The rustling of leaves broke the eerie stillness of the rain-soaked battlefield. The Demon Lord shifted his piercing gaze from the sky to the source of the sound, his crimson and obsidian eyes landing upon a battered man trembling some distance away. The man’s eyes widened in terror as he took in the figure of the Demon Lord, and his knees buckled. With a soft, defeated thud, he collapsed to the ground, unable to withstand the suffocating aura of the being before him.

  “You must be one of the soldiers the knight spoke of,” the Demon Lord said, his voice calm and controlled, a stark contrast to the unholy power the man had seen unleashed just moments before. “Are you alone, or is there more?” His tone was measured, yet it carried an authority that made the man shudder further.

  “Y-you are here to rescue us?” the man stammered, his voice trembling as he struggled to speak.

  “Yes. Now do not make me repeat myself,” the Demon Lord responded, his words sharp but devoid of unnecessary cruelty.

  The man swallowed hard and answered quickly, fearing to delay. “Yes... there are more of us. I will retrieve them for you at once.”

  The soldier scrambled to his feet, his exhaustion evident as he staggered off into the rain. Soon, more soldiers began to emerge, each one more battered and broken than the last. Their faces were hollow, their movements sluggish, and their spirits seemed crushed by the weight of their ordeals. The group gathered around the Demon Lord, their eyes hesitant to meet his as though looking directly at him might consume them.

  The Demon Lord observed them silently, his imposing figure motionless as the rain continued to pour. For a fleeting moment, he felt a strange sensation tugging at the edges of his mind—a vague memory buried in the abyss of his past. But it had been far too long for him to recall it fully. Shaking off the fleeting sentiment, he extended one arm, his clawed fingers cutting through the air with precision. “This should work now,” he murmured, his voice low yet resonant.

  Harnessing his newly absorbed power, the Demon Lord delved deeper into spatial principles, refining his understanding with ease. He conjured a portal—its shimmering edges flickered with divine and demonic energy, intertwining as though the essence of two realms had merged. The portal revealed the camp where the captain and his soldiers awaited their comrades.

  “Move,” the Demon Lord commanded, his voice unyielding.

  Some of the soldiers hesitated, their fear palpable, while others stepped through the portal without resistance, too weary and hungry to care where it led. To them, it was a reprieve from the endless suffering—a glimmer of hope they thought had long died.

  As they emerged through the portal, their expressions transformed. Joy replaced their exhaustion as they rejoined the familiar faces of friends and comrades they believed lost forever. The camp erupted with cries of relief and overwhelming gratitude. Men wept openly, their tears mixing with the rain as they embraced one another. Their despair had been replaced by immeasurable happiness, and all eyes turned to the Demon Lord as he stepped through the portal.

  In unison, the soldiers fell to their knees, bowing before him in reverence. Their voices rose in praise, extolling his benevolence and unmatched power for slaying the God of Dreams—a feat they believed had shaken not only the earth beneath them but the heavens above.

  The Demon Lord stood silently, watching them with unreadable eyes. For a brief moment, a foreign sensation stirred within him—something buried deep beneath the centuries of blood and chaos. A small, fleeting ounce of compassion flickered in his heart. But the feeling was swiftly burned away when the captain of the soldiers approached him with outstretched hand.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  The captain spoke with sincerity, his voice trembling with gratitude. “You’ve done us a great service and saved not only those comrades held captive but the lives of all who would have perished attempting to free them.”

  The Demon Lord’s expression darkened, his gaze piercing as he stared at the audacious man who dared to touch him. Realizing his mistake, the captain withdrew his hand quickly and bowed deeply. “My apologies, Lord,” he said hurriedly. “I was overwhelmed with gratitude and got caught up in the moment.”

  The Demon Lord’s fiery gaze lingered, his displeasure clear. Yet, despite his annoyance, the small feeling of compassion flickered again, this time refusing to die completely. “Don’t let it happen again, human,” he growled. His tone was harsh, yet the captain was shocked that his life had been spared. To the denizens of hell, touching the Demon Lord was akin to signing one’s death warrant—a foolish act that would never be forgiven.

  “Let us leave for the city you spoke of before, at once,” the Demon Lord commanded, ending the interaction abruptly.

  “Yes, Lord,” the captain replied hurriedly. “We shall call in for transport at once. But what of your companions?”

  “They will find their way back to me, or they won’t. I don’t care either way. Now tell me, what do you mean by ‘call for transportation?’ Do you not tame beasts and ride them?” the Demon Lord asked, his curiosity evident despite his imposing tone.

  The knight blinked, surprised by the question. “We do, Lord, but it is considered a primitive method of transportation. For war, we use mechanical vehicles or airships powered by mages. Since all major threats in this area have been eliminated by you, we shall call for an airship. It will transport us tomorrow. In the meantime, please stay in my camp—it is the largest and most fortified here, though still not worthy of your stature.”

  The Demon Lord attempted to imagine an airship, intrigued by the concept of a flying carriage. He realized how stagnant hell had been, its societal development forever halted by the endless pursuit of war and power. Another question formed in his mind. “How shall you contact this ‘airship’?”

  The knight pulled out a small crystal engraved with glowing magical runes. “Mages created these long ago. By speaking the incantation inscribed upon it, messages can be relayed to the crystal it is paired with.”

  The Demon Lord accepted the crystal, examining its intricate carvings with a restrained fascination. “What are these runes?” he asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

  “I’m not certain, Lord. When the gods aligned with humanity, they gifted us knowledge of the arcane. Those with exceptional aptitude created wonders such as this messenger crystal. Upon returning to the city, I can arrange for books detailing our history and world to be brought to you.”

  The Demon Lord’s gaze lingered on the crystal, his mind analyzing the runes. To anyone else, they appeared mundane, but to him, they carried a resemblance to demonic runes—a counterpart that mirrored their chaos with harmony. “Very well,” he said, returning the crystal. “Now, where is your camp? I seek rest after doing your job for you.”

  The captain called for a soldier to escort the Demon Lord. The man, trembling with fear, guided him cautiously, careful not to irritate the ominous being he led. Upon reaching the camp, the soldier bowed deeply. “If I may, Lord...” he began hesitantly.

  “What?” the Demon Lord said, his irritation evident.

  “Thank you for saving our comrades and sparing our lives. You’ve done more for us than we ever could have hoped for.”

  The Demon Lord’s crimson eyes narrowed, his displeasure clear. “You talk too much. Leave me.”

  The soldier quickly departed, his heart racing with relief. Yet despite the cold dismissal, his heartfelt thanks planted a seed of empathy within the Demon Lord—a sensation foreign yet undeniably present.

  The Demon Lord laid himself upon the provided bed and closed his eyes to rest. Though demons do not require sleep, they must enter a meditative state to soothe their powers and minds, especially after consuming the essence of another. Should a demon fail to do so, they risk losing their sanity. The same fate awaits those who consume too much power at once—the bloodlust consumes them entirely.

  The Demon Lord briefly experienced this madness after consuming the God of Dreams’ power, the uncontrollable frenzy that had driven him to take a forbidden bite of the god. Lesser demons must feast on the flesh of their prey to gain strength, but the powerful can siphon the essence of a foe using their own energy. The latter method yields far greater gains, and the Demon Lord, as one of the strongest beings in existence, excelled in this refinement.

  Now, the Demon Lord entered his own mind, seeking to quell the raging flames of power burning within him. The process was meticulous—the greater the power consumed, the longer it would take to stabilize, understand, and tame fully. Few demons could manage such a feat on the move, but the Demon Lord was no ordinary being. Even so, performing this task while active was only half as effective, and he calculated that it would take at least a week to fully assimilate the god’s power. However, should conflict arise before then, the timeline would surely lengthen.

  As the rain poured steadily outside, the Demon Lord’s consciousness drifted into the depths of his mind, where chaos and control collided. He sought clarity and mastery over the divine energy coursing through him, for his ambitions demanded nothing less.