Chapter 104: The Demon Lord

Chapter 104: Chapter 104: The Demon Lord

Chapter 104: The Demon Lord

The mountain was tall.

It was impossibly tall, a geological anomaly that defied all logic and reason. It stretched into the sky like a spear, its peak piercing through the clouds and disappearing into the heavens above. Its peak was lost in the clouds, obscured by a thick layer of white and gray that swirled around the summit like a crown. Its sides were steep, the incline so sharp that it seemed to defy gravity itself. Rocky, the surface covered in jagged outcroppings and loose stones that threatened to send anyone who dared climb tumbling to their doom. Treacherous, every step a potential death sentence, every handhold a possible trap. No human could climb it, their fragile bodies breaking under the strain. No elf could survive it, their graceful forms unsuited to the brutal demands of the climb. No dwarf could endure it, their stout bodies failing before they reached the halfway point.

It was a mountain of death.

And on its peak, a demon was walking.

He was tall, his height towering over any human, any elf, any creature that dared to stand before him. Taller than any human, his form casting a long shadow that stretched across the rocky surface. Taller than any elf, his presence filling the space around him with an almost physical weight. His skin was red, the color deep and bloody, like the surface of a wound that never healed. Scaly, the texture rough and reptilian, each scale overlapping the next like armor. Thick, the hide tough and impenetrable, capable of turning aside blades and arrows and magic alike. His eyes were black, the color of the void, of the space between stars. Bottomless, the depths infinite, holding secrets that would drive lesser beings mad. Empty, devoid of emotion, devoid of mercy, devoid of anything but cold, calculating intelligence. His horns were long, curving upward and backward from his forehead like a crown. Curved, the tips sharp enough to pierce steel. Sharp, the edges gleaming in the dim light. They rose from his forehead like a crown, a symbol of his power, his authority, his dominion over all he surveyed. His body was muscular, the muscles bulging and flexing with every movement. Powerful, the strength contained within his frame enough to shatter mountains. Terrifying, the sight of him enough to make even the bravest warrior tremble.

He walked alone.

His footsteps cracked the stone, the surface splintering under the weight of his tread. His breath steamed in the cold air, the vapor rising from his nostrils like smoke from a forge. His presence warped the world around him, the very fabric of reality bending and twisting in response to his existence.

He was talking to himself.

"What’s the point?" he muttered, his voice low and rumbling, like the sound of distant thunder. "What’s the point of all this shit?"

He kicked a rock, his foot connecting with the stone and sending it flying. It flew off the mountain, disappearing into the clouds below.

"They always lose. Every time. Every single time. Because of these weak shrimps that call themselves my disciples."

He kicked another rock, his frustration evident in the force of the blow. It flew too, disappearing into the void below.

"I train them. I teach them. I prepare them. I give them everything they need to succeed. And what do they do? They lose. They die. They fail."

He stopped, his feet coming to a halt on the rocky surface. He looked at the sky, his black eyes fixed on the clouds above. At the clouds, the white and gray masses that drifted lazily across the sky. At the sun, the bright orb that hung in the distance, casting its light across the world.

"Maybe I should just give up," he said, his voice tired and resigned. "Maybe I should just accept that I’m stuck in this weak, pathetic world with these weak, pathetic creatures."

He paused, his words hanging in the air.

"Nah."

He kept walking, his footsteps resuming their steady rhythm on the stone.

He reached the edge of the peak, his feet coming to a stop at the precipice. He looked down, his black eyes taking in the sight below. Below him, there was a plateau, a large, flat area carved into the mountain. And on that plateau, ten demons were standing.

They were young, their ages ranging from the early twenties to the late twenties. Under thirty, all of them, their youth evident in their faces and their bearing. They were muscular, their bodies honed by years of training and combat. Powerful, the strength contained within their frames impressive by mortal standards. Trained, their movements precise and coordinated. They stood in a line, their bodies straight and still. They stood at attention, their eyes fixed forward. They stood like soldiers waiting for their commander.

Zariod looked at them.

His expression was one of disgust, his features twisted with distaste. Of disappointment, his eyes filled with a deep, profound sadness. Of pity, his heart heavy with the weight of what he knew was to come.

They were weak. All of them. They were nothing compared to him, their power a pale shadow of his own. They were nothing compared to the demons he had trained in the past, their predecessors giants among their kind. They were nothing compared to the demons he had fought alongside, their comrades warriors of legend. They were nothing.

But they were all he had.

He walked toward them, his footsteps cracking the stone with every step. His presence warped the air, the space around him distorting and twisting. His power filled the plateau, the weight of his existence pressing down on everything and everyone.

The demons saw him. Their eyes widened, their pupils dilating with fear and awe. Their bodies tensed, their muscles coiling with anticipation. They dropped to their knees, their movements simultaneous and synchronized. They bowed, their heads lowering. They pressed their foreheads against the stone, their bodies prostrate before their master.

"Lord Zariod," they said in unison, their voices echoing across the plateau. "We greet you."

Zariod looked at them, his expression unchanged.

"You may rise," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

They rose, their movements slow and deliberate. They stood at attention, their bodies straight and still. They waited, their eyes fixed on their master.

Zariod walked along the line, his footsteps slow and measured. He looked at each demon, his black eyes taking in every detail. At their faces, young and hopeful and afraid. At their bodies, strong and trained and ready. At their power, impressive by mortal standards but pathetic by his.

"You are all under thirty," he said, his voice carrying across the plateau. "You are all eligible for the competition."

He paused, letting his words sink in.

"I have trained you. I have prepared you. I have taught you everything I know."

He paused again, his eyes moving from face to face.

"And yet, I know you will fail."

The demons flinched, their bodies reacting to his words. Their faces paled, the color draining from their skin. Their bodies tensed, their muscles coiling with anxiety.

One of them raised his hand. A young demon, his skin dark red, his horns short, his eyes yellow. He was nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he held it up.

"What is it?" Zariod asked, his voice flat.

The demon lowered his hand, his expression nervous. Scared.

"What are the chances of us winning?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Zariod looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"If you win," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, "I will crown you as the Lord of this world."

The demon’s eyes widened, his yellow eyes shining with hope. "So... so is that a yes?"

Zariod stared at him, his eye twitching with annoyance.

"What are you, stupid?" he said, his voice sharp and cutting. "Of course it’s a no. Your weak asses don’t stand a chance."

The demon’s face fell, his expression crumbling. The other demons looked down, their eyes fixed on the ground. They were disappointed, their hopes dashed. They were defeated, their spirits crushed.

The demon raised his hand again, his persistence admirable if misguided.

"What?" Zariod asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

"Then why are you sending us if you know we will lose?" the demon asked, his voice confused.

Zariod sighed, a long, tired sigh that seemed to drain the energy from his body.

"I’m just trying my luck," he said, his voice resigned. "If I don’t send people, the other gods will be like, ’Oh, Zariod has gone soft.’"

He paused, his expression bitter.

"Well, it’s not my fault I got sent to a weak ass world where all the dumb creatures are fighting against each other for dumb reasons."

The demon raised his hand again, his curiosity seemingly insatiable.

"What?" Zariod asked, his voice sharp.

"Why is only the demon kind joining the game? Why not the other races?"

Zariod stared at him, his eye twitching again.

"This guy asks too many questions," he muttered under his breath.

He answered anyway, his voice flat and dismissive.

"The other races are weak ass nobodies. They wouldn’t last ten seconds in the game."

The demon raised his hand again, his persistence truly remarkable.

"What?" Zariod asked, his voice dangerous.

"When will the game start?"

Zariod thought about it, his expression thoughtful. "Half a universal year."

The demon raised his hand again, his hand shooting up before he could stop himself.

Zariod gave him a death look, his black eyes burning with cold fury.

The demon’s hand dropped, his arm falling to his side. His mouth closed, his lips pressing together. He stepped back, his body retreating instinctively.

Zariod clapped his hands, the sound echoing across the plateau.

"Alright!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the mountain. "For today’s training, we will be doing—"

He stopped.

He felt something, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a thousand years. A pull, a force tugging at his very being. A force, something external and irresistible. A power, ancient and undeniable.

He looked down, his black eyes fixed on his body. At his hands, his clawed fingers trembling. At his feet, his clawed toes gripping the stone.

"What..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Then he was gone.

He disappeared, his body vanishing from the mountain peak. He was pulled into a portal, a dark, swirling portal that appeared out of nowhere, its edges shimmering with red and purple energy. A dark, swirling portal that seemed to tear through the very fabric of reality.

The demons stared, their mouths open, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.

"Lord Zariod?" one of them said, his voice trembling. "Lord Zariod!"

But Zariod was gone.

---

Zariod stepped out of the portal, his body materializing in a new location. He was in a clearing, a destroyed clearing. Trees were shattered, their trunks splintered and their branches broken. Rocks were broken, the stones cracked and crumbled. The ground was cracked, fissures opening in the earth and spreading outward.

He looked around, his black eyes taking in the destruction. His eyes moved over the destruction, cataloging every detail. Over the bodies, the fallen forms of those who had fought and lost. Over the people, the survivors who stood among the ruins.

He saw an elf. A tall, thin elf in black robes, his form elegant and sinister. The elf was bowing, his posture submissive. His face was hidden, obscured by the hood of his robes.

He saw a human. A broken, bleeding human, his body battered and his face a mask of blood. The human was on his knees, his posture defeated. He was laughing, his voice high and manic. He was crying, tears streaming down his face. He was insane, his mind broken by the weight of his defeat.

And then he saw someone else.

A human. A young human, his age difficult to determine but clearly young. He was standing in the middle of the clearing, his posture relaxed. His hands were in his pockets, his stance casual. His expression was calm, his face unreadable. His eyes were cold, the color deep and piercing.

Zariod looked at him.

And for the first time in a thousand years, he felt something.

Interest.