So, quick recap: I died for clout, got reincarnated as Azaroth the Undying’s unwanted third nipple, and now my entire existence depends on this warlord not getting annoyed enough to rip me off like a demonic wax strip.
Day 1, I thought, okay, maybe I’ll be a sexy birthmark—you know, mysterious and alluring. No. I look like a thumbprint smudge someone tried to erase.
Day 2, I realized Azaroth is built like someone who snacks on protein powder and human souls. Every time he flexes, I feel like I’m being launched off a rollercoaster attached to his boob muscle. I have vertigo and I’m a nipple. Do you understand how personally offensive that is?
Day 3, Azaroth tried to summon a dark prophet to explain why his majestic demon body now has…me. The prophet took one look at me, screamed, “OH GOD IT BLINKED,” and jumped out a window. We do not talk about Prophet Steve anymore.
Day 4, the Demon Queen walked in while Azaroth was shirtless (again, buttons are illegal in hell apparently), saw me, and immediately assumed her husband grew a cursed tit eye to spy on her because of trust issues. Now I’m part of marriage counseling and I’ve been alive for less than a week.
Day 5, the Holy Knights captured Azaroth in a holy binding circle, thinking they’d sealed his demonic power. Joke’s on them—the binding spell accidentally locked me as his core weak spot. Now they think I’m some ancient oracle tit wart and they’re kneeling in front of me asking for prophecies. I told one guy his wife was cheating on him and he started crying into Azaroth’s pec.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
That binding spell had one more side effect—it accidentally turned me into a low-frequency magical broadcast. Now, whenever Azaroth’s shirt is off, my voice booms directly into the heads of anyone within a 10-kilometer radius. That’s how the prophecy nonsense actually started—every demon in range got force-fed my unsolicited advice like some kind of cursed demonic podcast. The second his shirt goes back on, silence. But the damage was done—they all believe Azaroth’s nipple is a divine oracle whether I like it or not.
Day 6, Azaroth entered the Annual Demon Battle Royale because some guy insulted his fashion sense, and guess what—shirtless fights only. I spent the whole tournament trying to give unsolicited fitness tips to a horde of ogres while stuck to his chest like a cursed Tamagotchi.
“Your posture is trash.” “Hydrate or die, bitch.” “That’s not a battle stance, that’s scoliosis.”
Day 7, I realized Azaroth talks to me now. Not in a cute way. In a ‘I swear to all seven hells, if you hum one more K-pop song into my clavicle, I will personally offer you to the void’ kind of way. We are in a toxic relationship and I’m the parasite girlfriend who can’t leave.
And worst of all? The Demon Queen is starting to respect me. She said, and I quote: “Any creature who can emotionally torment my husband so efficiently deserves a seat at the war council.”