The tower that housed the Overlords' summit rose out of Pentagram City like a blackened cathedral, its surface reflecting the crimson haze of Hell in long streaks that looked disturbingly like dried blood. The air around it buzzed with layered magic: old contracts, territorial claims, soul-debts woven into the stone itself. Even the street below felt heavier, as if the city instinctively bowed around the structure.
Alastor walked at Max's side with his usual jaunty stride, microphone staff tapping the pavement in a cheerful rhythm that clashed with the oppressive atmosphere. Behind them toddled three Egg Boiz, chattering in overlapping nonsense like a broken children's choir.
"So," Max said, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes flicking back to the eggs, "why exactly do you have the eggs again?"
"Oh, these delightful little oddities?" Alastor twirled his staff. "I was asked to dispose of them without killing them. A creative constraint! I do adore a challenge that requires finesse." His grin widened as one egg tripped, rolled, and popped back upright with a proud squeak.
Max watched them wobble after him. "They don't seem like much. I don't think anyone's going to notice them."
As they climbed the steps toward the entrance, shadows began to gather around Max almost unconsciously. They crawled up his sleeves, lacing over his shoulders, subtly stretching his silhouette. His posture straightened, spine lengthening, presence sharpening. By the time they reached the doors, the glow from the tower's sigils reflected in his eyes, turning them into thin violet slits.
Alastor stopped and spun on his heel."Eggs," he sang, pointing his cane at them, "this is an Overlord meeting only. Stay out here and try not to explode, evaporate, or otherwise inconvenience anyone important."
Two eggs saluted. The third waddled forward at the exact wrong moment and slipped through the doors behind them unnoticed.
—Inside, the conference hall felt less like a room and more like a throne room built for monsters. The ceiling arched impossibly high, dripping with crystal chandeliers that pulsed in time with unseen contracts. A vast circular table dominated the center, carved with shifting sigils that counted and recounted invisible debts, ownership marks, and territorial boundaries.
Every chair was occupied.
Carmilla Carmine sat at the head, posture razor-straight, fingers resting lightly on the armrests as if she could snap the room in half with a twitch. Zestial loomed to her right, still and ancient. Rosie lounged with floral elegance that somehow made her more unsettling, not less. Other Overlords filled the remaining seats, each radiating their own brand of quiet menace.
Max slowed a fraction.
"Damn," he muttered. "They're way different in person."
Alastor chuckled. "Each of them owns enough souls to drown a continent. Never underestimate the weight of collective damnation, my boy."
Conversation faltered as heads turned. The unfamiliar presence beside Alastor sent a ripple through the room.
"Who is this?" Carmilla asked. Her voice was calm, but the temperature dropped around it.
Alastor spread his arms."Allow me to introduce the newest Overlord of the Pride Ring… Max."
Silence.
"New Overlord?" Carmilla's eyes narrowed. "I've never heard of him."
Max stepped forward without hurry. "You've never heard of a lot of things that still exist," he said evenly. "Alastor is the one introducing me. Does his word mean nothing anymore?"
A murmur spread. Alastor's long disappearance was a wound Hell hadn't forgotten. His endorsement carried weight—and suspicion.
Max lifted his hand. Shadows peeled back, revealing five black metal rings etched with infernal script. On the back of his hand, twin sigils ignited: Lust's burning crest and Bee's honeycomb crown.
"I'm backed by Asmodeus and Bee," Max said. "And I'm engaged to Charlie Morningstar. If that's not enough… I can demonstrate."
His aura flexed.
The grand windows cracked in a spiderweb of black fractures. The floor rumbled just enough to tilt the table. Several Overlords tensed. Zestial's attention sharpened like a blade.
"That will be enough," Carmilla cut in. "You may sit… if I had a chair to spare."
A throne of shadow rose beside Alastor's seat, forming into jagged elegance.
"I brought my own," Max said, sitting.
—Carmilla began the meeting, outlining the new extermination schedule and the risk to their holdings. The word unity came up more than once, though nobody in the room believed in it.
Max listened, cataloguing reactions. Fear hid behind composure. Anger simmered under politeness. A few were already calculating profit margins from disaster.
The doors exploded open.
Velvette stormed in like neon static.
"Sorry I'm late!" she chirped, hurling a severed angel head onto the table.
Everything stopped.
As Carmilla and Velvette clashed—accusations, pride, fury—Max tuned them out. His focus shifted inward, tapping into the vast presence that was his true body threaded through Hell.
A card formed above his fingers. Black. Chained.
He flicked it.
Chains erupted from the impact, binding Velvette mid-rant and yanking her into her chair. Her phone clattered across the table.
Every eye swung to Max.
"I'm new," he said calmly, lifting the angel head. "But from what I've heard, angels weren't supposed to die. Clearly that changed. We don't know how. Guessing wrong gets us all killed."
He dropped Velvette into her seat. The chains loosened enough for movement.
She snarled, grabbed her phone, and kept scrolling.
The tension didn't vanish—but it stabilized.
Carmilla ended the meeting shortly after. Overlords filed out in brittle silence, fractures in their alliance more visible than the cracked glass overhead.
—Outside, the air felt lighter.
Alastor tipped his hat."I have… errands," he said. "Do enjoy your evening, dear Overlord."
Max watched him disappear into static.
The tower lights dimmed behind him. Hell's sky simmered overhead.
He stretched, shadows peeling off his shoulders.
"Finally," he muttered."Now… what else is there to break today?"