In the vast, shadowed expanse of her throne room, the Demon King sat with an effortless grace, her presence alone commanding the very air around her.
The flickering torchlight cast long shadows, only deepening the aura of power that radiated from her like a cold, unstoppable tide.
No longer did she play with her dark, silky hair—the strands once tangled between her fingers now forgotten. Instead, she had found a new toy. A small, elusive thingy, hovering effortlessly between her slender fingers. The object seemed delicate yet unyielding, its form shimmering with an almost eerie precision. Her nails, white-tipped and perfectly manicured, adorned it like a frame to a precious gem, catching the light with every subtle movement. Tiny crystals, gleaming with the kind of opulence only she could afford, adorned her hand, each one a gleaming reminder of her endless, evergrowing power.
Her icy blue eyes, as cold as the heart of winter itself, were fixed intently on the glowing sphere. The object pulsed faintly, its radiant glow flickering in rhythmic beats, as though it was alive—defying the crushing weight of her gaze. It floated between her fingers with a quiet, fluid grace, its motion almost too smooth, as if it bent the very rules of gravity with each slow, deliberate movement. The subtle flicker of energy within it seemed to burn with an intensity that mirrored her own cold, calculating nature. The room was still, save for the faint pulse of the object and the occasional whisper of the air, as though even the space itself dared not disturb her concentration.
The stillness of the room was shattered by the sudden presence of a figure—one that seemed to distort the very air in her wake. The door groaned loudly in protest as it swung open, its noisy entry a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the throne room.
A demoness, a vision of exquisite and dangerous beauty, strode into the room. Her white hair cascaded like a waterfall of silken snow, each strand gleaming with an ethereal glow, catching the dim light with a luminous radiance. Her eyes—fiery, molten red—glowed like twin pools of smoldering blood, their depth both inviting and perilous. The curve of her figure was flawless, a perfect hourglass, every curve and line accentuated by her generous, alluring proportions.
She was Neyas, a succubus, but not just any succubus—she was titled as the Demon King's trophy. A living testament to the King’s supremacy, a symbol of both power and indulgence.
Each step was accompanied by a rhythmic bounce—heels striking the floor's tiles with a sharp, resounding echo—slow and deliberate, as if she were savoring the very air between each movement. She moved toward Lilith with languid grace, the very essence of poise in her every motion.
Her walk was measured, precise, and carefully designed to captivate, drawing all attention toward her like a magnetic force, as if her presence alone could bend the world to her will.
As she reached Lilith’s side, her hands began to move with a delicate elegance, her fingers tracing the air in an almost hypnotic dance, each gesture brimming with an undercurrent of seduction.
Her voice, soft as silk but laced with a teasing edge, filled the silence. "What are you doing, dear? You know how much I hate to wait!" she purred, her words dripping with a sweetness that belied the mischief in her tone. "And why are you playing with... whatever that thingy is, instead of me?" Her sly smile, one that held secrets and promises, hinted at something far more tantalizing, something that hovered just beneath the surface of her words.
The succubus moved closer to the strange object, squinting her eyes at the little ball of black fire, savoring the moment; a delicate tension filling the air. Without realizing it, her abundant chest, soft and full, fully covered the Demon King’s face, a definitely-not-subtle reminder of her presence, yet another layer of her allure.
Lilith’s smile curved ever so faintly, her lips curled in quiet amusement as she allowed her lover to draw nearer. Despite the intimate proximity, her eyes never left the glowing sphere, which spun languidly between her fingertips as if it were little more than a distraction, an idle plaything.
"Oh, this?" Lilith asked, her voice lilting with a false lightness, a calm facade that veiled the potency beneath her every word.
The succubus, unfazed by the cold detachment, tilted her head in response—a simple motion that carried with it an unspoken, curious, question.
With a soft, almost melodic chuckle, Lilith’s fingers closed with a sudden, effortless strength. The sphere, once floating in serene defiance of gravity, was crushed between her fingertips with no more effort than one might use to extinguish the life of a summer ant.
She casually rubbed her fingers together, scattering the remains of the destroyed object like ash in the wind, as if the very power that had once pulsed within it was no more than a fleeting curiosity.
"Oh, dear," Lilith mused sweetly, her gaze turning toward the stunned succubus. Her voice was sugar-sweet, but beneath it lingered a venomous bite. She traced a finger across Neyas’ plump lips with slow, deliberate grace. "You see, my intellect has grown as well, a secondary effect of my ascension. And so, I’ve come to learn that this little thingy is called… a Neutron Star."
Neyas blinked, her mind stalling in confusion, the shock of her lover’s nonchalant dismissal of something so incomprehensibly destructive leaving her speechless. Neyas, though unable to fully understand her lover's words, couldn’t deny one undeniable truth: whatever this ‘Neutron Star’ was, it was still a star, and these celestial bodies were forces not to be reckoned with.
And yet, that was exactly what it was to the Demon King: a mere, temporary diversion.
Perched on the crest of a gentle hill, a weathered mill stood sentinel, its blades creaking faintly in the embrace of the wind.
Just below it, a wooden house leaned into the earth, its stitched roof a patchwork of age and care, like a quilt sewn by time itself.
The quiet of the evening was shattered by a jubilant cry, piercing through the stillness like the toll of a bell.
"I'm home! Father! Mother! I've... returned!"
From the heart of the old dwelling, the voice of a woman—frail yet laced with warmth—rose in reply, filtering through the worn shutters:
"Vicky? Are you home already?"
Vicky, the nickname held the tender weight of memory, a name spun from love by Vichtor's mother from the days he rested in her arms.
Her words, spoken as nothing more than a simple greeting, struck him with the force of a hammer blow. Already? The single word churned the shame he had been trying to bury on his long, defeated journey home, dragging it to the surface like a corpse dredged from the depths.
Before he could fully grasp the sting of her question, a massive hand lashed out with the precision of a seasoned marksman, landing a sharp smack against the back of his head.
It was his father, striding by with a basket so overfilled with flour that a snowy white pyramid rose precariously above its rim. The faintest puff of powder escaped with each step, leaving a fleeting trail in the air behind him. Yet, even burdened as he was, he did not let the moment pass without seizing the opportunity to 'interact' with his son—a chance he seemed to relish far more than the chore itself.
“Idiot!” It was the gravelly voice of his father, a man whose very presence seemed to command the space around him. Towering just past two meters, his muscular frame appeared hewn from the same oak trees that surrounded the hill. Everything about him radiated raw strength, from the tree-trunk arms to the broad chest that seemed carved for battle.
His appearance was as striking as his stature. Every strand of his hair, from the wild mane on his head to the full, unkempt beard, shimmered with a fiery amber hue. Even his eyes glinted with the same molten glow, giving the impression of a man forged from the sun’s own heat. Yet, for all his ruggedness, there was an oddly delicate flourish about him: a single silver earring dangling from his left ear, catching the fading light of the setting sun.
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He wore simple, earth-toned clothes, a faded brown tunic cinched at the waist with a leather belt. His boots-dusted with dirt, clearly overused at first sight, were actually sturdy and in quite good shape.
"Ouch!" Vichtor yelped, but the surprise was absent in his voice. By now, the sting of his father’s smack had become a familiar sensation, one he’d grown accustomed to after the forty-fourth defeat.
He rubbed the back of his head, barely wincing as he glanced up at the figure. "Why did you smack me already?!"
His father, who was glaring him down with an exasperated expression, answered. "Just in case you lost aga-wait! Did you just say, 'already'!?
"Ah-" Vichtor's eyes widened, that simple word had unintentionally betrayed the results of the battle. He began moving as soon the realization kicked in.
Slowly backing down, eyes facing his father while his feet were moving towards the gate he just closed a moment ago.
But the man, despite his massive frame, moved with surprising swiftness. Like a viper striking its prey—SMACK!
"Argh!" Vichtor cried out, stumbling slightly as the second blow landed with the same unerring precision.
It wasn’t the kind of strike meant to harm, but the kind that carried years of frustration and a heavy dose of exasperation.
“I bet you threw your weapon away again, didn’t you?” he barked, his voice a rumble that could shake the foundation of the wooden house.
Vichtor flinched but stood his ground. Despite inheriting his father’s striking amber features, his build was a pale imitation. His frame was lean, his muscles defined but nowhere near the Herculean proportions of his father. But the main deviation was his eyes—deep emerald-green, shimmering with a softer intensity.
As for his attire?
A hoodie.
Yes, a simple, gray hoodie—nothing extraordinary on its own, yet utterly out of place in this medieval world. The soft fabric and modern cut were standing in stark contrast to the rustic surroundings. It made no sense, yet there it was, as if it had slipped through the cracks of time.
If I were to hazard a guess... The idea of hoodies was probably brought here by Alexisz, but I may be wrong considering the Kingdom's best adventurers and their wacky pasts.
The boy stammered, “I… I didn’t throw it!” He said, his voice tinged with defiance and guilt. “I placed it, uh... carefully… so I could use my ability!”
The man froze for a moment, blinking twice in utter disbelief before giving up with a sigh. He then bowed in order to pick up the basket with flour.
Wait;
When had he placed it down?
How had he closed in the distance so swiftly?
And when had he blitzed back to the basket?
Ah- he already resumed his walk!?
Well, I guess he, simply, was just that fast!
As he strode towards the mill, his gruff voice drifted over his shoulder, laced with dry humor and faint irritation.
“You know, people in the village have started calling it a ‘Vichtor.’”
Vichtor blinked, tilting his head in confusion.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
His father stopped briefly, glancing back with a smirk that carried the weight of both pride and annoyance.
“During training hours, when kids throw their weapons, the elders yell stuff like, ‘Don’t pull a Vichtor!’”
“W-What?!” Vichtor sputtered, his voice pitching in disbelief as heat flushed his face.
His father shrugged, his amber beard catching the last rays of sunlight like molten gold.
“Just saying.”
The words hung in the air, teasing and unrelenting, as his broad frame disappeared into the shadows of the mill.
Vichtor’s mother delicately raised one hand to her lips, concealing the smile that threatened to blossom into a laugh. Her soft chuckle escaped anyway, a whispered melody barely audible, as if she dared not provoke her son further.
Vichtor’s face burned crimson, his pride clearly wounded, but he couldn’t be angry—not at her. How could anyone? She seemed almost ethereal, a woman blessed with a beauty that felt out of place in their humble home.
Her features were striking in their warmth and perfection.
That smile of hers—it could melt the iciest of hearts, a beacon of comfort and kindness. Her skin, smooth and flawless, carried a radiance that rivaled the dawn.
And her nose—small, delicate, and endearing—added a charm that made her irresistibly approachable.
Then there were her eyes, eyes that seemed crafted by the gods themselves.
Bluer than the finest sapphire, they shimmered with a depth that rivaled the endless expanse of the ocean. One glance into them, and it felt like being pulled into an uncharted sea.
And her hair—oh, her hair! It was a cascade of gold, kissed by the sun and glowing with its warmth during the day. By night, beneath the soft glow of the moon, it seemed to pale into silken strands of silver-white, as if she belonged to both the light and the dark.
But her voice was her most remarkable trait. It wasn’t just a sound—it was an embrace, a soothing balm for any ache, a gentle song that could calm storms both outside and within. Her voice was her greatest weapon, one that could disarm even the fiercest soul.
She saw the flush of embarrassment creeping up Vichtor’s neck, and though her gentle giggle had only deepened his humiliation, she couldn’t resist. It was a mother’s instinct—when her child was caught in such a storm of emotions, what better way to soothe him than to envelop him in warmth?
With a tender, almost playful force, she pulled his face into her generous chest, a soft refuge from the world’s cruelties. The comforting scent of her was all around him, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat louder than his own thoughts.
But of course, this did nothing to quell the fire raging within him. What had been a healthy, embarrassed red in his cheeks quickly escalated into an inferno of mortification. The boy’s face burned with a fresh wave of humiliation, his body stiffening in protest as his mother’s laughter bubbled softly above him.
Nope, this certainly wasn’t helping.
After what felt like an eternity of being smothered in the warmth of his mother’s embrace, Vichtor was finally released—his face gasping for the fresh air he’d been deprived for five solid minutes.
His cheeks still burned, though the intensity of his embarrassment had simmered down to a dull ache, and the weight of her affectionate suffocation began to lift.
"Come on, Vicky," she cooed softly, her hands still resting on his shoulders as if to guide him gently. "I prepared your favorite! You’ll need the energy for later when you're helping your father at the mill." Her tone was calm, coaxing him with the warmth of home.
Vichtor, though grateful for the offer, was more than familiar with his duties. You see, his occasional adventures were just a hobby he'd commit to when he had free time. His days were filled with a rhythm of hard work and quiet routine. He helped his parents keep the house running, tended to the mill, and even ensured the high-quality flour they produced reached the nearby vendor. This vendor, a girl he’d known since childhood, along with her widowed mother, ran the bakery—a small but beloved establishment in the village. Together, their families formed an unspoken bond, a team whose unity helped make the village’s heart beat a little stronger.
But for now, Vichtor needed to recharge. His mind and body needed a brief respite before he would once again return to the steady, dependable grind of daily life.
He made his way inside the house, carefully stepping into the kitchen. There, he lay eyes near a magical microwave, nestled in the corner of the kitchen, its glowing symbols pulsing faintly awaiting its occasional use. His target was beside it—a fully functioning stove, its flame still burning, served as the base for a pot whose fragrance filled the air, tantalizing the senses with a mystical scent.
Before settling to eat, he made his way to the bathroom with the intent of cleaning his hands and washing his face. Yet even here, the anomalies persisted. The space was a strange blend of sophistication and medieval design, with ancient stone walls framing a modern toilet that seemed plucked straight from a different era. The boy washed his hands with a quality soap, its rich lather standing in stark contrast to the world outside. As he finished, he pulled out of a wooden cabinet his toothbrush, intended for later use, another object from a time that shouldn’t exist in this realm, but somehow did.
Stepping back into the kitchen, the warm embrace of freshly prepared food swirled through the air, carrying a symphony of sizzling oil, caramelized spices, and the faintest hint of something sweet. The tantalizing aroma curled around the boy like an invisible thread, pulling him toward the table.
The boy strategically chose a chair seated against the wall, readying himself to feast.
His mother, graceful in her movements, settled across from him with an air of quiet serenity.
She held a small vial of thick, obsidian liquid, the substance catching the light in fleeting, dangerous glimmers.
She brought it to her lips with a practiced elegance, taking a slow sip, before carefully placing the vial back onto the table.
"Mother, what is it that you're drinking?" The boy asked, his voice tinged with innocent curiosity, his fingers itching to grab the bowl of fried rice—its golden grains glistening in the soft light.
His mother’s response was gentle, soft as a lullaby. "It is a potion with revitalizing properties, a brew that's being developed in the capital." With a delicate gesture she moved the item near Vichtor, perhaps to quench his curiosity. "I belive they've named it... 'coffee'?"
The moment the bitter liquid touched his tongue, the boy's curiosity withered like a leaf caught in frost.
A single thought bloomed in his mind, dry and unimpressed—must be one of those wild inventions Alexisz experiments alongside the King…
He returned to his meal, dismissing a second sip by returning the vial to his mother's side of the table.
His gaze shifted towards cubes of fried meat—pork, chicken, and beef—that sizzled faintly as he piled them onto his plate, their crispy edges promising savory perfection.
Next, he scooped up a generous portion of mashed potatoes, their creamy texture, a brave contrast against the rich meats.
A vibrant green salad, bursting with ripe tomatoes, sat beside him, a fresh and tangy accompaniment to the heavier fare. He dug in, savoring each bite as if it were a small treasure, his stomach growling in satisfaction.
Finally, he reached for the fizzy cold drink, the bubbles tickling his throat as the sweetness washed over him, the perfect end to the meal. Each bite was a moment of bliss, the food rich, filling, and utterly comforting.
After the meal, Vichtor completed the toothbrushing task he readied earlier. There was little time to waste—he needed to help his father at the mill before the sun fully settled. He tossed the hoodie over his shoulder, calling out with refreshed energy, "I'm going to help Dad!" His voice echoed in the quiet room, filled with the anticipation of the evening ahead.
But before he could take another step, a frantic knock at the door shattered the moment, the sound sharp and urgent, slicing through the calm.
