The Devil King's palace was a place not built for men.
Its walls loomed impossibly high, forged of black stone that seemed to drink the light from torches. Stained-glass windows did not shine with color but bled crimson, their panes warped by infernal craft. Columns carved into twisted shapes rose like petrified screams, and above them, a ceiling so vast it might as well have been the sky—yet no sunlight entered. Even at midday, the chamber was cloaked in perpetual dusk.
Here, the air was wrong. It pulsed, heavy with dark energy that clung to the skin like frostbite, seeping into the lungs with every breath. Shadows did not follow the movements of men, but stretched unnaturally, writhing like living things. Every heartbeat felt amplified, as though the palace itself listened.
And to the gates the two sides of the armies marched. The devil king's gate had no doors to close, exhibiting power and dominance, as if he meant to say that he was open to any challenge.
