She sat upon her throne of endless nightmares—twisting, pulsing, moaning beneath her like a beast never allowed to die. Around her, shadows whispered. Forgotten faces flickered in the gloom, mouths stretched wide in silent screams.
And then—
Her lips widened. Eyes gleaming with unholy hunger and anticipation.
"He's here..." she whispered.
The words left her mouth like a curse.
Then came the laughter—violent, manic, uncontainable.
Her mind fell inward.
She was there again.
A memory buried so deep it had no right to breathe.
Yet it pulsed in the dark, stubborn and alive.
"Kekekeke! Look at him! Look at this little hero!"
"He's shaking! Is he gonna cry?"
"Aw, come on, hit us with your mighty stick, warrior prince!"
"Ooooh, I'm so scared!"
"Careful, he might poke an eye out—accidentally!"
"Kekekekekeke!"
A crowd of demons surrounded a clearing—misshapen, sneering things. Watching. Waiting.
In the center, a boy. No more than ten. Scrawny. Bare feet. A patchy tunic hanging from his small frame.
In his trembling hands—a piece of wood. Splintered. Soft. Not even sharp. A joke of a weapon.
At his feet lay a girl. Four, maybe five. Curled up. Unconscious.
The Demon of Dream stepped silently into her own past, a ghost among shadows.
She felt it instantly—fear. Raw and overwhelming. Pouring off the boy like steam.
He was terrified.
He was nothing.
And still… he stood.
"You shouldn't even be alive," she muttered, circling. "Let alone standing."
The demons crowded the clearing, hunched and twisted, their eyes glowing with cruel delight. Shadows clung to them like second skins, twitching with each breath.
"Look at him," one sneered. "Barely taller than a sapling."
"He's shaking," another muttered. "Poor thing doesn't even know how to hold that stick."
"He'll snap in half before we get bored."
"Not even a real weapon."
"Maybe he thinks he's a hero. Come to slay the monsters and save the day."
Snickering followed.
"Go on, little knight," a demon called. "Strike us down!"
"Protect your princess. That's what heroes do, right?"
The boy didn't answer. He gripped the wood tighter.
That only made them laugh harder.
Something twisted inside her.
Her hand trembled—not from weakness. From desire.
She could feel it in him. How broken he should be. How hollow he must feel.
But something inside him still refused to shatter.
And she wanted to crush it.
Not with words. Not with power.
She wanted to wrap her fingers around that flickering ember of defiance, twist it, snuff it out—slowly, painfully. Watch the exact moment his spirit cracked in two.
She could already see it.
That face he would make.
That wide-eyed, horrified realization.
The look of someone who finally understood:
There's no escape. No hope. No point.
The thought thrilled her.
Since her birth, she had always loved seeing despair in others' faces. But that love grew into something darker—sharper—when she met HIM. The Demon of Despair.
He taught her how to savor it. How to devour it.
It became a part of her.
As she approached, the demons noticed her. The shift in the air was immediate—tightening like a noose. Laughter vanished.
They turned. One by one, they dropped to their knees.
Her presence demanded reverence. Her nobility was carved into her very bones.
"Stand," she ordered, voice smooth as poison.
They obeyed instantly.
Her gaze returned to the boy.
Still standing. Still shaking. Still unbroken.
"What a fresh little meat," she said, amused.
He didn't respond.
She stepped closer. Close enough to smell the fear on his skin.
She stretched out her hand, gripped his neck, and lifted him easily off the ground. The stick dropped from his hand, useless.
The more he struggled, the tighter she squeezed. His breath faltered. His strength waned.
He should've passed out by now.
But something held him tethered. Something refused to let go.
Her eyes gleamed like a child finding a favorite toy.
She tossed him to the ground.
"Take them as slaves," she ordered coldly.
The memory bled away, dispersing like ink in water.
The throne room was drowned in shadow as Zen stepped inside. His feet made no sound. But the place groaned under his presence, as though it recognized him—and did not welcome him back.
He was weak.
Not just in body. In spirit.
His skin pale. Eyes sunken. Blood staining his side, another mark the world carved into him.
Seated atop her throne of nightmares, the Demon of Dream Memory smiled.
"You've returned, little puppet," she purred. "I hope the journey was… enlightening."
Zen dropped to one knee.
Head bowed. Breath ragged.
He could feel her—every inch of her, watching him, smothering him.
"I've done as you asked," he said, voice brittle. "I've brought what you wanted."
She leaned forward. Her eyes burned.
"Show me, then."
Zen hesitated.
Then, with shaking hands, he pulled something from his pouch.
A small black cube. No larger than a fist.
But it pulsed. Violently.
It burned like a collapsing star.
Jagged cracks tore across its surface, bleeding red light. Ancient runes flickered and twitched. The energy inside it howled—alive, furious.
Demonic energy bled through the cracks, slithering up Zen's arm like smoke with claws. It whispered to him—words without sound. Threats without shape.
Every breath near it felt wrong. Like the air itself wanted to flee.
On her throne, the Demon of Dream paused mid-lounge.
Her pupils dilated.
Her lips parted—just slightly.
"Haaaah…"
A trembling breath escaped her. As if tasting the sweetest sin.
She rose, slowly.
Her fingers curled. Her gaze locked on the cube, trembling in Zen's palm.
"You… actually did it."
The cube cracked. A blade of energy hissed into the air.
The room moaned.
Then—without a word—it lifted from Zen's hand.
Drawn by something ancient. Irresistible.
It hovered toward her, hissing, trembling.
A curse that wanted to be owned.
Her grin widened.
"This…" she whispered.
"This is more than I hoped for."