Chapter-29

"Sir Roland," he began, his voice surprisingly deep and powerful, "I am Pope Grand Holmes, the head of the Church of Holi Nation of Liberia."

Roland's gaze flickered between Grand Holmes and the silent Mugen. The playful amusement he'd worn earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a wary seriousness.

"The reason for our… unorthodox approach," Grand Holmes continued, "lies in a message delivered to us by the Goddess of Fate several decades ago."

A collective gasp rippled through the hall. The Goddess of Fate was a revered but enigmatic figure, her pronouncements both cryptic and absolute. Her involvement in this matter added a layer of undeniable weight.

"The message," Grand Holmes said, his voice resonating with a quiet urgency, "warned of a coming darkness. An army of Devils, once repelled, would rise again and threaten our very existence."

A tremor of fear ran through the council members. The tales of the Devourers, as the Devils were called, were etched in their collective memory. Stories of insatiable hunger, of worlds consumed by shadows, and heroes who fell before the onslaught.

"But amidst the darkness," Grand Holmes continued, his voice low but firm, "the Goddess offered a sliver of hope. She spoke of a champion, an 'other-worlder' with the power of the Sun, who would emerge as a Dungeon Master. This champion, she said, would forge heroes from other worlds, training them to stand against the darkness."

He met Roland's gaze head-on, his eyes filled with a desperate hope. "Every detail in the prophecy," he declared, his voice ringing through the hall, "points to you, Sir Roland. You, the isekai tourist with a power that mirrors the Sun. You, the unorthodox Dungeon Master with the potential to forge a new generation of heroes."

In the heavy silence, all eyes fixated on Roland. The charcoal blade, still radiating a dengerous aura, hummed ominously in his hand. The weight of the prophecy pressed down upon him, the fate of this world hanging in the balance. Memories flickered across his mind – memories of another world, of a time when he too had been thrust into the role of a hero, tasked with saving a kingdom from a monstrous threat. He'd faced down fire-breathing dragons, navigated treacherous dungeons, and clashed with power-hungry sorcerers. It hadn't been easy, and the scars, both physical and emotional, remained a constant reminder of the price of heroism.

Then, a slow smile spread across Roland's face. It wasn't a carefree grin, but a determined one, tinged with a hint of amusement. He wasn't happy with the situation, but he wasn't one to shy away from a challenge.

With a slow, deliberate flourish, he deactivated his Bankai. The charcoal blade, Ryujin Jakka, lost its eerie glow, transforming back into its dull, unassuming appearance. The oppressive silence remained for a beat longer, then a wave of relief washed over the room. The council members, still tense from the raw power Roland had wielded, visibly relaxed. The air, which had felt thick and heavy moments ago, seemed to lighten a fraction. Even the ever-stoic Mugen allowed a flicker of a smile to play on his lips.

"Well," Roland began, his voice surprisingly calm, "it seems I've been volunteered for babysitting duty again." He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Not exactly the vacation I had in mind, but hey, what's an isekai protagonist without a destiny to fulfill?"

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall. Roland wasn't thrilled about the prophecy, but he wasn't running away from it either. However, his next words sent a shiver down the spines of the council members.

Just one thing," he continued, his smile turning predatory. "I'm a tough trainer. You send your precious heroes to me, and they might not come back… alive. Make no mistake, I won't shy away from pushing them to their limits. They'll face trials by fire, navigate dungeons filled with relentless foes, and stare death in the face on a daily basis. Weakness will be broken, fear will be conquered, and only the strongest will emerge.

Consider it a baptism by fire. A crucible that will forge them into the warriors they need to be. Because when the Devourers come knocking, there won't be room for sentimentality. They'll need every ounce of their strength, every ounce of their cunning, to survive. And those who can't keep up… well, let's just say the afterlife will be welcoming a lot of new recruits."

His voice dropped to a low growl. "So send me your best, your brightest, your most resilient. But be warned, not all of them will walk out of my dungeons on their own two feet. This isn't a game, gentlemen. This is about survival. The fate of this world hangs in the balance, and I won't coddle anyone who doesn't have the stomach for the fight."

The statement hung in the air, a clear threat veiled as a warning. Roland wasn't going to coddle these heroes. He understood the stakes - the Devourers were no joke. These weren't cuddly bunnies or bumbling orcs; they were a relentless, ravenous force that devoured worlds whole. If these heroes were going to stand a chance, they needed to be forged in the fires of hardship. They needed to be honed into razor-sharp weapons, capable of inflicting as much damage as they could withstand. There would be no room for weakness, no time for tears. Only the strong would survive, and Roland, the reluctant hero from another world, was the one who would determine that strength.

Pope Grand Holmes' smile widened, a flicker of relief dancing in his eyes. "That's the spirit, Sir Roland!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the chamber. "Heroes need challenges, need to be pushed to their very limits. Only then can they truly bloom into the warriors of legend!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. The council members, though apprehensive about the potential casualties, understood Roland's point. Their current crop of heroes, pampered and coddled, wouldn't stand a chance against the Devourers.