As sweat trickled down Azazel's face, he observed the approaching soldiers, well aware of the limitations imposed by his diminished form and the scarcity of mana and power.

"I wouldn't last long against this many demons and devils in my current state," Azazel reflected inwardly. "I owe my chances of survival to Nori releasing Ren and the others."

Taking a deep breath, he grinned, "Well, everything's going to work out in the end." He laughed.

The soldiers rapidly closed in, their menacing expressions revealing their intent to kill.

Azazel gulped and added, "I hope."

With magic at the ready and a common knife in hand, Azazel clashed with the soldiers, unleashing bursts of energy that illuminated the darkening sky.

Azazel dove into the chaos, his instincts overriding any inclination to hesitate. Fear and the notion of retreating from a fight were not part of his inherent nature.

The demon soldiers swiftly encircled him as he weaved through their ranks, a tempest of rapid movements.

Though his strikes were precise, the inherent lack of strength prevented him from inflicting sufficient damage to pierce through their formidable armor. Each collision reverberated with bursts of magic.

Sweat continued to bead on Azazel's forehead as he struggled to maintain the relentless pace, every movement an evidence to his unyielding resolve.

Amidst the clash of steel and magic, Azazel kept a vigilant eye on the villagers caught in the soldiers' clutches. He moved strategically, prioritizing those he could reach swiftly, his every action aimed at both fending off the assailants and rescuing them at the same time.

In one instance, he intercepted a soldier aiming for a villager huddled against a crumbling stone. With a swift motion, Azazel redirected the attack, creating an opening for the frightened villager to escape. He moved seamlessly from one rescue to another, navigating the chaos with a blend of speed and perseverance.

The soldiers were frustrated by Azazel's tenacity, and increased their aggression.

Yet, despite his physical limitations, Azazel persisted. He blocked strikes, countered with bursts of magic, and continued his relentless pursuit of saving villagers from the clutches of their assailants.

However, he hadn't emerged from the clash unscathed. Catching his breath, his movements slowed. Wounds adorned his body, and he wiped the mixture of sweat and blood from his face with his hand, yet a determined grin never left his face.

Through gritted teeth, Azazel pressed on. The villagers he had managed to save sought refuge behind him as he confronted the relentless onslaught of soldiers.

"Take the injured and go back underground!" Azazel instructed the others, continuing to weave through the enemy ranks.

Despite his determination, the overwhelming numbers and his weakened form proved formidable adversaries.

He darted through the ranks of soldiers, attempting to strike and reduced their numbers, but his attacks lacked the force needed to break through their armor.

The soldiers closed in with a relentless ferocity. Azazel's magical bursts, though potent, struggled to keep pace with the sheer multitude of the enemies.

Wounds accumulated on Azazel's body, each one a mark of the opposition he faced.

Yet, undeterred, he pressed on, gritting his teeth against the pain. The villagers, finding a temporary sanctuary behind him, watched as he fought against the enemies.

They couldn't fathom why Azazel was risking his life to protect them. Strangers weren't typically safeguarded by demons, especially not by laying down their lives.

"Hey, kid! That's enough! You'll die!"

"You have to escape!"

"Run and go away!"

Azazel swayed on his feet but refused to drop to his knees. Exhausted and battered, he displayed no signs of surrender.

"I'd rather die than show my back and retreat," Azazel declared seriously. Then, he turned to the villagers with a grin. "And what are you talking about strangers? Have you forgotten? This is the village where I grew up."

Tears welled in the villagers' eyes as they gazed at Azazel. In this moment, a dark shadow emerged beside him, tall with multiple horns on his head.

"Kid . . . just w-who are you?"

Azazel glanced at them. "Me?" he grinned. "I'm Obsidian X, the Demon King."

All the villagers could do was gape at him as he dashed into the front lines once more. At this moment, they weren't laughing, unlike when they heard Azazel proclaim it the first time.

The Demon King, Obsidian X, the longest ruler of the Netherworld and said to be the strongest in the Nether Realm, was both fearsome and terrifying.

Thousands of demons and devils had fallen by his hands, and thousands more had challenged him for the throne and perished.

But one thing was certain . . . he never backed out from a fight, no matter how hard it was, and he never . . . never harmed innocent demons and devils.

The protector of the Nether Realm, the Demon King, Obsidian X.

Meanwhile, Azazel's movements, once fluid, began to falter as fatigue set in. Sweat mixed with blood, staining his face as he valiantly continued to fend off the soldiers.

Despite the grin that had never left his face, it became evident that the struggle was taking its toll.

The soldiers, sensing the weakening of Azazel, intensified their assault.

Azazel's weakened form became a focal point for their aggression. He fought on, but the disparity in strength and numbers grew increasingly insurmountable.

As Azazel found himself cornered, the air thick with impending doom, a large scythe gleamed malevolently, poised to claim his head.

Despite the dire situation, Azazel's smile never wavered. It remained etched on his face like a symbol of defiance, a testament to his unyielding spirit. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of regret as he faced the imminent threat.

The scythe-wielding demon, draped in a cloak that flickered with the shadows, approached with deliberate steps.

Surrounded on all sides, Azazel gritted his teeth against the impending strike. The scent of battle, the metallic tang of blood, and the haunting echoes of the ongoing conflict created a surreal backdrop to this moment of battle.

The very ground beneath Azazel seemed to hold its breath, as if anticipating the culmination of this clash.

"Is this it?" Azazel's voice, though edged with the strain of impending peril, resonated with a hint of mockery. His eyes locked onto the figure wielding the scythe, unyielding in the face of death.