The throne room doors slammed shut, the sound booming across every wall of the royal palace. The air grew heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The Demon Kings and sovereigns of the most powerful races in the continent sat in a circle, each one taking the place only they deserved. Human attendants and guards had been expelled—or simply erased—by the sheer magical pressure of their presence.
At the center, towering over all, stood the Demon King of the Undead, Lord Veythar. His golden robe was encrusted with countless gems that gleamed like blasphemous suns. His hollow voice echoed across the chamber like the endless whisper of a crypt.
"I call this urgent meeting because our gods are furious," he said, every word vibrating like a spell. "The pact we upheld for centuries has been broken… broken by a worthless human who dares to call himself a hero."
The silence was absolute. No one dared interrupt as he raised a skeletal hand, as if pointing to everyone at once.
