Demon King Darmusdra's Death

Sudirja looked at the laboratory he had founded, now lying in ruins. He felt no sadness, no disappointment—only thoughts on how to deal with the source of the problem.

He could also see many demons from Jagrapati securing some of the equipment that had survived, though his view wasn’t entirely clear.

But there was something else—something far more important—he noticed: two demons and a man were fighting against a single demon. He recognized that demon: Jenggolo.

What caught his attention even more was the artifact Jenggolo carried—a black obsidian shield bulging with the sculpted head of a lion, crowned with antelope-like horns.

“Dealing with Sidran Gasra was already troublesome… now here comes another problem,” Sudirja muttered.

Arga’s eyes followed the demon wielding the shield. He could make out its shape, not too clearly, but enough to know what it was.

“First Sidran Gasra, now Daramukti,” Arga groaned.

He could have assumed his giant form, but he knew it would devastate the surroundings. So, he refrained. Since his feet weren’t touching the ground, he knew he could create countless clones of himself—intending to use them against Jenggolo.

Hundreds of Arga’s clones materialized out of thin air.

They fell toward Jenggolo.

Their feet stomped down on his body.

It was undeniably painful—and utterly humiliating.

To Jenggolo, it was the gravest insult imaginable.

“This is unforgivable!” Jenggolo roared.

There wasn’t a trace of fear in Arga’s posture as he casually leapt off his sword.

The sword shot toward Jenggolo, clashing against the Daramukti Shield. Jenggolo strained with all his might to withstand the blow.

“Oh? Looks like your strength has risen dramatically with that shield,” Arga praised mockingly.

“So you’re the one causing this mess,” Jenggolo growled.

“Funny—he causes trouble and then blames me,” Arga replied dryly.

Without a plan, Jenggolo lunged at Arga, only to be repelled by Arga’s sword.

“Bastard!” Jenggolo yelled.

“Why so mad?” Arga mocked.

With full force, Puspo Geni kicked Jenggolo. The impact sent him flying, the pain almost unbearable. Even so, the blow had only dealt damage equivalent to one-eighth of his king’s power.

And if that was this painful… he didn’t want to imagine receiving a direct hit from his king himself.

Despite the pain, he would continue fighting. To him, an artifact that did not submit to its creator had no right to exist—especially this one.

That was why he ignored the agony and pressed on. His goal was to return the artifact to its maker.

“You end here, Daramukti!” Puspo Geni roared.

Though only an artifact, Daramukti somehow felt threatened—pressed, even. If it were a living being, especially a human, it would have been visibly trembling.

But being nothing more than an artifact, that fear was invisible.

Puspo Geni strengthened himself, not through magic, but with raw physical enhancement. While magic in this world still fell under the laws of physics, the reinforcement he chose was not the manipulation of fundamental particles—it was biological transformation.

His body began to change: his fangs lengthened, his horns reshaped into antelope horns, his fingers grew larger and longer, black mist-like wings sprouted from his back, and black flames engulfed his head.

This time, he faced Daramukti seriously—without holding back.

“The organs of our king should bow to their rightful master,” Puspo Geni declared, stepping toward Jenggolo and Daramukti with cold, measured strides.

If Daramukti had been human, his fear would have been visible. Even so, some sense of dread still radiated from the artifact.

Without Jenggolo’s command, Daramukti activated a magic circle—its only priority being its own survival. Efficiency was of little concern.

The circle it formed was random and chaotic. Though complex, it was far from beautiful, glowing with clashing, unpleasant colors: dead-leaf yellow and moss green—the ugliest shades a magic circle could bear.

As a result, its magic had little effect: a water spell of the Exemplar tier—hardly worthy of offense.

The spell struck Puspo Geni’s face, but he felt nothing—not even dampness. The water had evaporated before it could touch him.

With deadly intent, Puspo Geni struck the Daramukti Shield. Physically, it suffered no damage. But mentally, Daramukti was drowning in fear.

Far above, roughly 120 meters from Sudirja and Arjuna, a demon looked down. His appearance wasn’t overly fearsome: a goat’s head, a pair of tusk-like horns, skeletal arms, and legs like an ostrich’s.

He could see the battle unfolding below.

“Oh… it seems my subordinate needs my help,” the demon smilled.

He descended, intending to greet his subordinate—unaware that the enemy he was about to face was a high-ranking demon. Without a proper plan, he could very well die.

“Hello, Jenggolo. Need some help?” the demon greeted.

“Your Excellency Darmusdra,” Jenggolo replied.

Pusmoko’s heart leapt. He hadn’t expected Darmusdra to appear in person. Now, he wanted to kill Darmusdra outright. True, demons could not die permanently as long as their birthplace remained corrupted.

But that was exactly why Pusmoko had prepared something—because the corrupted environment that had birthed Darmusdra was nothing but a toxin, and Pusmoko had created its antidote.

“Sudirja, are the preparations complete?” Pusmoko asked via telepathy.

“I’ve already teleported it to the location you mentioned,” Sudirja replied through the mental link. “Why use telepathy when we’re in the same place?”

“Because I don’t want Darmusdra to become suspicious,” Pusmoko answered. “Is the area purified?”

Sudirja approached Pusmoko, handing him a time-vector lens. Once he put it on, Pusmoko knew his plan had succeeded. He no longer needed to hold back. Strategically, he had already won.

Pusmoko lunged toward Darmusdra, intent on killing him. Darmusdra had no time to evade.

His arm was severed—and could not be reattached.

In a rage, Darmusdra kicked Pusmoko.

The difference in their strength was vast—so vast that Darmusdra’s own leg was severed instead.

“This is your end,” Pusmoko glared sharply at him.

“What do you mean? I can’t die,” Darmusdra scoffed.

“The environment that formed your core is no longer corrupted. Now any living being can dwell there,” Pusmoko explained.

“What are you saying?” Darmusdra laughed bitterly.

Though he laughed, his face betrayed his despair.

In desperation, Darmusdra struck at Pusmoko.

The outcome was already decided.

Darmusdra died—his body dissolving into dust the moment Pusmoko’s attack landed.