I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 137: The Council Humbled

The light filtering through the high dome of the Council Hall was pale and muted—like a sunrise too ashamed to shine. For once, the mana crystals that floated between the branches of the great chamber remained dim, their usual radiance subdued. No guards lined the outer ring. No scribes waited with record scrolls.

Only six seats.

Six rulers.

And the weight of a single name hanging over all of them:

Isaac.

Aelira stood at the center of the chamber for a long moment before she finally spoke.

"He could have erased us."

No one answered.

Not with words.

Not with denial.

Because there was none left.

The echo of the world message had faded from the sky, but not from their minds.

Beelzebub—Great Demon of Gluttony. Feared across ages. Revered by cults. Second only to Satan and Lucifer among the ancient Sins.

And Isaac had killed him.

Alone.

Without ceremony.

Without aid.

The Vaelorn general leaned forward, gauntlets creaking as his hands clenched together.

"I thought we should've restrained him," he muttered. "Watched him. Controlled him if needed."

He looked up slowly. "If we had tried… the palace would be rubble. The capital—gone."

Aelira met his eyes. "He walked into our sanctum. We threatened him. And he still chose to fight for us."

The Y'selaria high priestess sat stiffly, her eyes fixed on the carved floor beneath her sandals.

"We invoked divine law against him," she whispered. "Cited prophecy. Quoted doctrine. What use are rules to someone who walks above the system itself?"

The room remained silent.

Until the Naelith matriarch exhaled slowly and broke it.

"He allowed us to watch him," she said. "And yet… he never revealed what he truly was. Not even once."

Her fingers, usually adorned with rings enchanted for spying and whispercraft, curled tightly.

"We pride ourselves on foresight. But that wasn't ignorance. That was mercy."

Across the ring, the Lorienn trade diplomat gave a bitter chuckle. "I tried to profile him. We all did. Power like his must have a price, right? An angle? Something we could use."

Her laughter turned hollow. "We thought he might be an asset. But he's not. He's an extinction event that happens to be polite."

The Eryndros elder—oldest among them, his robes humming with passive bardic resonance—bowed his head.

"I've written songs about heroes," he murmured. "Legends. But I've never felt one before."

He lifted his gaze, eyes distant. "That man is not walking toward his story. He is the story."

Silence followed.

And then Aelira, First Princess of Thalara, spoke again—this time softer, more human.

"I wanted to test him too," she admitted. "I thought we had to know what he was capable of. What he might do if he turned against us."

She looked around the circle.

"We've seen the answer now. And it's not destruction. It's restraint."

Her voice grew firmer.

"He has power. But he chose not to use it against us. He descended into the Abyss alone… and returned with the Sin of Gluttony dead at his feet. And we—" she stopped, breath caught in her throat, "—we thought of locking him up."

The shame didn't need to be spoken.

It saturated the air.

For the first time in centuries, the Council of Six sat not as rulers, but as people—flawed, reactive, and utterly humbled.

Aelira closed her eyes and said the words none of them had yet dared.

"We must never treat Isaac as a subordinate again."

There were no protests.

Only nods.

One by one.

Slow. Heavy. Honest.

The Vaelorn general cleared his throat. "No more surveillance."

The Y'selaria priestess: "No more barriers."

The Naelith matriarch: "No more secret reports."

The Lorienn diplomat: "No more games."

The Eryndros elder: "No more doubt."

Aelira stepped back, into her throne. Her voice steadied.

"We will grant him full access to the capital. We will issue a public decree naming him protector of the rootlands. And we will not demand anything from him."

Her fingers rested on the carved edge of her seat—old, smooth, and stained with generations of command.

"Let us not pray he stays peaceful," she said quietly. "Let us give him reasons to."

No one disagreed.

Because now they knew the truth:

Isaac didn't need armies.

Didn't need threats.

Didn't need permission.

He could destroy them all.

But he hadn't.

And that… was what made him terrifying.

And unforgettable.