Deep in the Old Forest
The four travelers had found a small clearing deep within an ancient woodland far from any road or village. Massive oaks, their trunks thicker than houses, loomed overhead, blocking most of the starlight. A modest campfire crackled weakly at the center, its flames struggling against the biting cold of the night.
Liza sat closest to the fire, staring into the dancing embers as if searching for answers in their glow. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but steady. "What are we going to do now?"
Marcos sat opposite her, arms crossed over his scarred chest, his gray eyes reflecting the firelight like polished steel. He answered without hesitation. "We will go to the Demon King's palace. I will kill him."
Sara, sharpening an arrowhead nearby, let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Sure. Anyone can just stroll into the heart of Llahala and kill the Demon King."
"I am serious," Marcos said, his tone flat and unyielding.
"Yeah, but…" Sara began, skepticism heavy in her words.
Marcos rose fluidly and stepped closer, his presence suddenly towering. "I can kill him easily. Do not think I am weak."
Liza looked up at him, searching his face for any trace of bluff. Finding none, she nodded slowly. "Okay. I believe you."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Marcos's lips—the first any of them had seen. "Good. We should sleep now. Tomorrow morning, we begin the journey to Llahala."
They spread their blankets around the dying fire and settled in. The forest fell into a profound quiet, broken only by the occasional chirp of insects and the gentle rustle of leaves in the night breeze.
Midnight
Liza stirred awake abruptly, her heart pounding though she could not say why. The fire had burned down to glowing coals. In the dim red light, she saw Marcos sitting alone, gazing upward through a gap in the canopy at the distant stars.
He murmured something too low to catch fully—only two words carried on the still air.
"The Dirty Blood… huh."
Then, in an instant, he was on his feet, body coiled like a predator. "Wake up!" he barked, voice cutting through the silence.
Sara bolted upright, bow already in hand, arrow half-nocked. "What is it?!"
"Someone is watching us," Marcos said, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the firelight.
He moved silently toward a faint rustle in the thick bushes. A small, wiry demon—scarcely larger than a child but with glowing yellow eyes and jagged teeth—crouched there, frozen in terror.
Marcos's black dagger flashed once. The demon crumpled without a sound, throat opened cleanly.
He wiped the blade on the creature's ragged cloak and returned to the camp. "This one was a spy. Low-rank scout. The Demon King has learned of the Sixth Sinner's death. He sent this to confirm our location."
Liza sat up, pulling her blanket tighter against the sudden chill. "What do we do now?"
Marcos shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "No problem. We are going to him anyway."
At the Demon King's Palace
Deep within Llahala's volcanic heart, the throne room of the Demon King was a cavern of shadows and searing heat. Rivers of lava glowed faintly beyond arched windows of black glass. Braziers of unnatural green flame lined the walls, casting sickly light across the obsidian floor.
Upon a throne carved from the bones of ancient beasts sat an immense dark silhouette, wreathed in smoke and power. Only his eyes burned clearly—twin crimson slits that pierced the gloom.
Before him knelt five towering figures—the remaining Sinister Six, their armor scorched and spiked, auras thick with malice.
The First Sinner spoke, voice like grinding gravel. "That weakling Kamas died in the elf village."
The Second snorted. "I did not think he would fall so quickly."
"He was weak anyway," the Third growled dismissively.
"Better that he is dead," added the Fourth with a cruel chuckle.
The First continued, "Forget him. The true problem is that the Blessed Elf escaped."
"We dispatched a Silver-rank scout to locate the killer," the Fifth reported. "But he has not returned."
The Demon King's deep, rumbling voice filled the chamber like distant thunder. "He is dead too."
"What?!" the Third exclaimed, rising halfway.
"That's enough," the First snarled, slamming a fist into the floor. "Now I will go myself and crush them."
"No need," the Demon King said, a terrifying smile splitting the darkness of his face. Low, guttural laughter echoed through the hall. "They are coming here… by themselves."
The green flames flared higher as his laughter rolled on.
In the Palace of the Gods
Far above the mortal world, atop Mount Gods' Hope in Arrayk, the divine palace gleamed with eternal light. Walls of flawless white marble and crystal reflected the endless blue sky. Golden fountains sang softly in vast halls open to the heavens.
A circle of lesser gods lounged upon cloud-woven seats, their forms radiant yet idle.
One spoke lazily, "The Sixth Sinner is dead."
Another laughed lightly. "This current crop of sinners is pathetic."
"Yes," agreed a third, sipping nectar from a glowing chalice. "Nothing like the old ones from centuries past."
"The entire demon race has grown weaker," the first mused. "It truly began when the Dirty Bloods slaughtered the previous Demon King and his entire court."
"I still do not understand why we did not eradicate every last demon during the great war," the third said, frowning.
"Because the Upper Three forbade it," the fourth replied quietly.
Suddenly, an overwhelming presence flooded the chamber—like the weight of creation itself pressing down. Every god fell silent and dropped to one knee, heads bowed in perfect reverence.
"Oh my lord," they intoned together.
"My lord."
The fourth god continued, voice hushed with awe, "After their battle with the Dirty Bloods, the Upper Three entered a long slumber to recover. Now… they stir. When they fully awaken, they will decide the fate of the demons once and for all."
A profound, expectant silence settled over the shining palace, as if the very heavens held their breath.