Light.

Light, light, light.

What was supposed to be a pitch-dark space was illuminated even brighter than the city outside, even though it was currently midday and the sun was shining down full-force.

The black walls, usually hidden by dancing shadows, were sorely lacking in maintenance. Staring at one was a little girl, dressed in goth loli clothing.

“Thou.”

Her tone as she addressed the figure standing next to her was downright respectless. As though she were talking to a bug.

“Why dost this wall look like ‘t has nary r’ceived maint’nance in a thous’nd years?”

“Ah…”

The figure—a man, from the sound of their voice—froze up with a dumb cry.

“You see, Your Ladyship…”

“Yea?”

A lull in the conversation. Not one brought about by natural silence, but simply because the man had no answer.

“Thy answ’r?”

Yet he could not afford to remain silent.

“That is…”

“I c’nnot hear thee.”

“Normally speaking, the walls are not visible, so we just…”

His figure, shrunk in on itself, combined with his fidgeting hands, made him look rather meek, despite the fact that he towered at almost twice the girl’s size. Not to mention the mask—one could not see his face, so any facial expressions were simply left to one’s imagination.

“I see, I see. Yea, I und’rstand. ‘Tis a matt’r of prior’ties, nay?”

“Ah, yes, well, I suppose it is…”

“Then fr’m now on, thy prior’ties are diff’rent. This place must be a splendid temple fit f’r the greatest o’ gods.”

“I have been meaning to ask this for a while, Your Ladyship, but…”

“Yea? Speak. I will not kill thee for it.”

Her smirk revealed that was a barefaced lie. Certain questions most certainly would lead the man to his untimely end.

“Ah, how do I put this… Um, Your Ladyship, for a person as great as you, is there really a reason to worship any gods?”

The atmosphere froze.

Every other person in the room, at once, turned to the conversation, apparently curious as to the answer. Even the one person the girl had not ‘taken’—the blackhearted Count Lucent—looked on.

“Thou art truly…”

As though looking at a pitiful thing, the girl spoke.

“Truly, truly, truly, truly idiotic…”

The man made as if to drop to the floor and prostrate himself, but the girl stopped him.

“Tell me. Doth thou think I am sat’sfied with myself?”

“Hm?”

To the man, her question seemed like nothing more than a complete non sequitur. It did not match up with the conversation at all.

“Nay,” she said, paying no heed to the fact that he had not properly answered. “Nay, nay, nay, nev’r, I do declare. Pow’rful as I might be, I used t’ stand alone. ‘Tis the concept of a pyramid. The top lords over all b’low it, but has no equals.”

A glimmer of sadness sparked in her eyes as she recounted her tale.

She was alone.

Despite ruling at the top of vampirekind, she was always alone.

She had no recollection of anything like parents. She was a princess, so surely there must have been a king and a queen—but as for who, she had not a clue.

And thus, she resolved herself to eternal solitude. She would simply rule over her castle and her kin, never truly connecting with anyone.

For millennia, she accepted that as her fate.

And then that person appeared.

“You. Vampire. You are the one who calls herself the owner of this place, yes?”

The king of kings.

The true ruler.

With cloak and crown, he marched up to her, showing not the slightest bit of deference.

When was the last time someone had so blatantly disrespected her authority?

But something was different about this man.

He was…

Yes, he was…

So strangely familiar, and yet…

Without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped to one knee, like a knight to her lord.

“M’lord, might I…

Might I ask thy name?”

The king of kings.

The true ruler.

The goddess’s envoy.

The harbinger of ultimate darkness.

The One.

She could come up with any number of titles, but none of those were relevant as long as the person in question did not approve.

She could not afford to incur the displeasure of the person she intended to serve.

Where there was light, there must be darkness, and where there was darkness, there must be light.

“You would ask my name? Very well. I shall only tell you once, vampire.”

She could not bear to stand at the top alone. And this man’s existence proved she was not worthy to stand at the ultimate apex, anyway.

“I am Astaroth. He who shall one day rule all of demonkind.”

The ultimate abyss of darkness. The perfect bringer of light.

“I shall permit you to state your name. If you prove yourself worthy, I shall even grant you a seat as my direct subordinate.”

She could not be the light at the ultimate top, nor the darkness at the ultimate bottom.

“My name…”

Thus, she would simply nestle close to this person’s side. As his aide. As his subordinate. As his ally.

“I am Charlotte Wright, rightf’l heir t’ the vampire throne.”

She had no particular desire to be anything like a lover to him—she did not think herself worthy.

But perhaps…

Perhaps one day, she could proudly call herself his friend.

“The heir to the vampire throne? I see…”

A moment of silence, followed by shattering laughter.

“Kuku… Kuhaha… Hahahahahaha! I see, I see. You may rise, Charlotte. Your dress will get dirty, no matter how clean the floor. I shall teach you the proper way for a lady to show respect… Yes, and I think I know a clothing style that will suit you very well, too.”

Thus was the tale of the vampire princess.

She met the man who was fated to rule the world and found her place by his side. That was all there was to it.

And as she had predicted, he continued to grow. He was rapidly maturing into the true king, knowing no mercy, showing a fair judgment to all that lay before him.

She finished her tale, and the man who had prompted such stood in stunned silence.

“ ‘Twould be wise o’ thee t’ find a goal, thyself,” the little girl said, turning her back to him.

A goal… and if not, a purpose. She would nestle close to him, no matter where that took her—simple enough.

But then, what about these ruffians-turned-worshippers? What would they do?

Certainly, the short-term goal was to convert their organisations into places of worship… But after that, the girl would leave them alone.

“Consid’r thy poss’bilities, and choose the one that seems most enticing… ‘Tis a simple way of thinking, but most effective.”

In addition, it was the way of thinking she had received from him. The way of thinking he used.

“Well, I shall leave thee t’ consid’r that on thy own… F’r now, ev’ryone gath’r round.”

She gestured to the large, round black table. As instructed, the robe-wearing, mask-wearing figures sat down in their respective seats.

There were only two people who were not wearing such robes—first, there was the little girl herself, and then, the one man she had not turned…

Count Lucent.

A man in the prime of his life, yet he currently looked downright miserable.

After all, he could not exactly tell the authorities about this whole affair—that would mean exposing his connections to the criminal organisations, which could very well get him executed.

Thus, he could do nothing but watch as the demon king started his underground manoeuvring.

He considered his current amount of money—perhaps, soon, he would take a vacation, to a city as far from the capital as possible.

“Now then,” the little girl announced, her small voice resounding throughout the chamber, “ ‘tis time t’ say your pray’rs.”

The robed figures responded as one, not half a second of dissonance between their voices.

“May the Lord grant us his blessings!”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“May the Lord lead us to the promised land!”

“May the Lord bestow glory upon us!”

“Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!”

“All hail the rightful ruler of this world, the Demon King!”

***

In contrast to the lit-up space of worship in the Holy Astal Kingdom, in the dwarven palace, a room that was normally well-lit was cloaked in shadow.

A gorgeous dining table.

Around it, an absurd assembly of monsters.

A dragon without parents.

A witch with unusual ideals.

A devil with no drive to work.

A slime with more intellect than any other.

A spirit with unreasonable power.

Children stronger than most soldiers.

Something that existed outside of the framework of the world.

And—

The true ruler.

The king of kings.

The goddess’s envoy.

The harbinger of ultimate darkness.

The omen of supreme light.

He who would charm and beguile the world.

The demon king.

On the foot end of the table, the place for a guest of honour, sat the dwarven king. Any colour had long since dripped off his face, leaving his features supported only by despair.

“Now, there is no need to look like that,” the demon king said, shaking his head as he crossed his legs. “I have fulfilled my promise, have I not? I do believe it is time for you to fulfil yours.”

“Fulfilled your—?!”

The dwarven king, in a rush of adrenaline, rose to his feet, smacking a balled hand against the table.

“You call that fulfilling your promise?! You said they’d— They’d live—”

“And they are alive and well, are they not? I dare say they are the furthest from death they have ever been—aye, they are the furthest from death anyone possibly could be.”

“You call that living?!”

“Now, now, I told you to calm down, right?”

In a way, both sides were absolutely correct.

The dwarven warriors who had gone head-to-head with the demons’ army were, indeed, as far from death as they ever could be—and yet, to say they were alive was something only those with the most twisted of personalities ever could.

After all, they had been transformed.

Where they were once dwarves, they were now Einherjar. Where they were once people, they were now monsters.

And indeed, the abilities of this new type of monster—the Einherjar’s abilities were properly demonstrated earlier.

At one point, the demon king had complained that the dwarven city was no different from any other, just underground.

But there was one thing he had to acknowledge.

A certain invention, which had also existed in his old world, but which served an additional purpose in this one.

It was a commonly-known fact that nigh any undead, save Dullahans and a few similar races, could be eliminated by decapitation. It followed that decapitated corpses had little to no chance to become undead, no matter how heinous or grudge-filled.

This lead to the invention of a device with a single, clearly-defined purpose.

A massive, solid metal blade, suspended from a rope and fitted into a wooden frame, designed specifically to decapitate those it felled.

A guillotine.

Indeed, the dwarves had invented a guillotine. Perhaps some Heroes, in the past, had prompted them to do so… Well, the reasons were unimportant.

The important part was that this was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate something.

And thus, the demon king, mask-clad and jolly, had led his Einherjar to the thing in a gleeful parade, having them play a cheerful marching tune all the while. Of course, they had no instruments, so they improvised.

Call of the Valkyrie had returned every dwarf in a different state, based on their cause of death.

Those who had been melted had become a pile of bones. Those who had been burned had become a pile of ash. The decapitated were headless, and the chopped-up were assemblies of body parts.

Put simply, every dwarf had some way of producing sound. Even those who were but spirits could use their voices.

And thus, playing a horrific symphony, they had arrived.

Arrived at the site of execution. That device, that existed solely to kill. To behead. To decapitate.

To murder.

His instructions, once there, had been clear and concise. Indeed, he had pointed to a single dwarf with a relatively intact body, and—

“Get in.”

Obliging the order, the dwarf laid his neck under the blade, glinting in the torchlight.

Indeed, he had been decapitated—

And then he just kept singing.

Einherjar were, to put it plainly, completely immortal.

They would not die. They could not die. They would not be allowed death, from now ‘til the end of time.

So then, what was the dwarven king so upset about?

Was he the type of person to view immortality as a curse? The curse to watch those around you shrivel up and die, unable to prevent them from doing anything?

Certainly, that would put him squarely at odds with the demon king’s ideology… but the nuance of his words seemed slightly different.

Then, perhaps, the cause was a certain warning the demon king had given before disappearing into the dwarven palace.

Be careful around them.

They exist for battle. They are sated for now, but you will want to give them the opportunity to vent their desires every now and then.

If not, it is very possible they will turn their blades on one another, on themselves…

Or perhaps even on their loved ones, if the mood strikes.

Well, that was about the gist of it.

Put in other words, they were war machines. If they were not given war, they would make it.

The demon king leaned back into the chair he sat on, a smirk on his face.

“Now then, sir dwarven king,” he said, completely ignoring the fact that that very king had not at all calmed down. “My mask fell off during the fight, so you may have caught a glimpse of it already, but there is something I would like to show you.”

He reached up to his face and gripped the mask, after which he took it off and lowered it, bit by bit.

Heterochromatic eyes. One golden, shining with divine light. One black, deeper than the deepest abyss.

Sylph’s holy symbol, right underneath, verdant green like the forest itself.

On his right cheek, the holy symbol of Salamander, blazing red.

And on his left—

The dwarven king dropped his face onto the table, unwilling to accept reality.

Nay, it was not that he didn’t want to accept this.

From a fundamental point of view, he couldn’t. After all, that would mean—

That would mean that—

A little girl burst into the room, accompanied by the strong smell of ploughed earth.

Dark skin. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A brown robe.

A symbol on her cheek, indicating that this was indeed the Goddess of Earth, Gnome herself. Perhaps she had descended using a shrine maiden, and then left the shrine maiden’s body.

That same symbol was— But it couldn’t have been—

Regardless, the moment she spotted the demon king, she threw herself at him—

Rather than a punch or other attack, as the dwarven king had hoped, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Lord Astaroth!” she shouted, an unmistakable tinge of childish happiness and excitement in her voice.

It was clear she loved him.

Perhaps not in the way a woman loved a man—more in the way a little girl loved her uncle.

But the dwarven king could tell that, even though she was the dwarves’ deity, she would no doubt take the demon king’s side, if forced to pick.

To make matters worse, she was currently in the process of thanking him for granting her warriors eternal life. For allowing them to fight, unhindered, for ever and ever, until the world itself came apart at the seams.

The dwarven king’s brain shorted out on a fundamental level, both unwilling and unable to accept the reality so rudely thrust before his eyes—

And he slumped in his chair, his thoughts going blank as he sunk into unconsciousness.