The Demon King's citadel was carved into the bones of a mountain.
Black stone. Burning rivers of magma. Pillars sculpted from the skulls of conquered gods. Every step Kujo took echoed with history soaked in blood and terror. His boots were scorched. His body torn. His armor cracked. But his resolve burned brighter than ever.
The throne room opened like a wound.
There, at the top of the obsidian stairs, the Demon King reclined on a jagged throne of molten iron, one hand resting on a greatsword forged from screaming souls. His crimson eyes narrowed as Kujo stepped forward.
"Well," the king drawled. "The bastard prince, the mongrel whelp, the soft-hearted failure... You actually made it."
Kujo said nothing.
The Demon King rose. His voice thundered.
"All this for a village. For a pack of broken women. You could've ruled beside me."
Kujo kept walking.
"You think love makes you strong?" The king sneered. "You dragged them into your war. You made them bleed for your crown. You made them die for your ego."
Kujo's claws twitched.
The Demon King raised his sword.
"They are your weakness."
He slashed—too fast for any normal warrior to dodge.
But he never reached Kujo.
A streak of crimson blocked the blow—Fiore, landing with a growl, her gauntlet catching the edge of the cursed blade. "He's not fighting alone."
The king slashed again.
This time, Zafira stepped in, her robes fluttering, a barrier of glowing runes catching the next blow. "He's stronger because we stand with him."
Another swing. Another blur.
Kyrie.
Her wings shimmered like moonlight, catching a burst of fire magic and redirecting it into a harmless blaze. "We chose him. That's what makes him dangerous."
A roar of frustration from the Demon King—he launched a wave of shadow that shattered the floor.
Chusi slammed down in front of Kujo, claws out, blocking the impact with a pulse of bestial energy. "We'd die for him. But we'd rather kill for him."
Dimara burst from the darkness, catching a cursed spear mid-flight with her tendrils. "And we always come back."
The Demon King snarled. "Fools. All of you."
He raised his sword and impaled it into the ground—summoning a wave of abyssal power that shattered half the chamber.
Aeva landed behind Kujo, her wings spread, eyes glowing. "Wrong. We're his heart."
Each woman stood in front of Kujo now—wounded, scorched, bleeding—but unbroken.
The Demon King laughed. "So be it. Die together."
He raised his weapon one last time, dark energy building to a blinding crescendo—
—and then Kujo moved.
Faster than shadow.
He stepped through them all—hand on each shoulder, claws brushing each waist, a silent word of thanks passing through his lips.
He stepped past them.
Eyes glowing.
Power erupting.
His body shifted—wings exploding outward, tail lashing, horns curling. His full dragon form—shadow incarnate, burning with flame and rage and something else even more dangerous.
Love.
The girls' sacrifices had lit a fire nothing could extinguish.
"You hurt them," Kujo said, his voice layered with draconic distortion. "That was your last mistake."
The Demon King charged.
Kujo flew.
Their blades met with a crack that shattered the throne.
The force rippled through the mountain.
The sky outside turned black.
They clashed again.
Again.
Again.
Until Kujo surged above him—claws glowing, fangs bared, eyes burning violet—and roared.
Darkness exploded from his core.
A dragon-shaped wave of pure shadow-fire erupted from his chest, engulfing the Demon King in a tide of power so massive it shattered the ceiling, split the throne room, and sent molten rock flying into the heavens.
The Demon King screamed.
And was gone.
Ash and flame swallowed the citadel.
Kujo landed hard—breathing, burned, alive.
The girls rushed to him one by one.
Fiore fell into his arms first. "You did it."
Zafira kissed his cheek. "We did."
Kyrie wrapped him in her wings.
Chusi tackled him.
Dimara coiled around his waist.
Aeva kissed him like he'd disappear again.
And in the heart of the ruin, surrounded by the women who chose him over fear, over death, over power—
Kujo finally exhaled.
The war was over.
The war was over. The throne was his. And the world was watching.
From the rubble of victory, Kujo's kingdom rose with terrifying speed. What had once been a village of outcasts now stood recognized by name on every political map. Nations that once laughed now tread carefully. Some sent envoys. Others sent apologies. A few offered alliances laced with bribes and nervous smiles. Even his siblings—those proud, gilded wolves—returned not with scorn, but acknowledgment. One by one, they stood before his throne, bowed their heads, and uttered the words they never imagined saying to him. "We were wrong."
But Kujo didn't rule for them.
He ruled for the people who bled beside him. For the tribes who once had no flag. For the monsters who whispered his name with reverence. And more than anything… he ruled for the women who made his heart something worth defending.
That night, the moon was full, and the torches burned low. The castle buzzed with activity—festivals in the lower ward, song echoing through the rebuilt streets—but Kujo stood on the balcony of his private chambers, letting the wind tug at his coat. The stars were clearer than ever. And one by one, they came to him.
Fiore came first. Her approach was quiet, but he knew her steps by heart. She said nothing at first—just walked up beside him, eyes on the moon, her arms crossed. After a long silence, she spoke in a low voice. "You didn't hesitate. Not once. You trusted me to fight beside you. And I... I've never had that." She reached out and grabbed his wrist, then pulled it against her chest, pressing his palm to the place over her heart. "I want to be more than your blade, Kujo. I want to be your wife." She kissed him before he could answer, slow and firm, as if daring him to deny her. He didn't.
The next night, Zafira waited beneath the moon tree outside the library ruins. She stood beneath its glowing branches, arms folded behind her back, the shadows around her perfectly still. "The world sees you as a king," she said as he approached. "But I see you as something more dangerous. You're the only one who ever looked at me—not my magic, not my legacy. Me." She turned to him and stepped close, her hands cool and trembling as they cupped his face. "If I gave myself again—not as a queen bound by rite, but as a woman who wants to be yours—would you still take me?" His answer was a kiss that left no doubt.
On the third night, Kyrie descended onto the watchtower silently, her wings folding around them both like a shield against the world. She didn't say anything at first. Just pressed her forehead to his back and held him from behind. "I thought I was made for heaven. But I found something holier in you." Her voice trembled. "When I watched you fall—when I thought I'd lose you—I realized I didn't just want to protect you. I wanted to grow old with you." He turned to her slowly, brushing his fingers across her cheek, and she kissed him, not as a priestess offering worship—but as a woman seeking a future.
Setara didn't come with poetry. She stormed into his chambers holding a scroll, only to drop it halfway through her opening sentence. "I've run the numbers," she blurted out. "Compatibility. Longevity. Emotional reciprocation. Probability of survival. Magical reinforcement—" He stepped forward, took her shaking hands, and silenced her with a gentle touch to her lips. "I love you, Kujo," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "And I want to be with you. No calculations. No conditions. Just… me." He pulled her into his arms, and she clung to him like her life depended on it.
Chusi didn't knock. She tackled him on his way back from training and rolled with him into the grass outside the castle, laughing with all the unrestrained joy of a wild animal in love. "I don't care who's first, or who has what title. I don't need a throne or a ring or a damn ceremony. I just want you." She straddled him in the grass, her tail flicking wildly, her face hovering over his. "You made a pack. And I'm your mate, whether the whole world likes it or not." Then she kissed him—fast, tongue-first, claiming him with fangs and heat and laughter.
Dimara waited longer than the rest. She watched him from afar, as she always had. But on the fifth night, she finally appeared, waiting on the same cliff where they'd nearly died together. When Kujo approached, she didn't speak. She just took his hand and pressed it to her chest. "It used to be hollow here," she whispered. "But you filled it with something I don't know how to name." Her voice cracked. "I want you to keep me, Kujo. Not as your pet. Not as your toy. As yours." He didn't answer. He just held her. And when she kissed him, it was with desperation and devotion so fierce it burned.
And so, under the stars, beneath banners stitched from blood and triumph, Kujo stood at the heart of a kingdom he forged with fire and love—and was now surrounded by six women who wanted not just a place at his side, but a permanent piece of his soul.
Each of them different.
Each of them devoted.
Each of them quietly, beautifully, irreversibly in love.
[F.I.N.]