Five minutes before the breach.
"Faster! Drag that vase over here! We're already behind schedule!"
Implet One scurried across the plush red carpet, his short, clawed feet nearly tripping over themselves. He was hugging a massive golden vase filled with Midnight Roses—rare flowers that only bloomed in the deepest, most romantic pits of the abyss.
"Damn it, help me instead of just grumbling in my ear!" Implet Two shouted back, struggling to hang a silk banner that read 'WELCOME HOME' in elegant, cursive demonic runes.
"I've got my hands full, you moron!" Implet One snapped, placing the vase down with a heavy thud next to the obsidian throne. He wiped sweat from his green, wrinkled forehead. "What's all this fuss for, anyway? We could've just slit his throat at the gate and called it a day."
"Shhh!"
Implet Two dropped the banner and slapped his partner on the back of the head.
"Whisper, you idiot! You want the Boss to hear that and snitch to the Lady?"
Implet One rubbed his sore head, pouting. "Buddy, don't you feel the humiliation? We are demons. We kill. We destroy. We don't... interior decorate."
"Who gives a rat's ass about our feelings?" Implet Two hissed, picking up a feather duster and frantically cleaning a speck of dust from the throne's armrest. "Our job is to spruce up the hall and skedaddle before that damn Hero shows up. Remember what they did to Vergil when he scratched the throne's column by accident?"
Implet One shuddered. His face went pale green. "Poor bastard... they made him eat pumpkins and turnips for a month. They gave him a soft bed. And worst of all... they banned him from doing anything perverted to human heads."
"Exactly," Implet Two grumbled. "I'd rather die than go through that torture. So shut up and polish the floor."
Suddenly, a voice boomed from the shadows of the high ceiling. It was cold, imperious, and terrifying.
"Get a move on, you lazy slugs!"
Both imps jumped into the air, squealing.
"Coming! Sorry, sorry!" "It's not my fault, forgive me!"
They scrambled like cockroaches exposed to light, hiding props and adjusting the mood lighting to 'seductive dimness'.
"He is here. SCRAM! NOW!"
The two imps dropped everything and vanished into the secret tunnels behind the walls.
Silence fell over the Demon Lord's Throne Room. The candles flickered. The scent of lavender filled the air.
And then...
BOOM.
The massive iron gates flew open, blasted off their hinges by a kick fueled by the last drop of holy wrath.
Marcus, the Chosen Hero, stepped inside through the choking cloud of dust. His silver armor was dented. His cape was torn. His sword, Lightbringer, glowed with blinding holy energy, illuminating his scarred, desperate face.
He raised his shield, his eyes darting around the room, hunting for danger. He expected mountains of skulls. He expected rivers of blood. He expected a fight for his life against a horde of nightmares.
"DIE, YOU MONSTERS!" Marcus screamed, swinging his sword at the empty air. "COME AND FACE JUDGMENT!"
His voice echoed in the vast hall.
Nobody answered. Nothing attacked.
Marcus blinked, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. His legs trembled—the adrenaline from the door-kick was fading, leaving him utterly drained. He slowly lowered his shield.
He looked at the polished marble floor. He looked at the vase of fresh flowers. He looked at the soft, romantic lighting and the silk banner hanging crookedly above the throne.
"What the..." Marcus muttered, his battle-hardened brain short-circuiting. "Where are the spikes? Where are the screaming souls of the damned?"
"Well, isn't this interesting..."
A voice rang out. It wasn't a monstrous roar. It was a velvety, teasing purr that sent a shiver down Marcus's spine—not of fear, but of something far more dangerous.
"I was expecting you to be a bit taller. But I suppose the armor shrinks in the cold."
Marcus spun around, pointing his shaking sword toward the throne.
Sitting there, legs crossed comfortably, was the Demon Queen.
She didn't look like the prophecy described. There was no rotting flesh. No extra mouths dripping poison.
She was stunning.
She had long, flowing black hair that cascaded over her pale shoulders like a waterfall of night. Crimson eyes glowed with amusement. She wore a black dress with a slit so high it challenged the laws of physics, revealing legs that could start wars. Two elegant, curved horns crowned her head, and a spade-tipped tail flicked lazily behind her.
"Show yourself, monster!" Marcus shouted, though his voice wavered. "Stop using illusions! I know this place is a slaughterhouse!"
The Demon Queen rested her chin on her palm, smiling. "Sweetheart, what are you going on about? Have I ever messed with you or your loved ones?"
"Don't play dumb!" Marcus roared, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to collapse his lungs. "You are the root of all evil! I've walked through hell to get here!"
"Hell?" She tilted her head. "Darling, look around. Does this look like hell? It's freshly renovated. I picked the drapes myself."
She stood up and began to walk down the steps of the dais. Her hips swayed with a hypnotic rhythm.
"Stay back!" Marcus warned, stumbling backward. "Your tricks won't sway me! I am Marcus of the Dawn, and I will..."
He stopped.
As she stepped into the light, the demonic aura around her seemed to... shift. The horns remained, the tail remained, but the face...
Marcus squinted. That smirk. The way she raised one eyebrow when she was amused.
"Wait," Marcus whispered. The sword in his hand trembled violently. "No. It can't be."
The Demon Queen stopped five paces away from him.
"Took you long enough, Hero," she said softly.
She snapped her fingers. A small, warm spark of mana flared—a simple, harmless trick she used to use to light campfires during their cold nights on the road.
"Elena?" Marcus dropped his sword. Clang.
The Demon Queen grinned. "Hello, Marcus. Did you miss me?"
Marcus felt his knees go weak. The world spun. "But... you died. In the Golden City. You... you are the Demon Queen?"
"Surprise!" She spread her arms theatrically. "I know, I know. It's a lot to process. 'My best friend is the ultimate evil,' blah blah blah."
She closed the distance between them. Before Marcus could react—his body too exhausted to fight back—she placed a finger on his chest armor.
"But we can talk about the details later," she whispered, her crimson eyes scanning him from head to toe. "Right now, I'm looking at you, and I see a lot of problems. Malnutrition. Fatigue. Stress lines."
She grabbed the collar of his battered armor and pulled him closer.
"Elena... what are you doing?" Marcus stammered, his face flushing red as her scent—lavender and danger—overwhelmed him.
"Doing?" Elena licked her lips. "I'm doing my job."
She snapped her fingers again.
The illusion of the Throne Room shattered like glass. The cold stone floor vanished. The throne vanished.
Marcus gasped as he fell backward, landing not on stone, but on a massive, plush, heart-shaped bed. The room had transformed instantly into a luxurious, dimly lit private chamber.
Magical chains erupted from the bedposts, glowing pink and purple, clamping around his wrists and ankles before he could even blink.
"What is this?! Let me go!" Marcus struggled, but his strength was completely gone. He was helpless.
Elena loomed over him, producing a pair of latex gloves from thin air.
Snap.
The sound of the latex snapping against her skin echoed in the silent room.
"Relax, Marcus," she purred, climbing onto the bed and straddling his waist. Her weight was heavy, dominant, and undeniably real. "I'm not going to kill you."
She leaned down until her nose touched his, her eyes burning with intent.
"But you're in terrible shape, Hero. So, as your former party member and current Overlord, I'm ordering a mandatory Medical Check-up."
She reached for the buckles of his armor.
"And trust me... It's going to be very, very thorough."