Pain.
That was all Don knew anymore.
Not the sharp, sudden pain of a blade. Not the dull, throbbing ache of exhaustion.
This was methodical. Clinical. Endless.
He hung suspended in the center of the throne room, his wrists and ankles bound by chains that glowed faintly with suppressive runes. The black stone table had been discarded—unnecessary now. The chains held him upright, arms spread wide, legs barely touching the floor.
His body was a canvas of ruin.
His left arm ended at the elbow—the forearm severed cleanly, bone and muscle exposed. But even as he watched through blurred vision, he could see it: flesh crawling, regenerating. Muscle fibers knitting back together. Bone extending like roots seeking soil.
His right leg bore deep gashes from hip to ankle, exposing bone. Blood dripped steadily onto the marble floor, pooling beneath him. But the wounds were already closing, skin stretching to cover the damage.
His chest—
Don didn't want to look at his chest.
It had been opened. Not cut. Peeled back, ribs spread like the wings of a grotesque bird. His heart beat in plain view, pulsing steadily, impossibly alive despite the exposure.
And standing before him, eyes gleaming with scientific fervor, was the demon from Level Three.
The one in the white robe.
The Doctor.
He was tall, thin, with pale gray skin and no horns. His face was smooth, almost featureless, except for his eyes—black voids that reflected nothing—and his mouth, which curved in a permanent, unsettling smile.
His hands were covered in blood. Don's blood.
And he was delighted.
"Fascinating," the Doctor murmured, his voice soft, almost gentle. He held a long, curved blade in one hand, its edge gleaming. "Bone regeneration at… what, thirty seconds per centimeter? Extraordinary."
He made a note on a piece of parchment floating beside him, held aloft by some unseen force.
Torkh—the Blood King—stood a few paces away, arms crossed, watching with cold curiosity.
"Well, Doctor?" Torkh's voice was calm, conversational. "What have you learned?"
The Doctor didn't look up from his notes. "Cellular regeneration occurs at a rate far exceeding any known Immortal-class entity. Neural pathways remain intact even during catastrophic trauma. Blood regenerates faster than it can be lost."
He circled Don slowly, like a predator appraising prey.
"And the pain response…" He leaned closer, studying Don's face. "Diminished, but not absent. He feels everything. Just… less."
Don's vision swam. His thoughts were fragmented, scattered.
This will never end.
This will never—
MAY THE SEVEN FORGIVE US
The words were scrawled on the dungeon wall behind him, half-hidden by shadows and dried blood. Just another desperate prayer from another forgotten prisoner.
Don didn't know why he kept staring at it.
Maybe because it was the only thing in this room that wasn't trying to hurt him.
Torkh stepped forward, his yellow eyes boring into Don's.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "Human? Demon? Halfbreed? Something else entirely?"
Don's mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a rasp of breath.
"I… don't… know…"
Torkh's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me, boy. You survived the tainted water. Connected to the Source. Your body regenerates like nothing I've ever seen."
He grabbed Don's chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
"What. Are. You."
"I don't know," Don whispered, his voice barely audible. "I don't… I never knew…"
It wasn't a lie.
He didn't know what he was. Why his hair was red. Why he could do things others couldn't.
Why Madness wanted him so badly.
Why it said he'd come crawling back.
Maybe it was right.
Torkh studied him for a long moment, then released his grip with a disgusted sound.
"Useless."
He turned to the Doctor. "Continue. Perhaps his body will reveal what his mouth will not."
The Doctor's smile widened.
"With pleasure, my King."
He raised the blade again.
Don's body tensed involuntarily.
Not again.
Please, not again.
But the blade came down anyway.
And Don's scream echoed through the throne room.
Hours passed.
Or maybe minutes.
Time had lost all meaning.
The Doctor worked with the enthusiasm of an artist and the precision of a surgeon. Every cut. Every dissection. Every dismemberment was calculated, designed to push Don's Immortality to its breaking point.
His right arm: severed at the shoulder. Regenerated in forty-three seconds.
His left leg: removed at the hip. Regenerated in fifty-one seconds.
His ribs: broken one by one. Reformed in thirty-two seconds.
His organs: examined. Prodded. Removed and placed back. Still functioning.
And through it all, Torkh asked his questions.
"Where does your power come from?"
I don't know.
"Who is your father?"
I don't know.
"What is your connection to the Source?"
I don't know.
"Why won't you break?"
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
Don's thoughts fractured into pieces, scattering like leaves in a storm.
Not pain. Not fear.
Just… absence.
Like pieces of himself were being carved away and never coming back.
Was this what Madness meant?
'You'll come crawling back'?
Maybe—
The Doctor paused, wiping blood from his hands with a cloth. His black eyes gleamed.
"Remarkable. Truly remarkable. An Immortal specimen that doesn't degrade. No cellular fatigue. No diminishing returns."
He turned to Torkh, almost giddy.
"My King, with your permission, I'd like to—"
BOOM.
The entire throne room shook.
Dust rained from the ceiling. The torches flickered. The chains holding Don rattled violently.
Torkh's head snapped upward, his eyes narrowing.
"What—"
CRASH.
The ceiling exploded.
Stone and debris rained down as a massive section of the vaulted roof was torn away by an invisible force. Sunlight—red, sickly sunlight filtered through crimson clouds—poured into the throne room.
And with it came a presence.
Not evil.
Not demonic.
Life.
Raw, overwhelming, verdant energy that clashed against the suffocating darkness of the castle like a tidal wave meeting a cliff.
Torkh's expression shifted from surprise to fury.
"Intruders."
He moved toward the shattered ceiling, wings unfurling, but before he could take flight—
A figure dropped through the opening.
Landing in a crouch. Green hair. Black armor. Eyes that blazed with life energy.
Princess Diana Genever V rose to her full height, her gaze sweeping the throne room.
Her eyes locked onto Don.
Hanging. Broken. Bleeding.
Still alive.
Her expression hardened.
Then her gaze continued around the hall—taking in the white-robed demon with his blood-slicked hands and that eternal, grotesque smile.
But before she could speak—
A presence slammed into her awareness.
Crushing. Suffocating. Ancient.
An aura so dense it warped the very air around it, pressing down like the weight of an ocean. The kind of power that made instinct scream run.
Her eyes snapped toward the throne.
And there he stood.
Green skin. Bat-like wings spread wide behind his back, each membrane etched with pulsing veins of red energy.Yellow eyes that burned with the cold fire of a predator who had never known defeat.
Tall. Regal. Absolute.
The demon radiated authority like heat from a forge—every inch of him declaring dominance, power, kingship.
Princess Diana didn't know his name.
She didn't need to.
She could feel what he was.
A demon lord.
For one crystalline moment, the throne room held its breath.
Then Princess Diana's voice rang out—commanding, undeniable, filled with the promise of violence:
"PREPARE!"