It’s day 9 in hell, and Azaroth has officially given up. He doesn’t even bother trying to banish me anymore. No more prophets, no more ancient curse research, no more late-night chest-staring existential crises (okay, maybe still a little of that). He just wears extra flowy robes like some stressed-out sorcerer mom trying to hide a bad tattoo before family dinner.
Unfortunately for him, the Demon Lords of the Outer Rings have declared war. Not because of some ancient blood feud. Not because of power struggles. No, they’re mad because they didn’t get a prophecy slot during my spontaneous nipple reading spree. Now there’s a whole sect of demons that believe I’m a divine marketing stunt sent by the Holy Knights, and they’re demanding an official Left Nipple Summit to prove my loyalty to hell.
Azaroth, who could not possibly care less, sends me to the summit alone—by taping a postcard of his bare chest to a goblin courier and telling him to “let the nipple do the talking.” That’s how I end up being paraded into a war tent on a stick, while a room full of crusty demon warlords bows to a JPEG of Azaroth’s pec.
The Summit itself is chaos. One warlord insists I need to marry his daughter, who’s just a sentient pile of enchanted hair extensions (no hate, she seems sweet). Another demands I curse his enemies by winking at them. One particularly ambitious demon tries to stab the postcard, screaming “Die, False Prophet!” and accidentally stabs himself when the magic bounces back.
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By the end, they all agree on two things:
1. I’m definitely cursed, but probably useful.
2. Azaroth should make me his official Court Nipple Oracle, with all the rights and responsibilities that come with that, including—brace yourself—a royal wedding.
To who, you ask? To Prince Malfador, heir of the Slime Kingdom, who has decided he’s in love with me because his last prophecy said, “Your soulmate will appear where you least expect it.” Malfador, my guy. I’m a nipple. You can’t even hold me. What is the plan here? Romantic chest massages? A honeymoon inside a bralette?
Azaroth gets the news and immediately screams into the void for a full hour. I’ve never seen a 10,000-year-old immortal genuinely contemplate chest amputation like this. But he can’t stop the wedding because rejecting it would spark a multi-realm war, and frankly, he’s too tired for diplomacy.
So now I’m engaged, Noona. To a sentient slime prince, while physically attached to a demon king’s left pec, acting as a prophecy-spewing flesh oracle, all because I wanted to take one hot selfie.
This is my life now.