So It Was Ira—
1007 Words
“Hisss~ It's already been dealt with.”
The Lizardman executioner gave his report with a cold, emotionless hiss. Karakapapa, the Lizardman chieftain, squinted in satisfaction and gave a small nod.
That old prophet had always been a thorn in his side. If not for the man's lingering prestige among the people, Karakapapa would’ve gotten rid of him long ago. Now, finally, that troublesome obstacle was gone.
“Hisss~ I understand. You’re dismissed...”
Karakapapa waved the executioner away and remained alone in the great hall of his fortress.
He was not like the previous generation of Lizardman leaders. The former chieftain's hall had always been filled with dancing lizardwomen, laughter, and the clinking of wine goblets.
But not Karakapapa.
He considered himself beyond such crude indulgences. After all, he had bested the previous chief in open combat—easily, at that. He was the Lizardman who had risen above base pleasures.
He didn’t care for drink or women. He didn’t like noise. He preferred solitude.
Let it be said once more: Karakapapa was a Lizardman above primitive desires.
That said... his refined tastes leaned toward more exotic delights. Elven slaves, for example. If possible, even a dragonkin or high succubus would do—though those were far beyond his financial means, and most slavers couldn’t even catch creatures of such caliber.
So he settled for dreaming about an elf.
Just three or four more months of saving would be enough to buy one.
The more a race is aware of its own weakness, the more desperately it seeks to prove its superiority. Some rage and argue, others... dominate what once stood above them.
It didn’t matter how much his prey despised or looked down on him.
Victory only needed to exist in his own heart.
Every time Karakapapa imagined such a scene, his ever-cruel features would soften into the hint of a satisfied smile. That was his ambition—his highest dream.
A dream, and nothing more.
——
“Chieftain!! Something’s wrong!!”
The urgent voice broke his daydream like a club to the skull. Karakapapa hissed in annoyance, but kept his composure as a leader should.
“Hiss~ What happened?”
He mentally ran through the state of his territory: the cactus farms had yielded a good harvest, the chicken pens hadn’t reported anything...
And yet, a bad feeling gnawed at him.
A familiar, foreboding unease...
Just like the prophet’s warning.
“Hiss~ Golems! Over a dozen golems have appeared—!”
BOOM!! BOOM!! BOOM... BOOM!!!
The messenger’s words were swallowed by a series of thunderous explosions. The ground trembled beneath Karakapapa’s feet, even within the great hall.
But more than the tremors, Karakapapa was focused on the messenger’s final words.
“Golems?! From the Demon King’s domain?!”
With a hiss of disbelief, Karakapapa flung open the grand doors to his hall—and what he saw drained the blood from his scaly face.
His fortress wall had been reduced to rubble.
From the collapsed stone crawled massive golems.
Behind them stood an organized line of headless horsemen, cold and unwavering. At the center of their ranks, he saw a figure—no, figures—approaching from the sky...
They were still far away, and Karakapapa couldn’t quite make out the numbers.
But he could guess.
There were many. Too many.
“The Demon King's army? But...”
In that moment, realization crashed into him like a falling boulder. He knew exactly why the Demon King’s forces had come.
But still... why him?
There were others who had acted more rebelliously, more openly hostile—so why was he the first to be crushed?
And Satania—that little red dragon—where had she gotten the nerve to attack?
Impossible... utterly impossible!
“Where are our scouts?! Hissss!!”
Karakapapa’s voice was shrill with panic. How had the scouts failed to report an army of this size approaching?
Golems weren’t exactly subtle. Even transported by headless horsemen, their massive size should have been visible from miles away.
Unless... unless there had been no time.
Unless, no matter how early they had seen it coming... it wouldn't have made a difference.
“...”
“Ah... ahhh... ahhhHHHH—!!”
But the messenger beside him could say nothing more. The Lizardman’s eyes were bulging, mouth agape, body trembling in horror as he stared into the sky.
He was shaking—no, breaking—with fear.
Karakapapa turned to him, furious. “What are you doing?! Speak!”
Then, he followed the messenger’s gaze.
And saw it.
And understood.
He understood the silence that blanketed the Lizardman territory.
It was the silence of death—of instant, simultaneous annihilation.
Floating high above were two figures.
One was the young red dragon, the new Demon Lord. Her expression was defiant, as if preparing to speak.
And beside her—
“...”
The name caught in his throat like poison.
He couldn’t say it.
But his body already knew who it was.
The one with crimson dragon wings on his back.
The man who had consumed and overthrown the previous Demon Lord.
The monster who ruled now—the one whose mere presence struck fear deep into every heart.
He was—
He was—
He was—
Karakapapa stood frozen, eyes bloodshot, teeth clenched. Rage welled up inside him, burning for release.
He wanted to scream the man’s name in hatred.
But he couldn’t.
His breath was caught.
His soul trembled.
“…Ira… Ira Elkalas…”
The name escaped him in a whisper, thin and broken, laced with despair.
In that moment, the black-eyed man in the sky turned—and looked directly at him.
“Gulp…”
Karakapapa couldn’t even swallow properly. He felt as if that quiet gaze had pierced straight through his heart.
Their eyes met.
Lizardman amber clashed with calm, human black.
The former full of blood and terror.
The latter... empty. Still.
Like a man observing a small, twitching reptile from above.
Unmoved.
Unimpressed.
Uninterested.
- Writer
