The obsidian throne room stretched endlessly into shadow, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness that no mortal flame could pierce. Ancient pillars carved with the names of fallen kingdoms rose like tombstones, each one a testament to eight centuries of unbroken conquest. And at the heart of this monument to despair sat the most feared being in existence, chin resting on his fist, staring at the fresh corpses scattered across his pristine black marble floor.
Demon King Malphas—Lord of the Crimson Depths, Bringer of the Final Night, He Who Makes Gods Weep—was unbearably, soul-crushingly bored.
"Your Magnificent and Terrible Majesty," wheezed a surviving hero from beneath his shattered breastplate, crimson frothing at his lips. "We... we were the strongest... the chosen ones..."
Malphas didn't even glance at the dying man. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne with the slow, methodical rhythm of a funeral march. Around the hero's broken form lay the remnants of what the humans had called their "Ultimate Party"—a paladin whose holy sword had snapped like a twig, a mage whose final spell had fizzled pathetically, a rogue whose legendary speed had proven woefully inadequate.
Twenty years of training. The greatest academy in the Eastern Kingdoms had forged these heroes specifically to challenge him. They'd arrived with blessed weapons, enchanted armor, and hearts full of righteous determination.
The entire battle had lasted four minutes.
"Strongest," Malphas repeated, his voice a low rumble that made the castle walls tremble. "You call yourselves the strongest." He finally looked down at the hero, crimson eyes holding the weight of eight hundred years. "Do you know how many 'strongest' heroes have died in this room?"
The hero's mouth moved soundlessly.
"Seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirty-two." Malphas rose from his throne, his imposing seven-foot frame casting a shadow that seemed to devour light itself. "I've counted. Every single one proclaimed themselves my destined defeater. Every single one believed they were special."
He walked among the corpses with the casual air of a gardener inspecting wilted flowers. His black armor moved without sound, as if he were more shadow than substance. When he reached the dying hero, he crouched down, bringing his terrifying face level with the man's.
"Tell me, little hero," Malphas said softly. "What made you think you were different?"
"The... the prophecy..." the hero gasped. "Foretold... that I would..."
"Ah yes, prophecies." Malphas nodded gravely. "Fascinating things, prophecies. Would you like to know how many prophesied heroes have challenged me?"
The hero's eyes widened with desperate hope.
"All of them."
The light faded from the hero's eyes as his head fell back against the marble. Malphas stared at the corpse for a long moment, then sighed deeply. The sound echoed through the throne room like wind through a graveyard.
He stood and surveyed his handiwork. The Ultimate Party had indeed been stronger than most—the mage had actually managed to singe his armor, and the paladin's final desperate strike had required him to use two hands to block. Progress, of a sort.
But not nearly enough.
Malphas walked back to his throne and slumped into it with all the enthusiasm of a man reporting to a job he'd held too long. Around him, lesser demons began emerging from alcoves and shadows—his court, such as it was. Twisted creatures of fang and claw who existed only to serve his will and cower at his presence.
"Magnificent Lord," hissed General Bael, his lieutenant for the past three centuries. The scaled demon approached with his usual obsequious bow. "The humans' resistance grows ever weaker. At this rate, we could conquer the remaining kingdoms within a decade."
"Could we?" Malphas asked without interest.
"Of course, Your Darkness! The mortals' academies produce nothing but weaklings. Their faith wavers. Their magic grows feeble. Soon, all of creation shall bow before your—"
"Bael."
"Yes, Magnificent One?"
"Have I ever told you why I became the Demon King?"
The question seemed to catch Bael off-guard. In three hundred years of service, his master had never seemed inclined toward conversation about the past.
"I... assumed it was your destiny, my lord. Your power, your rage, your—"
"I was bored then too."
Bael blinked his reptilian eyes. "My lord?"
Malphas stared at the vaulted ceiling, his voice taking on a distant quality. "Eight hundred years ago, I was human. A farmer, if you can believe it. Wheat and barley as far as the eye could see. Do you know what farming teaches you, Bael?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Patience. And how to recognize when something has grown as much as it ever will." He gestured at the corpses. "This is my harvest now. And it's gotten smaller every year."
Bael shifted nervously. Conversations with his master rarely went well when they took philosophical turns.
"Perhaps... perhaps the humans simply need more time to develop stronger heroes, my lord?"
"More time?" Malphas laughed, and the sound was like crystal breaking. "Bael, do you know what I did for entertainment before these heroes started coming?"
"Conquered kingdoms, Sire?"
"Exactly. Do you know what I did after I'd conquered them all?"
"...Waited for heroes?"
"Waited for heroes." Malphas nodded slowly. "Eight hundred years of sitting on this throne, waiting for someone—anyone—to provide me with a challenge worthy of my attention. And what do I get? Children with pointed sticks and delusions of grandeur."
He stood again, pacing to one of the great windows that looked out over his domain. The Demon Realm stretched below, a landscape of fire and shadow punctuated by the occasional volcano. In the distance, his armies drilled with mechanical precision, preparing for wars that would never challenge him.
"Tell me, Bael," he said without turning around. "What happens when an immortal being achieves everything they ever wanted?"
"They... enjoy their victory, my lord?"
"They discover that victory without challenge is indistinguishable from failure." Malphas pressed his palm against the window, leaving a crack in the enchanted glass. "I have conquered death itself. I possess power beyond mortal comprehension. I am feared by gods and worshipped by demons. And I would trade it all for a single opponent who could make me try."
Bael was quiet for several long minutes. Finally, he ventured, "What would you have us do, Magnificent One?"
"Nothing. Continue as always. Send raids to the borderlands, strike fear into their hearts, give them reason to train their heroes." Malphas returned to his throne one more time. "Perhaps the next batch will be better."
But even as he said it, he knew they wouldn't be. The humans had grown complacent, content to send their mediocre champions to die rather than face the hard truth—that their greatest heroes weren't even close to good enough.
As the lesser demons scurried away to dispose of the bodies and clean the marble, Malphas found himself staring at the empty throne room. Somewhere in the mortal realm, another group of would-be heroes was probably beginning their training, convinced they would be different. Convinced they were special.
They would arrive in a few months or years, full of hope and determination. They would declare their intentions, speak of justice and righteousness, call upon their gods for strength.
And then they would die.
Just like all the others.
Malphas closed his eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to be challenged. What it felt like to struggle. What it felt like to be mortal and uncertain and alive in ways that had nothing to do with simply drawing breath.
The memory was eight hundred years old, and growing fainter every day.
But in the deepest corners of his immortal mind, an idea began to form. A desperate, ridiculous idea that just might solve his problem once and for all.
If the heroes coming to him weren't strong enough...
Perhaps it was time to go to them instead.
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*End of Chapter 1*