothic architecture invokes fear and reverence.

Warmonger descends, landing at the grand entrance, where two guards—fallen angels like him—stand watch. The female and male guards grip their silver spears, holding them vertically, unwavering in their duty. Both immediately kneel upon seeing Warmonger approach, their eyes averted, as if they feared the mere act of looking upon him.

Without acknowledging their presence, Warmonger strides past them, his steps echoing on the polished marble floors as if the ground itself feared to defy him. His disinterest is palpable; to him, these guards are no more than shadows in the wind.

The floating island, though vast and akin to the size of a kingdom, houses only one grand structure—the castle. The rest of the island is blanketed in a dense, foreboding forest, teeming with demonic beasts that roam freely. The isolation of the castle from the world beyond mirrors the isolation of its master, ruling over this eerie domain with absolute authority.

Warmonger enters the castle, passing through several grand halls and corridors, each one more opulent and majestic than the last. His path leads him to the throne room—a vast, cathedral-like chamber. The walls are adorned with stained-glass windows in a myriad of colors, casting ethereal hues upon the floor. Statues of angels, now grotesque in their fallen form, stand as silent sentinels. Behind the throne, a detailed map of an unknown city is etched into the wall, a symbol of conquest yet to come?

The room is supported by thick stone pillars, giving it an imposing, almost sacred feel, like a temple dedicated to power and control. At the center sits a grand, dark throne, its high back adorned with intricate carvings of wings and dark symbols.

As Warmonger approaches, his movements are fluid and deliberate, and when he sits on the throne, it is as though the seat was crafted for him alone. His posture radiates regality, his presence exuding an air of command that is undeniable. Anyone who looked upon him in this moment would believe, without a doubt, that he was born to rule.

Standing to the side of the throne is Procel, Warmonger's loyal advisor and right-hand man. He is always by his master's side, ever watchful, ever ready to serve. Procel is an enigma—his tall, gaunt figure draped in fine black robes, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. He exudes wisdom and cruelty in equal measure, his expression cold and devoid of empathy. His loyalty to Warmonger is absolute; he exists for no other purpose than to fulfill his master's will.

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Seeing Warmonger's unusual expression of satisfaction, Procel stepped forward, his tone calm and measured. "You seem rather pleased, my lord. Has something of particular interest occurred today?"

Warmonger's lips curled into a slow, chilling smile. "You are as observant as ever, Procel. Indeed, something... intriguing has caught my attention." His voice, low and deliberate, carried the weight of a king who relished his dominion. "Tell me, is there any oni among the twelve demon generals?"

Procel's mind calculated quickly, though his expression remained stoic, his thoughts expertly concealed behind the veil of servitude. "No, Your Majesty. The oni are a most proud race. They would never deign to kneel before a demon lord. You may recall Gideon, one of the demon lords, attempted to subjugate them, only to face utter defeat at the hands of the Oni King."

Warmonger listened, his face betraying no emotion. "And what of Gideon? What became of him?"

"He endures, my lord," Procel replied with a hint of subtle disdain, "though he has slunk into obscurity, plotting from the shadows, no doubt. He has not been seen for some time."

Warmonger's gaze darkened for a moment before he waved the matter away dismissively, like a king brushing aside a minor inconvenience. "As long as the demon king himself remains uninvolved, the rest are of little consequence. If this oni has no allegiance to any demon king's army, all the better for our purposes."

Procel's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, his interest piqued. "An oni, my lord? Did you encounter one yourself?"

Leaning back in his throne, Warmonger allowed the smile to return, though it was now tinged with something sinister. "Indeed, I did. To my great surprise, no less. On this forsaken, human-infested continent, no less. He's ... quite extraordinary, far exceeding that of a typical oni."

Procel's eyes gleamed, his calculating mind grasping the weight of the revelation. "The Blazing Star Continent continues to reveal its mysteries, Your Majesty. First, the formidable human, and now an oni. Who knows what other forces lie hidden from our view?"

At the mention of the human, Warmonger's expression soured, his regal air giving way to disdain. "Yes... the human. A nuisance, though hardly insurmountable."

Warmonger's gaze sharpened as he fixed his piercing eyes on Procel. "Hmm, I believe it's time to summon the others. Four of the Cataclysms remain on this island, yes?" His tone held an edge of command, each word dripping with authority.

Procel nodded, his expression serious.

"Then," Warmonger continued, a faint smirk of satisfaction crossing his face, "the remaining six should be recalled immediately. I want every last one of them here. There's no room for delay."

Procel bowed deeply, his voice smooth and unwavering. "As you wish, my lord." A faint, cold smile played at the edges of his lips as he retreated. Moments like these were what Procel lived for—where his master's grand ambitions unfolded, and he, ever the loyal servant, orchestrated them with precision and ruthless efficiency.

Procel, for all his wisdom and intelligence, is a sadistic creature, enjoying the suffering of those beneath him. But to Warmonger, his loyalty is unwavering. No one else matters. His purpose is singular—serving the master he reveres above all else.

As he leaves the throne room, Procel's mind is already calculating the best way to bring Warmonger's commands to fruition, his cruel intellect finding joy in the thought of what was to come.