Survival was a battle. It was a fight to stave off death, a struggle to cling to life.0

This was the essence of existence, and it was the nature of the hell where the demons lived.0

Yet for some, occupying such a hell was a privilege. The Residents of the Rift, who had not yet been truly born, saw survival as a gift—a blessing reserved for the living.0

As a result, they screeched and wailed in desperation, yearning like tormented ghosts for a chance at life.0

To achieve it, they consumed living and dead souls alike, devouring anything they could get their hands on. They were weeds in the true sense of the word, taking root and thriving wherever they found ground.0

“With the King of Demons gone, the weeds have multiplied,” Antares said, tutting.0

Never in all of time had there been such an infestation of weeds in the Sea of the Afterlife. The Residents of the Rift were everywhere, seemingly endless in number.0

Though they were technically “weeds,” some had been nourished to the point of growing immense, towering like ancient, gnarled trees.0

“But even if they are just weeds… there are enough of them that one may actually become the next king,” Antares continued.1

He was right. The demon realm under Esil’s rule was facing an unrelenting assault.0

“Don’t let them push us back! Fight for our survival!” Esil shouted.0

Under her command,...0