The hall smelled of ancient incense and old power.
Velvet black banners hung like sleeping wings above a marble floor carved with abyssal constellations. Every flicker of torchlight swayed like a dying soul trapped in glass. Voices murmured and scraped — aristocrats, attendants, and lesser demon lords whispering in nervous currents.
I kept my posture slow, controlled. Calm.
An emperor in patience, even if hidden beneath another man's skin.
The mask fit snugly. Girte's illusion threaded through me, mapping memory and flesh into the image of Orba: a towering figure cloaked in cold authority, horns curving backward like obsidian scythes. My breathing, my pulse, even my weight distribution — all adapted without effort. Girte's magic did the heavy lifting, molding the world's perception as if I had always belonged here.
But there were limits. The mask could deceive eyes, instinct, even mana perception.
Not intent.
And there was someone in this place whose intent pierced like a needle repeatedly tapping at the back of my neck.
I ignored it.
For now.
Silence is a fortress, I reminded myself. Ruin comes only when one answers before needed.
I found a seat near the curved obsidian banquet table, one reserved for lower-ranked abyssal royals — the Ninth throne's traditional spot. Food lay before us in ornate bowls made of bone and crystal. Ethereal wine. Dark fruit glistening like jewels soaked in blood. Roasted demon-stag ribs, still steaming. Everything overly theatrical, as if to remind us this place was built on indulgence and power.
I reached for a glass. Calm. Controlled. A sip.
Bitter. Tastes like fermented secrets.
Good enough.
Across the hall, laughter erupted like a slap.
Feje, the Thirteenth Abyssal Queen, perched on a table like a child at festival night. She clapped her hands while kicking her legs, tail flicking excitedly. Blue hair bouncing, fanged grin wide enough to swallow reason whole. Behind her, attendants looked terrified she'd break something or someone — or both.
"NOOO WAYYY, REALLY?!" she screeched at some poor noble whose ears probably shattered.
Chaos incarnate in royal form.
Moments later, another figure stormed toward her — Karuel, the Sixth Abyssal Queen. Tall, sleek, and radiating dangerous charisma like a blade dressed in perfume. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence; her stride commanded space.
"Feje."
Her voice sliced air.
Feje froze.
Karuel smacked her on the head — not hard enough to injure, but certainly enough to rattle her skull.
"Behave."
"Owowowow! Karuuuu!" Feje whined, rubbing her head. "It's a partyyy! Let me have fun!"
"This is not a banquet," Karuel hissed. "This is a royal convocation."
Feje puffed cheeks. "Same thing if you squint."
A few nobles chuckled nervously. Karuel glared until laughter died in their throats.
I exhaled slowly.
So that's the dynamic. Chaos and discipline in one package.
Their personalities contrasted beautifully — and dangerously. I could feel why they were feared. Karuel held authority like a queen carved from meteoric steel. Feje wielded unpredictability like a child with a live grenade.
Do not attract attention.
Do not engage unless necessary.
I took another sip, hands steady. My focus remained neutral. Observing. Learning.
Yet that sensation lingered.
A stare. Persistent. Cold.
I slid my gaze slightly — just enough to acknowledge the pull, not enough to reveal concern.
And there he sat.
Rusnumalung.
The Eighth Abyssal King.
He looked nothing like the others. No grandeur. No theatrics. No flamboyant armor or blazing aura. Instead — stillness. Like a winter night exhaling its final breath.
Long white hair fell in silken strands past his shoulders, gathering around robes embroidered with ancient gold runes. Twin, sweeping horns curved upward from his skull, each marked by faint scars as if fate itself once tried to carve meaning into them and failed.
His posture slouched in an almost… weary way. Eyes dark like deep winter lakes — ancient, tired, and impossibly sharp. Brows heavy, mouth traced by the weight of centuries. He resembled a scholar who'd studied extinction long enough to feel numb toward it.
A king who understood endings intimately.
My thoughts whispered quietly:
He looks like time carved him, not life.
And those eyes — dull yet piercing. They didn't burn like the others; they watched like nothing escaped him. As if he were cataloging inevitability.
Even now, he stared at me.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
I didn't meet his gaze. Meeting it would acknowledge his control. Instead, I lifted a piece of fruit, bit into it, and pretended to study the ceiling mosaics — star-patterns etched in immortal nightstone.
But the air around him bent.
Like the world itself tried to avoid his presence.
Void recognizes void.
That thought slid unpleasantly through my skull.
"Rusnumalung sees more than sight should allow.."
So that's him.
The one who could unravel futures and kings alike.
And he's watching me like he expects a revelation.
Calm.
I placed the glass down softly, fingers relaxed. Even movements were weapons here. A twitch could be panic; a stillness could be a threat.
I let my expression fall into Orba's usual cold boredom. Display nothing. Show no fear. Pretend I don't notice his scrutiny. Calculate. Wait.
But inside?
A subtle ripple of… challenge.
If he wanted a reaction, he would not get it.
A servant passed by, offering carved serpent-meat on a gold platter. I took one piece slowly. I chewed thoughtfully.
Deliberate.
Indifferent.
Feje waved her hands across the hall suddenly, shouting, "WHO WANTS TO BET TONIGHT'S GOING TO BE BORING??"
The room froze.
Karuel's eyelid twitched. "Sit. Down."
"But—!"
Karuel grabbed Feje by the back of her dress like a rebellious cat and dragged her to a seat. Feje sulked, tail flicking irritably.
The corner of my mouth nearly twitched. Almost.
I glanced again — subtly — toward Rusnumalung.
Still watching.
His brows were drawn faintly downward, as if analyzing dust motes in the shape of my soul.
He knows something is off.
But he can't see it. The Void path's nature disrupts clairvoyance — proof enough that Girte wasn't the only shield I had here.
Still… the tension felt like unseen wires tightening in the room.
Measure him, I ordered myself. What type of mind is that?
Worn.
Incredibly patient.
Accustomed to inevitability but disturbed by anomaly.
A thinker.
A watcher.
Not impulsive, not loud, not wasteful. Someone who kills with decisions, not claws.
Dangerous — but predictable in his restraint.
My pulse slowed further. I turned away completely, letting the illusion of nonchalance settle like a cloak.
If he fears uncertainty, then the best weapon is to remain unreadable.
Moments passed. Conversations resumed. Demons boasting, nobles preening, Karuel quietly radiating lethal charisma, Feje trying not to fall asleep while glaring dramatically at fruit as if it offended her.
Then—
Drums sounded.
Deep. Echoing. Like heartbeats from the abyss's core.
Silence flooded the hall.
All movement stilled.
A tall demon clad in ceremonial chains stepped forward — a herald. His voice echoed across the marble, each syllable vibrating the bones of the world.
"Prepare yourselves. The convocation begins."
I sat straighter, Orba's posture perfectly recalled — heavy, imperious, uncaring.
This is it.
First impressions among sovereign predators.
A hum swept the room — mana, expectation, anticipation sharpened like blades drawn under moonlight.
We waited for Arkal, the First Abyssal King — the summit of power. His presence should open the gathering.
He did not appear.
Instead, a roar of shifting armor and a gust of chilling wind heralded another figure stepping forward.
Ulykart.
Second King.
Tall, armored in bone-like plates etched with demonic scripture. Black flames climbed around him like serpents wearing crowns.
He raised one clawed hand.
"I shall speak first," he rumbled — voice the grinding of mountains.
Whispers sparked like falling sparks, confusion itching beneath the surface.
If Ulykart speaks first —
Then something is wrong.
The atmosphere tightened, thickened, suffocating in silent anticipation.
Ulykart's eyes burned crimson across the hall.
"The First King does not attend."
The words thundered.
A ripple of shock slashed through the crowd like lightning across a storm sea.
Even Rusnumalung's expression twitched — barely, but I noticed.
Something massive is happening.
And I've walked into it wearing someone else's face.
Ulykart continued, voice low and heavy:
"You have been summoned not for ceremony… but for crisis."
Cold crept beneath my borrowed skin.
This meeting…
Is not routine.
And the abyss is about to shift.