Azaroth hasn’t spoken to me in 48 hours. Not because he’s ignoring me (I wish), but because he can’t look at his own chest without getting visibly stressed. I overheard him muttering to himself in the mirror like, “I’ve led armies against the celestial hosts and razed kingdoms to dust… why is a piece of my own body gaslighting me?”
Anyway, day 8 starts with a knock on the door—more like a punch because demonic architecture isn’t built for subtlety—and in walks General Skarnoth Bloodfang. This dude’s like 8 feet tall, half-centaur, half-nightmare fuel, and 100% terrified of me. Not Azaroth. Me. The sentient flesh button.
Apparently, word spread that the “Oracle of the Forbidden Teat” predicted Sir Gregory the Pious’ divorce on sight. Thanks to Azaroth accidentally sleep-casting a secondary amplification spell—don’t ask, apparently the man stress-sleeps in ancient tongues now—my voice isn’t limited to shirtless mode anymore. I can now talk to anyone, anytime, whether they like it or not. I’m basically hell’s most annoying push notification.
Now every demon warlord in the kingdom wants a reading from the Third Nipple of Truth™.
I try to explain that I’m not a prophet, just a dead influencer who hit her head too hard, but Skarnoth’s already offering sacrificial goats and a limited edition DemonCon hoodie to secure my wisdom.
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Azaroth, who has had enough, just sits back and watches me get offered tribal loyalty oaths like I’m some kind of demonic nipple pope. I should shut up, right? Wrong. I start charging for prophecies. What’s he gonna do? Cut me off his own chest? Good luck, buddy—I regenerate faster than his emotional damage.
By noon, there’s a full queue of demons outside the throne room. Big ones, small ones, some with extra limbs, and all of them holding out payment: cursed gold, hellbeast coupons, one guy even offers his firstborn egg. And the worst part? I actually get a couple prophecies right.
“Your wife IS cheating.” That one was correct.
“You WILL lose the next duel if you block with your face.” Absolutely nailed it.
“Yes, that rash IS cursed. Stop rubbing demon mayo on it.” Tragically accurate.
By the end of the day, I’m wearing a tiny crown made out of somebody’s femur, and Azaroth looks like he’s considering ripping off his whole chest just to evict me. The Demon Queen? She’s thriving—she thinks this is hilarious and now wants me to predict fashion trends in hell.
“Crocs are coming back, my Queen. In flames. Literally.”
Azaroth tries to banish me to silence by putting on a shirt, but plot twist—the fabric’s cursed, and it enhances my voice. Now I echo like I’m performing a Ted Talk inside a cathedral.
The war council? They want to formally register me as an official royal advisor. Azaroth’s stress vein looks like it’s about to rupture.
Moral of the story? Never underestimate the hustle of a dead girl with WiFi brain rot and nothing to lose. I was born to be annoying, and I’m taking this kingdom down one unsolicited opinion at a time.