When a Filipino got Isekai'd with a twist!
Volume 2 "only I can summon those!"
chapter 29: Wrath of Royals!
Thunder cracked across the blood-red skies, and the winds howled like the dying breath of a broken world.
Josh, Cane, and Vismond stood atop the shattered ridge, weapons drawn, breathing heavy but focused. Obsidian Claw stood opposite them, half of its faceplate shattered, black ichor dripping from exposed joints. The earth trembled beneath their feet.
Then came the sound.
A horn.
Low. Hollow. Like the scream of a beast older than time.
From beyond the hills, the full force of the demon army emerged.
Tens of thousands of soldiers. Fiends, chimera beasts, hellhounds, armored ogres, and flying nightmares blotted the skies. War drums pounded like war gods' footsteps. Banners marked with twisted runes fluttered in the cursed wind.
Kalisto's mercenaries—bandits, exiles, and assassins—gathered in ragtag formations beside the soldiers of the Viscohadan Empire. King Youm led a line of grizzled dwarven veterans—scarred, limping, but eyes burning with purpose. Queen Valeria of the Dragon Kingdom soared over the battlefield atop a great sky wyrm, armor shining, sword drawn. Queen Jessabel Oseidon's mermaid warriors emerged from summoned water pillars, singing songs of death and storm. King Eldrin's elven rangers lined the trees, arrows nocked. And the son of the Emperor, draped in the silver armor of his lineage, raised his banner with a solemn nod.
The last army of humanity had come.
But then—
Darkness gathered in the distant sky.
Not stormclouds. Not magic.
A presence.
The battlefield fell silent. Even the demons paused. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
From the horizon, walking side by side, came four titanic figures. The air cracked with each of their footsteps.
Aamon, crowned in black steel, his crimson blade dragging behind him, carving the ground. The Demon King of Carnage.
Azazel, slender but coiled like a serpent, skin tattooed with moving chains of ancient curses. Demon King of Cruelty.
Astaroth, bare-chested and burning, rage incarnate. Eyes glowing like twin suns. Demon King of Fury.
And at the rear, quiet, floating slightly above the earth—Mephistopheles, wrapped in abyssal robes, face hidden behind a golden mask. The Demon King of Incarceration.
They did not raise their hands. They did not speak.
They simply watched.
A heartbeat later, four others appeared on the cliffs behind them.
Jack the Ripper. Ted the Butcher. Josef Mengele. And their commander, Frank Abigneil.
The Anti-Heroes.
The balance tipped.
Meanwhile, Chris, sneaking into a hidden chamber just below the battlefield, opened the sealed vault and found it.
The Zerokaizer.
A corrupted copy of Keith's RX-78-2 Gundam, reengineered by demon hands. No pilot sat inside.
Chris smirked.
"You thought you were sneaky, huh?"
He scanned the files left behind—blueprints, battle logs, combat enhancements. They'd twisted a weapon of justice into a monster of war.
"Let's turn it back."
He stepped inside. Lights flared. The cockpit sealed.
Above, the Four Heroes stepped forward. Josh twirled his blade. Cane cracked his neck. Vismond vanished into shadow.
"We hold the line," Josh growled.
The Demon Kings raised their eyes.
And all hell broke loose.
Inside the cockpit of the Zerokaizer, lights flickered and systems booted up, humming with corrupted power. Chris's fingers danced over the controls. The machine groaned, responding to his will as he prepared to override the demonic programming.
"Almost there..." he muttered, sweat trailing down his brow.
Then—
Click.
A second cockpit hatch hissed open behind him.
Chris froze.
A shadow stepped in.
Clapping slowly.
"You really thought it would be that easy?"
Chris turned, eyes widening.
Standing behind him was... Frank Abigneil.
Or someone who looked exactly like him.
The same calm, unblinking stare. The same lazy smile. But the air around him was wrong—colder, heavier. A malicious pressure that made the panels creak and the screens flicker.
"No way... you're with them."
The clone grinned wider.
"Correction. I am them."
Before Chris could react, the clone moved. In a blur of speed, he slammed his hand into the command terminal. Corrupted veins of red lightning surged through the controls. Chris's hands recoiled as if burned.
"The Zerokaizer doesn't need a hero anymore."
The clone stepped forward.
"It needs a monster."
Chris lunged—but too late. The clone struck him with a single blow, sending him crashing into the bulkhead. Blood trickled from Chris's lip as he slid to the floor, dazed.
The cockpit sealed again.
Outside, the Zerokaizer's eyes ignited a deep crimson.
The clone—Frank Abigneil's twisted echo—sat in the command seat, grinning like a devil.
"Let's show them what real power looks like."
With a roar that cracked mountains, the Zerokaizer rose from its hangar—taller, darker, pulsing with infernal energy.
Its frame had changed.
No longer a symbol of hope, it had become something else entirely—blades along its arms, a hellfire reactor glowing in its chest, a spear forged from void energy crackling in one hand.
The battlefield looked up in stunned silence.
And in that moment...
The tide began to turn again.
The Zerokaizer, now under the control of the Frank Abigneil clone, towered over the battlefield like a devil clad in steel. Its hellfire reactor pulsed in rhythm with each step. Every movement left cracks in the earth. Its crimson spear spun once, cutting a clean gash in the sky itself.
Josh, Cane, and Vismond looked up from their ridge, dust and wind blowing hard across their faces.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then—
"Uhm... guys, do you think we can win this?"
Cane asked, blinking rapidly.
Josh stared at the monster machine in the distance, then at the four Anti-Heroes now advancing toward them with unnatural grins and bloodthirst in their eyes.
"...Yes. Probably."
He said, not sounding completely sure.
Vismond cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and let his daggers gleam in the dim light.
"Well, let's do what Kieth always does!"
"Yeah!" Cane pumped his fist.
Josh raised his sword high. Vismond crouched low, ready to vanish into shadows. Cane slammed his fists together, glowing faintly.
And all three shouted as one:
"NEVER STOP, NEVER BACK DOWN!"
They charged.
Straight toward the four Anti-Heroes.
Frank Abigneil's clone grinned.
Jack the Ripper licked his knife.
Ted the Butcher roared, dragging his cleaver along the ground.
Josef Mengele adjusted his gloves, his eyes dead behind round spectacles.
The two sides met in a collision of raw violence.
Steel rang against steel. Magic flared. Blades clashed, shadows danced, fists shattered air.
But then—
A fourth figure crashed down beside the heroes, landing with a ground-shaking BOOM.
Dust erupted, and from it stepped a short, broad figure in heavy dwarven armor, beard braided with gold rings, eyes sharp with old fire.
King Youm.
"Aye, you little punks need a real man to show you how it's done."
"You're late!" Cane shouted.
"I was drinking!" Youm bellowed, already swinging a warhammer twice his size.
Now it was four heroes versus four anti-heroes.
And above them all, the Zerokaizer clone loomed like a final judgment.
The war had truly begun.
Thunder boomed again as the battlefield tore open in every direction.
Josh, Cane, Vismond, and King Youm clashed with the Four Anti-Heroes like living storms colliding. Sparks exploded from every strike. Shadows writhed and split as Vismond danced with Jack the Ripper in a blur of ghost steps and poisoned steel.
Cane's fists met Ted the Butcher's cleaver, and the shockwave sent demon soldiers flying like ragdolls. Ted laughed—a low, guttural, beastly sound—as blood spattered across his apron.
Josef Mengele caught Josh's blade with a scalpel and twisted unnaturally, countering every move with surgeon's precision.
King Youm fought Frank Abigneil directly, hammer ringing out as it struck corrupted steel, shielding the others from Zerokaizer's long-range fire.
Every movement was faster, deadlier, fueled by the weight of the world.
---
But then, across the battlefield...
The Demon Army surged like a tidal wave.
Chimera beasts roared as they crushed forward. Flame-breathing centipedes, skeletal wyverns, and banshee hags swirled through the chaos. Every unit, every horror, every nightmare gathered for the final purge.
And holding the line—
Kalisto, dual-wielding curved sabers, led her mercenaries in a wild charge. Her laugh echoed across the valley, wild and furious.
"Come on, you bastards! Let's earn our pay in blood!"
Beside her, Elara the Spell Archer spun in graceful circles, firing mana-charged arrows faster than thought. Each shot dropped a demon mid-charge.
She didn't miss.
Serena, eyes glowing with divine wrath, summoned a pillar of light that incinerated a legion. She moved like a blazing comet among the chaos.
"For the children they devoured!" she roared.
And floating above the battleground, wings of crystal flame, Princess Lyra unleashed symphonies of sound magic, making entire demon formations implode from within.
She wept as she sang—each note a requiem and a battle cry.
They were outnumbered a trillion to one. But they stood.
And then—
The ground split apart.
Four titanic figures emerged, calmly walking through the chaos like gods observing insects.
Aamon, Demon King of Carnage, dragged his blood-drenched blade lazily, eyes scanning the mortals with disdain.
Azazel, Demon King of Cruelty, cracked his fingers, dark chains snaking behind him like living serpents.
Astaroth, Demon King of Fury, simply exhaled—and mountains cracked in the distance.
Mephistopheles, Demon King of Incarceration, hovered silently, arms folded beneath his tattered black robe, gold mask staring without emotion.
They spoke no words.
But the kings and queens of the alliance felt it.
This was it.
Queen Valeria, atop her wyrm, narrowed her eyes.
"Three on one. That's the only way we might survive."
King Eldrin, nocking an arrow etched with moonlight, nodded.
"Then pick your poison."
Valeria, Eldrin, and Jessabel charged at Aamon, their combined power shaking the skies.
King Youm's eldest son, the Emperor's heir, and Queen Elira of the West attacked Azazel, magic and steel clashing against cruel laughter.
The Desert King, the Beastmaster of Suzanra, and the Queen of Frostlight faced Astaroth, whose fury answered with meteors of flame.
But no one touched Mephistopheles.
He watched. Waiting. Calculating.
And whispered—
"Let the strongest break. Then I'll collect what's left."
The battle raged on, with the four Demon Kings wreaking havoc on the mortal armies. Aamon's blade carved through the ranks of Kalisto's mercenaries, leaving a trail of carnage in its path. Azazel's dark chains coiled around the Emperor's heir, squeezing with otherworldly malice. Astaroth's flames engulfed entire battalions, reducing flesh and steel alike to ash and bone.
Meanwhile, the Zerokaizer—now completely under the control of the Frank Abigneil clone—rampaged across the battlefield. Its hellfire reactor pulsed with volatile, malevolent energy, and each thrust of its spear sent shockwaves through the ranks, shattering formations and igniting the ground in its wake.
Josh, Cane, Vismond, and King Youm fought with relentless fury, a blur of steel, magic, and raw force. They clashed with the Four Anti-Heroes in a brutal storm of combat. Jack the Ripper's knife grazed Vismond's side, but the assassin didn't falter. Cane's fists collided with Ted the Butcher, but the madman's cleaver answered with devastating force, carving craters into the battlefield.
The tide was shifting—the Demon Kings and Anti-Heroes were pushing forward. Mortal lines broke. Screams drowned out orders. Hope began to splinter.
But then, through the smoke and chaos, a surge of arcane power lit the air like a thunderclap. From the edge of the battlefield, a figure emerged—cloaked in scorched robes, face bloodied, eyes burning with resolve.
It was Chris.
The young sorcerer had been struck down by the Zerokaizer earlier—but he had survived. Barely. His breathing was ragged, his mana reserves strained to the brink. But his mind was clear, focused on one thing: stopping the monstrosity that threatened to destroy everything.
He raised his staff, the tip pulsing with layered spell circles. The air around him shimmered, warping with condensed energy. Chris stepped forward, each movement drawing glyphs in the air, his voice weaving incantations as ancient as the stars.
The Frank Abigneil clone turned—just in time to see a massive barrage of magic slam into the side of the Zerokaizer, forcing it back.
Chris didn't stop. Fire twisted with lightning, binding spells flared to life, and spatial ruptures threatened to tear the machine apart from within. He hurled every ounce of his arcane might, engaging the clone in a duel of spells and willpower. Explosions of raw magic crackled between them, blinding and deafening.
He wasn't the strongest. He wasn't the fastest.
But he was still standing—and he would not let the world fall.
One way or another, this would end.
The battlefield trembled under the weight of war, but at its heart, all fell quiet. Ash drifted like snow, carried by a wind that reeked of blood and death. From the haze stepped Aamon, Demon King of Carnage—his greatsword slung across his back, glowing faintly with cursed fire.
His gaze locked onto the young man standing defiantly before him.
"Well, well…" Aamon's voice was a slow, cruel drawl. "Oh, look who it is. The crying lad trying to be his father."
Cyrus Viscohadan—clad in imperial black and gold, his father's broken crest still pinned to his breastplate—tensed at the words. Before he could speak, Aamon's figure vanished in a blur.
CRACK!
Aamon's boot slammed into Cyrus's chest, sending him crashing backward through mud and shattered armor. He skidded to a halt, coughing blood, but his grip didn't loosen on his sword.
"Hahahaha," Aamon laughed, pacing toward him like a wolf. "I almost didn't recognize you. You've grown. Still got that same look though—that pathetic, desperate little boy who watched his daddy die."
Cyrus stood, wiping the blood from his lip. His face twisted in rage.
"You speak his name again, and I swear I'll cut out your tongue."
Aamon grinned wider. "What name? The one who begged for his life like a dog?" He stepped closer, eyes burning with glee. "Your precious Emperor Viscohadan? Hah. I wish you were there. To watch him crawl. Beg. Scream."
"Enough!"
Cyrus lunged, his blade gleaming with white-gold light. Aamon parried with ease, their swords shrieking as they clashed. Sparks flew. Cyrus spun, swinging upward, only for Aamon to block and drive an elbow into his face, staggering him.
The clash intensified as two Allied Kings—King Halder of Galdorein, clad in obsidian armor, and Queen Elira of Thalas, her silver staff glowing—rushed in beside Cyrus.
"Protect the heir!" Halder bellowed.
Cyrus roared and charged again, this time flanked by his Royal Knights, who surged like a wall of steel and defiance. Elira launched a volley of radiant beams, forcing Aamon to step back.
But the Demon King was laughing.
"Finally! A challenge!" Aamon howled, slamming his greatsword into the ground. A fiery shockwave erupted, hurling several knights through the air and cracking the battlefield open like glass.
Cyrus danced through the blast, his blade scraping along Aamon's gauntlet before carving into the side of his helmet. A faint line of black blood appeared.
Aamon's eyes widened—then narrowed. His grin faded.
"Not bad... Viscohadan. You might actually make me try."
Breathing heavily, Cyrus readied himself. "You want the heir?" he snarled. "Then come take me, monster."
Aamon's grin returned, but colder this time.
"With pleasure."
And the fight resumed—steel ringing, fire blazing, and history's weight hanging over them like a blade waiting to fall.
Meanwhile at distance in the middle of the battle field Azazel and Queens Valeria eragon is having their stare down.
Smoke swirled around the ruined cliffs of the around the battle field,Ash blanketed the ancient obsidian stone beneath Valeria's boots. She stood still, wings half-spread, eyes locked on the dark figure before her.
Azazel stood tall atop of a Dead wyrm, chains gently swaying like they had a life of their own. He wore a smug grin beneath his high collar, one hand lazily resting on a jagged, rune-etched chainblade.
> Valeria (voice shaking with rage):
"I heard you're the one… who leveled my nation."
She stepped forward, fists clenched, barely holding back the flames at her throat.
> Valeria (low, deadly):
"You destroyed my home. Killed my kin. Burned the skies of the Elven Forest and shattered the Mountain Realm…!"
Azazel tilted his head, grinning wider.
> Azazel (British accent, calm):
"Oh? So you're all ganging up on me now, are you?"
He hopped off the statue, chains clinking, and landed with a graceful step, dark aura seeping from him like poison.
> Azazel (voice dropping):
"But let me remind you… you could've brought more."
With that, the ground beneath him cracked. He dashed forward—a blur of shadow and malevolence. Valeria's wings snapped open wide as her claws ignited in gold flame. The collision shook the skies.
—
To be continued…