The meeting room was a pressure cooker of fear and tension.
Nobles and ministers sat frozen in their seats, their faces pale, while the king tried to maintain composure despite the unease radiating from his throne.
The air felt heavy, suffused with dread, except for one figure who stood defiantly against the tide of terror.
"How dare you come here?" Duke Driesell’s voice thundered through the room, breaking the silence.
His sharp gaze was fixed on the towering figure of the Demon King.
Despite the oppressive aura emanating from the intruder, there wasn’t a trace of fear in the duke’s eyes—only seething anger.
The Demon King tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his crimson eyes.
His deep, rumbling voice followed, calm but laced with mockery.
"Calm down. I’m not here to fight."
The simple statement only seemed to inflame Driesell further.
He rose halfway from his chair, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword.
"You—"
"Stop, Duke!" the king interjected, his tone firm yet uneasy.
He gestured for Driesell to sit.
The duke hesitated but obeyed, though his glare remained fixed on the Demon King.
The king turned his gaze to the uninvited guest, his voice strained but steady.
"If you’re not here to fight, then what do you want?"
The Demon King leaned back slightly in his chair, his massive horns casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.
His lips curled into a small, mocking smile.
"I’m here to inform you," he said, his voice calm yet dripping with menace, "about the next place I will attack."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Whispers broke out among the nobles, their voices trembling with disbelief.
"You... dare to flaunt your intentions in front of us?" a minister stammered, but the Demon King ignored him entirely.
With deliberate movements, the Demon King reached out a clawed finger, dragging it across the map spread on the table.
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The sharp talon traced three territories, his actions slow, methodical, and unnervingly precise.
"This one. And this. And this."
He tapped three locations on the map, his voice devoid of emotion.
"As we speak, these territories are under siege. You can try to protect them, send your armies, and resist with all your might... but you will fail. Most likely."
The room erupted in shock and outrage, but the Demon King remained unflinching.
His burning gaze silenced them all as his finger moved again, this time stopping at a new location.
"And this," he said, tapping firmly on the map, his crimson eyes locking with the king’s, "this will be my next target."
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Every eye turned to the map, focusing on the territory the Demon King had pointed to: Norvik.
A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Norvik—a vital trading hub, the beating heart of the kingdom’s economy and a critical point of defense.
Its destruction would not only cripple the kingdom financially but leave its borders vulnerable, making infiltration and attacks devastatingly easy.
The king’s hands trembled as he leaned forward, his eyes scanning the map in disbelief.
"Norvik... Why?"
The Demon King’s lips curled into a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
"Why not?" he said.
His words hung in the air, cold and calculating, as the weight of his revelation crushed the room.
The nobles whispered among themselves in panicked tones, but no one dared challenge the figure before them.
"Why are you doing this? What do you want?" King Serom demanded, his voice strained as he tried to suppress the fear creeping into his words.
The Demon King chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a chill rippling through the room.
His crimson eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned forward slightly.
"That’s a stupid question," he said, his tone calm yet dripping with mockery.
"I want you all to despair."
The ministers shivered, their faces pale.
His words carried a weight, an ominous promise of suffering that seemed to fill the room like a thick fog.
"And I will make sure you all feel it," he added, his voice now cold and unwavering.
The atmosphere was stifling, the tension suffocating—until a sudden thud shattered the silence.
From his place near the Demon King, Baron Ford—a muscular noble with a fiery temper—had swung his massive spiked mace with all his might.
The weapon connected squarely with the Demon King’s head, the force of the blow crushing it instantly.
Blood sprayed across the room, splattering the polished floors and nearby furniture.
The Demon King’s body crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, dark crimson pooling beneath him.
A stunned silence followed, broken by an eruption of cheers from the ministers.
"Very good, Earl Ford!" one of them exclaimed, his voice trembling with relief.
"Good job, Earl Ford! You deserve a reward for this," King Serom added, his tense expression softening as he allowed himself a small smile.
Marquis Ebran nodded in agreement, his chest swelling with pride.
"The kingdom owes you a great debt."
But amidst the jubilation, one man remained silent.
Duke Driesell stood with his arms crossed, his expression as hard and unyielding as ever.
The king noticed and frowned.
"What’s the matter, Duke? You don’t seem happy. Surely, this is cause for celebration?"
Driesell’s eyes never left the Demon King’s body.
"It’s not over, Your Majesty," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"What do you mea—"
Before the king could finish, a faint, unsettling sound filled the room: the creak of movement.
All eyes turned back to the Demon King’s corpse.
Slowly, unnaturally, one of his hands twitched, then moved to his neck.
His fingers clasped the jagged stump where his head had been, and he began to lift himself.
Gasps filled the room as the headless body stood upright.
A moment later, flesh and bone began to knit themselves back together.
The regeneration was grotesque, the wet squelch of muscles reforming and veins reconnecting echoing eerily in the chamber.
Within seconds, the Demon King’s head was fully restored.
His crimson eyes flared to life once more, a cruel smile tugging at his lips.
"This," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "is not how you kill someone."
The ministers who had been celebrating moments before now sat frozen in their seats, their faces drained of all color.
Dread hung heavy in the air, their earlier triumph replaced with abject terror.
The Demon King turned his attention to Baron Ford, his expression one of chilling amusement.
"If you intend to kill someone," he said, his voice cold and mocking, "make sure they’re actually finished."
In one swift motion, he seized Earl Ford by the head, his massive hand engulfing it completely.
With a firm grip, he slammed the baron’s head onto the table, the wood creaking under the pressure.
"Let me show you how it’s done," he said, his tone almost casual.
Raising the spiked mace—Ford’s own weapon—he brought it down with terrifying force.
The impact was sickening, the baron’s skull shattering under the blow.
Blood and fragments of bone splattered across the table and nearby ministers, eliciting screams of horror.
The Demon King straightened, tossing the broken body aside like discarded trash.
He cast a final, piercing glance around the room, his gaze lingering on each terrified face.
"I should go now," he said, his voice calm as though nothing had happened.
He turned and began to walk toward the door, his heavy footsteps echoing in the stunned silence.
Just before leaving, he paused and looked over his shoulder, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"Ah, one more thing," he said.
"The next time we meet, your end will be the same as his."
He gestured toward the mangled remains of Baron Ford.
"So, do try your best to resist. It’ll make this more entertaining."
With that, he went back, leaving behind a room full of trembling men and a blood-soaked table as a chilling reminder of his power.