Silence prevailed in a dark room.
The room was empty, devoid of any furniture or decorations; even windows and doors were missing, and not even the slightest hint of light could be seen.
In the center of this eternal darkness, a massive round table stood. The table was made of polished obsidian, its surface so dark it seemed to drink the very light around it.
FUSHHH!
A flame erupted in the middle of the table, flickering and dancing, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the room.
The flame grew and kept shifting its colors, from the normal orange to a deep blood red, then to a cold, ghostly blue, then to a sickly, toxic green. It was like a rainbow of death.
Then small pieces of the flame started to break away from the main flame and fly around the room, each one taking a different color. They looked like will-o'-the-wisps.
The room was no longer dark. It was illuminated by the ghostly lights of the floating flames.
After a full minute, these colorful will-o'-the-wisps started to gather around the table, forming twelve figures. Each figure was a distinct silhouette, a shadow given form, yet they all wore robes that seemed to be woven from the very fabric of darkness. Each one wore a mask—a plain, featureless mask with the same color as the flame that formed them.
They sat on the chairs that appeared out of nowhere, their postures straight and rigid. The silence that followed was heavier than before.
"..."
For a long while, no one spoke.
The twelve figures sat in perfect stillness, their masks reflecting the flickering hues of the flames that had birthed them. Red, blue, green, violet—each glowed faintly, like a heartbeat synchronized to some unseen rhythm.
The one seated at the head of the table, wearing a mask of shimmering, iridescent white, broke the silence. Their voice was neither male nor female, but a hollow resonance that seemed to vibrate directly in the minds of the others.
"The tribute from the southern district is late." The statement was simple, devoid of accusation, yet it carried the weight of a death sentence. "Red Baron?"
A figure in a blood-red mask leaned forward, their fingers—long and claw-like—tapping rhythmically against the obsidian surface.
"Irrelevant," the Red Baron replied, their voice a dry rasp, like stones grinding together. "A minor logistical hiccup. The tribute will be delivered. Double the usual amount, as compensation."
"Compensation is irrelevant when faith is questioned," the white-masked figure countered, their gaze unwavering. "Our arrangement is built upon punctuality. Punctuality is a reflection of order. You have introduced chaos."
"Chaos is a tool, not a flaw, White Baron," the Red Baron retorted. "I am… expanding the enterprise. A larger quarry requires a larger net. A brief delay in the catch is to be expected."
A figure in a sickly, venomous green mask, seated to the Red Baron's right, stirred.
"Your 'expansions' have drawn attention, Red Baron. The whispers in the lower hells speak of a… disruption. At one of your pens."
The Red Baron's head tilted slightly toward the green mask.
"Whispers are for the wind. My assets are secure."
"I hope so." The green-masked one leaned forward, their voice a sibilant hiss. "For your sake."
The White Baron raised a hand, and the room fell silent again.
"The enterprise proceeds. The tribute will be delivered. Red Baron, ensure your… logistical matters are resolved. Permanently."
"How far are we?" The Red Baron asked after a few moments of silence.
"We are close," a new voice spoke, this one coming from a figure wearing a mask of deep, shadowy black, their form seeming to flicker at the edges of vision. "The final key is in place. The door will be unsealed soon."
A murmur rippled through the assembled figures, a current of palpable excitement.
The murmur did not last long.
The White Baron's hand lowered slowly, and the sound died as if strangled in its cradle. The ghostly flames hovering above the table dimmed, their colors deepening, thickening, as though the room itself leaned in to listen.
"The door has remained sealed for centuries," the White Baron said. "Many before us believed they held the final key. All of them were wrong."
"This time is different," the black-masked figure replied calmly. "The convergence is complete. Blood, faith, despair, and desire—each strand has been woven. The mortal side ripens faster than anticipated."
The green-masked figure chuckled softly, a wet, unpleasant sound.
"And our Red Baron has been most… industrious in providing desire."
"I deliver results. Always have." The Red Baron's flame flared brighter, crimson licking the edge of their mask.
"Results invite retaliation," said a figure wearing a mask of cold, pale blue. Its voice was sharp, calculating. "Reports indicate interference. A predator outside our design."
"Clarify." The Red Baron's tapping fingers stilled.
"Former Demon General Beatrice."
"!!!" The moment the name was spoken, every single flame flared, their colors blurring together in a chaotic whirlwind of light. The entire room was filled with palpable tension.
"Is she aware?" The white-masked one asked, their hollow tone now sharp and dangerous.
"Unlikely." The blue-masked one shook their head. "If she knew, half of us would already be dead."
"She is just a retired general, a mother running her brothel. Her teeth are no longer as sharp as they used to be." The red-masked one waved it off.
"Don't underestimate her, Red Baron," the blue-masked one warned. "She is still a force to be reckoned with. Four Barons have been killed by her hands so far."
"She is old news," the red-masked one retorted. "The world has changed. She is nothing but a relic of the past. And even if she knows, it doesn't matter. The door is almost open. By the time she figures out what's happening, it will be too late for her and everyone else."
A figure in a mask of deep, shimmering violet finally spoke, their voice a smooth, melodious purr that cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter.
"He is right," the Violet Baron said. "Her awareness, or lack thereof, is a distraction. The key is the convergence. The convergence is everything."
The Violet Baron raised a slender, pale hand, and from their palm, a single, glowing butterfly made of pure light fluttered up. It circled the table once, its wings shedding motes of golden dust that sizzled when they hit the obsidian. The motes formed faint, shimmering runes, visible only for a moment before fading away.
"However, being careful is never a bad thing," the Violet Baron added with a playful tone. "After all, we wouldn't want our little project to be ruined by a... meddling old whore, would we?"
The White Baron watched the butterfly dissolve, their mask betraying no emotion.
"Proceed with caution. And expedite the tribute. The final offering approaches."
"Of course." The Red Baron nodded once. "Three days. The tribute will be delivered. And I will deal with the former general... personally, if she gets in my way."
"Hmph!" The Blue Baron snorted but said nothing more, clearly finding the idea of the Red Baron fighting General Beatrice amusing.
"Then this meeting is adjourned," the White Baron declared, and with a wave of their hand, the colorful flames began to shrink, their light dimming as they were drawn back into the central flame.
One by one, the twelve figures dissolved into their respective colors, their forms collapsing back into the will-o'-the-wisps before being sucked back into the single, multi-colored flame in the center of the table.
FUSHHH!
The flame vanished, plunging the room back into absolute, suffocating darkness.
....
BAAAM!
"FUCK!"
Inside a dimly lit office, a figure with a red mask cursed, slamming his palms on the desk. He grabbed the mask and ripped it off, revealing a man with sharp, aristocratic features and a mane of blood-red hair that cascaded down his back. He was handsome, in a cruel, predatory way, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing, crimson eyes that burned with a cold, calculating intelligence.
The Red Baron.
"Beatrice..." he muttered her name with pure, unadulterated hatred. "You just had to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, didn't you, old hag?"
He hated the woman with all of his being. She was one of the few demonesses who ever managed to defeat him in combat, humiliate him in front of the entire demon army, and shatter his pride.
He still remembered that day as if it were yesterday.
For some, they think this was the reason why he hated her so much, but that wasn't the only reason. No... There was something more. Something deeper and stupidly simple.
The Red Baron was an incubus, and not just any incubus. He was a royal incubus, one of the last of his kind, and Beatrice, being a royal succubus, was supposed to be... his.
They were a match made in Hell, a union that would have created the most powerful offspring in the Underworld.
But she refused him. She rejected him, and she even... Ahem... claimed his virginity... the back way.
A memory that still made his blood boil.
"That bitch..." he hissed, picking up a silver dagger from the desk and throwing it at the wall, the blade sinking deep into a portrait of Beatrice, right between her eyes.
"She'll pay... she will pay for everything."