The doors were massive—twenty feet tall, carved from black stone that seemed to devour light itself. Intricate symbols covered the surface—demonic runes that burned to look at, forcing Don to squint as pain lanced through his skull.
The guards pushed the doors open.
They swung inward with a low, grinding groan, like the mouth of some ancient beast.
Don stepped inside.
The chamber was vast. Pillars of obsidian stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Torches burned with green flame, casting everything in sickly, unnatural light. The floor was polished black marble, reflecting a distorted version of himself—wrong, twisted, monstrous.
At the far end, on a throne of bone and iron, sat Torkh.
The Blood King.
Green skin. Bat-like wings folded against his back. Yellow eyes burning with cold intelligence. He wore armor now—black and red, etched with runes that pulsed like living things.
But it wasn't Torkh that made Don's breath catch.
It was the creature kneeling at his feet.
Its skin was golden—not painted, but naturally metallic, gleaming like polished brass. Seven feet tall, humanoid in shape, but wrong. Arms too long. Fingers with too many joints.
And its head—
Don's stomach turned.
The top of the skull was missing. Shattered. Bone fragments jutted upward like a jagged crown. And beneath them, clearly visible, was its brain.
It pulsed.
With each heartbeat, the exposed gray matter throbbed, glistening wet, streaked with veins of black and gold.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The creature's eyes stared at nothing. Unfocused. Empty. It didn't move. Didn't breathe—or if it did, the breaths were too shallow to see.
It simply… existed.
A living corpse.
Torkh's voice cut through the silence, smooth and cultured.
"Welcome, Don." He leaned forward, resting his chin on one clawed hand. "I trust your rest was adequate?"
Don said nothing. His throat was too dry.
Torkh's smile widened, revealing rows of sharp teeth. "Ah, the silent type. I appreciate that. So many prisoners scream. Or beg. It becomes tiresome."
He gestured lazily toward the kneeling figure.
"Do you know what this is?"
Don shook his head slowly, unable to look away.
"This," Torkh said, his tone almost fond, "is a Memory Eater." He gestured to the exposed brain. "What you see—this—is the true creature. A parasite. One of the most dangerous beings to crawl between worlds."
He placed one clawed hand on the massive body's shoulder.
"And this body belonged to King Magenda the Eleventh. Ruler of the largest human kingdom on your continent."
Don's breath caught.
Magenda—
He'd seen that name. In the trophy hall. Carved on a plaque with no skull beside it.
King Magenda the Eleventh - Unknown.
Now he understood why.
"For two centuries," Torkh continued, circling the kneeling figure, "this parasite lived in his skull. Controlled his every move. Ruled in his name. Humans bowed to a king who was already dead inside—a puppet with a demon wearing his face."
He began to pace, his movements deliberate.
"Under its control, Magenda built the Gilded Wastes—a demon realm hidden within the human world, disguised as prosperous expansion. Golden cities. Vast armies. Conquered territories. All in the name of a king who no longer existed."
Torkh's smile widened.
"And then it made a mistake. It invaded my territory."
He placed his hand directly on the exposed brain.
The creature convulsed. A full-body spasm.
"So I cracked his skull open—carefully, precision is important—and exposed the truth. I didn't kill either of them. That would be mercy."
His eyes gleamed with cruelty.
"I separated them. The parasite can no longer fully control the body. The body can no longer obey its own will. Both are aware. Both suffer. And both will kneel before me… forever."
He turned to Don, studying him.
"That plaque you passed—'King Magenda the Eleventh - Unknown'—I left it that way intentionally. Because his fate is worse than death."
He gestured to the kneeling figure.
"A king reduced to furniture. Conscious. Aware. Powerless."
Torkh took a step closer, circling Don slowly.
"But you're wondering—why am I telling you this? Why do I care about some nameless boy with no title, no legacy?"
His smile sharpened.
"Because you are a different kind of mystery. Not noble. Not special by birth. Just a child who survived what should have killed him. Who connected to something demons cannot touch. Who killed without breaking."
He stopped directly in front of Don.
"You're not special because of who you are. You're special because of what you might become."
He snapped his fingers.
From the shadows, figures emerged.
Four demons. Identical. Pale gray skin. No horns. No wings. Smooth, featureless faces except for mouths too wide, too full of teeth.
They carried something between them.
A table.
Black stone. Covered in straps and restraints.
Don's heart began to pound.
"Don't worry," Torkh said, his smile never wavering. "I'm not going to kill you. That would be wasteful."
The demons set the table down in the center of the throne room, then turned toward Don with those blank faces.
Waiting.
"You see," Torkh continued, "I have a theory. You survived the tainted water. Connected to the Source—something demons cannot do. Survived my colosseum with your sanity mostly intact."
He stopped in front of Don.
"You're a paradox. And I despise unsolved mysteries."
He gestured to the table.
"So we're going to find out exactly what you are. We're going to take you apart—carefully, methodically—and see what makes you tick."
He added, almost kindly, "Your Immortality will keep you alive through the whole process."
Don's entire body went cold.
No. No, no, no—
[Warning: Extreme stress detected]
[Madness: Rising]
[Emotion Suppression available]
[Recommend activation: Y/N]
Don's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The four demons began to advance.
And in the corner of his vision, the quest timer ticked down.
[01:45:00]