The demon continent no longer belonged to itself.
While fires still burned on the towers, while laughter still rang in taverns and songs in palaces,
no one understood:
they were living their last free days.
Silence ruled the throne room. The incense haze mingled with wine and sweat. On her skin—silence. In the air—tension. She was alone. And could afford to remember.
The Queen of Demons lounged on her throne, relaxed, almost lazy, draped in a sheer dark fabric that teased more than it covered. Her gaze was fixed on the emptiness ahead, but her thoughts were far within. In the darkest rooms of the past.
"Two days from now… He will come. The Dark Lord. And try to force me to kneel."
Fingers slowly tightened on the armrest. Nails bit into wood. A soft crack. Her body—calm; her memory—like fire.
"How many times have I already knelt. How many times did I swallow drool, blood, semen. How many times did I swear it was the last—and every time I went back to hell."
She rose. Went barefoot to the mirror. Stopped. Touched the scar on her thigh.
"I crawled on all fours before a demon prince. A collar on my neck. His vassals laughed, threw bones at me, and he made me lick the floor until he said, 'Now—like a bitch.' And I was. Because I needed his signature. His army."
She turned from the mirror. Walked the hall, her fingers gliding over the dark marble as over a lover's body.
"And then there was the human king. Old, repulsive, perpetually drunk. He said, 'Open your mouth. And don't close it until I say.' And I knelt, licking his rancid meat while he discussed taxes with his generals. By morning—his army had erased my rival clan. I got a castle. And I left his chambers with semen on my tongue and a title in my hands."
She stopped by the window. Looked into the night. At stars that seemed cold and dead.
"The elven lord… was different. Beautiful. Cultivated. His touch—gentle. His gaze—like a poet in love. He asked me to stand naked before his councilors, like a statue. Said it helped him speak to enemies. Said my beauty was the shield of elven diplomacy. And I stood. With my breasts high. My legs parted. Because for that he gave me a princess's title. Lands. Standing."
"And then the order came. Three words from the Demon King: 'Kill him. Today.'"
She touched her belly, where a fine tattoo vanished beneath the skin.
"We made love that night. For the last time. His kisses were soft, his fingers—tender. He fell asleep on my breasts like a child. And I drove a knife into his heart. His last word was: 'Why?' And mine—'Because I am not yours.'"
She returned to the throne, took a goblet. Studied the wine—dark, thick. Drank. Slowly. Set it back.
"The King of the Dwarves… was a pervert unknown even to the underworld itself. His fantasies had no borders—and I saw them all."
"It didn't always resemble sex between a man and a woman. Sometimes I wore heavy battle armor and played the knight he had 'captured.' Sometimes he ordered me to mimic animals: I crawled, growled, licked his hands while he jerked off, laughing like the damned. And sometimes… I simply dropped to my knees and entertained him with my mouth, without a word."
"He grabbed my head, fisted my hair, and pressed until his cock slid so deep I gagged and my eyes watered. And he only whispered, 'Yes, that's it… a little more… deeper, bitch…'—and finished in my throat without looking away, as if admiring his own masterpiece."
"I didn't care. I swallowed, wiped my tears, and asked for more wine. Because the money he paid saved my principality in the famine years. No one else even wanted to speak to me. No one believed I could survive. But I did. And to hell with the price."
She smashed the goblet against the floor. Wine spread like blood.
"Every race fucked me. My body was coin, my hips—a chest of gold, my breasts—a gift for negotiations.
I lost my soul. But I won a crown."
"The Dark Lord wants my fealty."
She smiled. Thin. Cruel.
"Then let him know… I have been a slave. A whore. A toy. But now I am the Queen. The one who survived."
"And if he wants to see me on my knees—let him be the first to fall. I know how to make the world convulse with arousal… or with fear. And I will choose which."
A dead city, forgotten by the gods.
Ruins of cracked stone. No voice. No movement.
Only him.
The Dark Lord stood at the center of a round amphitheater that had once been a sanctuary.
Before him—an ancient book. Metal pages shimmered with darkness, and the damp dust around him hung in the air as if afraid to fall.
He held a black dagger, long, narrow, its blade thrumming with the presence of power.
On the page—a seal. Alive. Pulsing.
Without a word, the Dark Lord stripped to the waist, lowered his gaze to his torso—
and began carving a symbol into his chest.
The sharp blade slid easily into the skin. Blood ran slowly. But not ordinary—it was already mixing with something… else. Black veins were sprouting from within.
The final cut. The seal was complete.
And in that very instant—something woke.
The wind howled in the sky.
Thunder tore the sky to pieces.
A shaft of green, otherworldly light shot upward, ripping the clouds.
All the elements—began to play around him, like a mad symphony.
The Dark Lord fell to one knee. A hand on his heart.
His body could not bear it—but his soul… reached.
And from within him, a voice spoke.
—"I am here."
—"I am the Reaper."
—"Now we are one. And I will do what you command. To reap. To gather. To subjugate. Without a drop of mercy."
His eyes opened. Black. Without pupils.
And on his chest—the symbol kept pulsing like a second heart.
A black tower in a nightscape that not even flame could light.
Here it was not silence that ruled—here the absence of life reigned.
On a throne of bones sat Death.
Motionless. Silent.
In his eyes—eternity.
And suddenly… he turned his head.
His gaze—nowhere.
His fingers—touched his chest.
The seal. Gone.
—"…This was not meant to happen," he whispered.
He rose. The shadow around the throne stirred.
—"Mortals… you will not be able to wield this weapon."
—"You do not comprehend what you have released."
—"Your end has already begun."
At that very moment, across the land of the dead the mountains cracked.
Rifts, black lightning, fractures in the very fabric of the world.
Below—the shades screamed.
Upward—souls flew.
And then Death's voice swept through every level of hell and oblivion:
—"He is free."
—"Prepare yourselves. The world will flood with new souls."
—"There is no more restraint. Now it has—all begun."
And he laughed.
Hoarsely. Prolonged. Like a thousand sighs of dead souls at once.