English is not my first language. I apologize for any mistakes in my writing.
Please feel free to leave your feedback so I can keep improving my chapters.
Some notes:
This story will be told from the perspectives of several characters, not just the main one.
I will use both first-person and third-person narration.
"" indicates speech spoken by a character.
'' indicates thoughts or internal monologue of a character.
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Today is a special day.
That was my first thought as I stretched in my ebony throne, comfortable as hell itself.
The castle swarmed with movement. Messengers rushed back and forth like terrified cockroaches, bearing war reports. They all said the same thing: victory.
The cursed alliance was losing ground, our armies were crushing them. Bit by bit, the world was slipping into my hands.
I savored an elven blood liqueur when a lesser demon—one so pitiful it didn't even deserve a name—crawled up to me.
"My… my Lord… the next war council is set for three hours from now."
'Ahh, yes. The offensive against those damned dwarves. Poor insects, thinking that trinkets and hammers will save them. Once I crush that little blacksmith bastard, the pathetic humans will lose their strongest strike force.'
With a careless wave, I dismissed the servant. Rising from the throne, I adjusted my cloak and made for my chambers. A meeting like this demands presence—and I will not appear before my generals looking like some dungeon beggar. I am the Demon Lord, for fuck's sake.
The castle, vast and dark, rose like a glorious tomb. The cold walls breathed authority, the torches gave just enough light to remind you you're not fully swallowed by the shadows. The echo of my steps was music for anyone who still had ears to hear. Servants bowed as I passed, and I could feel fear dripping off them like sweat. That scent intoxicated me. Flattery without fear is worthless—it means betrayal. The ones who tried that game have long since rotted in some hole, thanks to my blade.
I reached my chambers, and there she was: my personal handmaiden. Once, she had been the queen of the succubi. Now? My pet bitch. There's nothing more satisfying than seeing a former queen carrying my perfume on her fingers instead of a crown on her head.
Her curves and that heavy aroma of pheromones were practically a dare. A queen turned into a docile servant… ah, nothing tastes quite as sweet as the misery of shattered pride.
She bowed. A shiver ran through her body when I smiled. And in that moment, I almost took her right there—just for the pleasure of watching her shrink beneath my shadow.
"My Lord… how may I serve you today?"
"Prepare my gala attire. Today is a special day."
I smiled again, and I saw in her eyes that she knew: when I smile, somewhere, someone loses everything.
My chambers could be summed up in one phrase: The Pride of a Monarch. Gold, jewels, and treasures overflowed everywhere—spoils of kingdoms I crushed and cities I burned down to the ground.
As Asha dressed me, I couldn't help but catch my reflection in the mirror. My face—you'd call it aristocratic, perfectly symmetrical. A look that could enthrall nations, if not for my eyes. Ah, my eyes… blazing rubies, bright and cruel. In them, you can see both the allure that seduces and the threat that obliterates.
I possess a build you'd call slender and elegant. Every gesture, every posture drips with the authority and power that are mine by nature. I don't need grotesque muscles; my strength manifests in far more… efficient ways.
My skin is pale, almost translucent like the finest porcelain—but don't be fooled by its delicate look. It's shielded by layers of invisible magic, tougher than any armor ever forged, whether by dwarves or born of dragons.
My hair, long and black as the deepest night, falls flawlessly over my shoulders, a striking contrast to the pallor of my skin. And, so there's no doubt about my lineage, two short, curved horns emerge discreetly from my head. They're not ostentatious—just a subtle, yet unmistakable emblem of my demonic status.
I dressed myself in my finest formal black robe, traced with crimson details echoing the blood I have spilled—and the blood I will spill. The cloth is no ordinary fabric; it is woven from magic itself, glowing faintly under the light, a constant reminder that even what clothes me is power incarnate.
When Asha finished dressing me, a sword materialized at my hip in a torrent of infernal fire: the Crimson Blade. Not just a sword—but an extension of my will, forged from the massacre of countless souls, baptized in blood. Its vibrant hue comes from the energy of the endless enemies who have bled by my hand, and its touch carries the kiss of my own soul: instant necrosis for the flesh of lesser worms…
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Time flew by, and here I am in the war council chamber.
"My Lord, the offensive to strike Altraxa's Iron Mountain is ready. We're only awaiting your command. All the commanders are already in position."
"Perfect. Let me give the order myself. I will personally lead this offens—"
Before I could finish, the door slammed open with all the grace of a drunken ogre. I shot an irritated glare at the servant who had barged in. She dropped to her knees instantly, trembling. A highborn vampire—child of the Night Prince himself.
"Insect. You've just interrupted a matter of extreme importance. If the news you bring isn't equally valuable, prepare yourself to have your skin peeled off with the purest silver… for the next three hundred years."
"M-My King… she was sighted. The Guardian of Eternity—spotted with an elite elven unit, marching at full speed toward the Forest of Adores."
'That bitch plans to sacrifice the dwarves just to wipe out the goblin army.'
"What delightful news. What is your name?"
"Elena, my king," the vampire said—like she'd been handed back her soul now that she realized she wouldn't be punished.
"Elena, for your excellent service, you shall have the honor of tasting the blood of an elven queen before the sun sets today."
I turned to my most trusted demon lieutenant. "Demiurgos, the dwarves' front is yours. Give the order for a full advance. I will personally crush that elven bitch's schemes. Tonight, the sharpest thorn in our path to victory will be ripped out by the root."
As my imposing bat-like wings unfurled beneath my robes, I conjured a dense violet portal linked to the region of the Forest of Adores. With a smooth beat of my wings, I crossed through. Today was only getting better.
The moment I emerged, demonic energy bent to my will. Spells that would demand every ounce of strength from an archmage were nothing but idle tricks for me—I cloaked myself in invisibility, leaving no trace, no presence. That elven whore Aurielle isn't an enemy I can afford to treat lightly. My magical power may have already surpassed hers, but it's not her arcane might that commands my respect. It's that millennia-old mind—one that has spoiled countless conquests and dragged my legions into bitter defeats.
It took me less than fifteen minutes of flight over the forest's edge to spot them. Eight figures cloaked from head to toe in elven mantles, reeking of that wretched, pointy-eared energy, sprinting at full speed behind the repugnant figure at their lead. The sight of her made my blood boil, my heart a forge of hatred. Memories I refuse to linger on clawed their way to the surface, leaving bile on my tongue as I forced them back down.
And then the air shifted.
The forest seemed to hold its breath—then sing.
She rose into view astride the golden lizard of the steppes, and for a rotten second, the whole world seemed to bow before her. The ground bloomed greener beneath her steps. Birds trilled as though they sang her welcome. Even the damn wind danced in harmony, teasing through the strands of her waist-long silver hair.
Aurielle.
The Guardian of Eternity.
Her golden aura pulsed warm, gentle as the morning sun. A cursed light that didn't burn but embraced—wrapping the world in nature's own arms, as if creation itself celebrated her arrival. Every leaf, every branch, every living thing shivered in rapture at her presence.
And gods, how I despise it.
Her skin glimmered like snow under moonlight—too damn perfect to be real. Her green eyes shimmered, alive, deep, as if they reflected eternity itself. And those lips… still carrying that same soft, gentle smile I remembered with disgust.
She didn't need a sword, or an army. Her weapon was her very existence. The world applauded her, the elements bent themselves in reverence, life itself ignited in celebration wherever she went.
And there I was—the embodiment of Miasma—watching the forest bow to her as though she were a goddess.
I almost laughed.
Today, the world was going to lose its avatar, and I would be the one to make it weep.
Without wasting another second, swift and merciless, I stretched out my hand, palm facing upward, and demonic energy surged at my command. A crimson orb formed in my grasp, throbbing with the promise of death, vibrating with the blood yet to be spilled. I conjured one of my favorite spells: Missiles of Corruption. I wanted these wretches to rot from within, for every cell of their fragile lives to writhe under perdition's touch, their agony echoing across centuries.
I watched as ten missiles streaked like falling stars, carving through the air, molten-hot, straight for their targets. Euphoria pounded through my heart, every beat spelling their deaths, every breath a banquet of anticipation at the collapse of my most detested enemy.
Then it happened.
A barrier of golden light erupted before them, shining with an almost sacred force. My projectiles slammed against it—raw, condensed ferocity—but the light only flared brighter, snuffing out my brutal attack. I saw each gem around Aurielle's neck dim as her unit froze in its advance. She raised her gaze, and in that instant, my invisibility seemed nonexistent. Her eyes pierced straight into mine.
And she smiled.
The coldest smile I had ever seen.
My demonic instincts screamed: danger!
Before I could respond—before my fury could swell into enough magic to rip away that mask of confidence—one of her lackeys moved. A hand emerged from his mantle, shattering a strange artifact. Instantly, space itself warped. My link with it ripped apart. Teleportation? Impossible. Spatial displacement? Laughable. I was trapped in the perfect snare of that wretched mind.
My body became visible again—and with a flicker of rage, I realized she had been waiting for me all along.
"Valtheris."
Her voice rang melodic—gold and sunlight bound into song—as she dismounted from the golden lizard of the steppes.
"It's been a long time since we last met face-to-face."
Her features shifted, feigning sorrow, dripping with false tragedy.
"This war of yours has dragged on too long. Today, we've come to end it."
With a snap of her fingers, the world bent once more.
The eight elven figures surrounding her began to transform before my eyes. Each metamorphosis slammed into my heart like a searing iron blade, every change a reminder of how much they underestimated my patience—and how much they were about to pay for it.
Butterfly wings unfurled from one of the figures, static electricity thickening in the air, splitting the silence with the snap of lightning. Her hair grew long, flowing like currents of wind, answering only to her will. She was the Champion of the Sylphs, the Queen of the Winds—and every single movement she made was an insult to my authority, a demonstration of power meant to spit in the face of my dominion over miasma.
Another figure shrank, only to swell into a stocky brute: a rust-colored beard, obsessively braided with flawless precision, his bald head gleaming under the glow of a golden armor that reflected the light of the battlefield. A hammer in his hand—less weapon than masterpiece—forged to shame all others. The Master of the Divine Forge, the greatest craftsman of the dwarves. His presence here was proof—proof that they had deceived my war intelligence completely. My offensive on their front was already doomed before it even began. That's how deeply this trap had been prepared.
The six remaining figures were the human heroes. Pathetic.
While every other race produced one champion, humanity had needed six, just to keep the balance.
At their front, a so-called Hero of Men—blade of sacred steel in his grip, pulsing with divine energy—stood with a noble, arrogant gaze, as if he could intimidate someone who had already watched civilizations rise and fall countless times. Around him, his pawns: the mage, with his staff buzzing with raw mana like a child playing at fireworks; the priestess, channeling Ellanisa, Goddess of Life, desperately trying to bring order to a world I've burned again and again; then the druid and the master archer, flanking their champion like chess pieces convinced they could corner the king; and finally the rogue, sulking in the shadows, waiting for a backstab that will never land.
And as if that wasn't enough—the cursed golden lizard leapt skyward, its body swelling with size and ferocity. Its scales hardened into living steel, wings of pure gold tearing out from its back. The air trembled as I felt its presence—the Golden Dragon, defender of Justice itself. The skies shook with his roar, the concentrated strength of a thousand generations of guardians in a single body. Every beat of its wings was a direct challenge to my power—and also the perfect excuse for me to finally show the world what fear really means.
All of this… should have impressed me.
Should have.
But all I felt was fury. A fire that ate at my core, growing hotter with every gesture, every step, every smug little smile they dared to make. I wanted to crush them. Snap their dreams. Twist every ounce of hope they carried into smoldering ash.
My ruby eyes dragged over each and every one of them, weighing their strengths, mapping their weaknesses, planning their inevitable slaughters even as I drank in every detail. The performance before me was flawless—epic, even.
But it would only be theirs for a few seconds more.
And then, a thought broke through—cruel, mocking, the perfect punctuation to their grand little show:
Today truly proved to be special, after all…
the single most unbelievably shit day of all.