The Demon Lord stood motionless, his piercing mismatched gaze fixed on the distant battlefield, where fire and smoke consumed the horizon. The screams of combatants and the clamor of clashing weapons still filled the air, yet they now seemed muted to him—a backdrop to his swirling thoughts. His white hair, tipped with charcoal, fluttered slightly in the acrid breeze, and his coat, dark as midnight, hung heavily around his towering frame, absorbing the suffocating gloom of the wasteland.

  At his side, the Archdemons of Insight and Greed exchanged wary glances, each attuned to the subtle shifts in their lord's demeanor. Insight’s crimson eyes sharpened with curiosity, her raven hair spilling like ink over her tattered black robe as she tilted her head in silent analysis. Greed, with her golden irises glinting sharply, crossed her arms in silent contemplation, wary of the glimmer of intrigue playing across the Demon Lord’s otherwise stoic face.

  For a moment, he considered pursuing the powerful being on the other side of the battlefield—a presence so potent it stirred faint echoes of ancient struggles buried deep within him. But the Demon Lord, ever calculating, held himself back. The thrill of battle could wait; he needed answers. Turning his gaze down to the ragged group of humans before him, he spoke.

  “Where is the nearest city?” His voice cut through the air like a blade—calm, deliberate, but layered with an authority that could not be ignored.

  The humans hesitated, their battered faces revealing their inner turmoil. Dirt-streaked skin and tired eyes showed the toll of countless battles, yet their captain—the weathered knight with a greying beard and dented silver armor—stepped forward to answer. His initial hesitation was palpable, but the subtle influence of Greed seeped into his mind, twisting his uncertainty into trust he could not explain.

  “It’s… about 400 miles south,” the knight admitted, the words seeming to escape him unbidden. His weathered hands clenched the pommel of his sword as he furrowed his brow. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Why do you wish to know? Will you fight alongside us tomorrow? We’re planning to storm the holy camp to rescue comrades taken hostage by the divine army.”

  The Demon Lord scoffed—a sound laden with contempt—as his crimson and obsidian eyes flicked down to the knight. “I care not for your battles,” he said coldly, the amusement in his tone nearly imperceptible. “Your intentions, and mine, are none of your concern.”

  The captain stiffened, disappointment flickering across his lined face. He could sense the unbridled power within this man—not just in his stature, but in the way he carried himself, with an ease and confidence no mere mortal could ever hope to achieve. Even with the Demon Lord and his companions sealing their demonic auras, their presence loomed oppressive.

  A spark of cunning lit the captain’s gaze. He stepped closer and asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and challenge, “Have you ever fought a god?”

  The Demon Lord’s lips curled slightly, his arrogance evident. “I have faced plenty of powerful foes, but never a god. Though I have no doubt I would prevail.”

  The knight’s face broke into a sly smile. “I thought you’d say that. I’m sure you can sense it—the immense power across the battlefield. Thirty miles north lies the holy camp. There resides a god: the God of Dreams.”

  The Demon Lord’s interest piqued, though he concealed it with practiced ease. He did sense the presence the knight spoke of—a power unlike any other he had encountered in this realm. And yet, what followed unnerved his companions. The Demon Lord smiled.

  His expression—a rare display of unrestrained emotion—caused Insight and Greed to falter momentarily. Insight’s analytical gaze lingered on her lord, her thoughts racing at the implications of his rare smile. Greed's clawed fingers twitched, her golden eyes narrowing with unease at the boiling excitement she sensed emanating from him.

  There was no kindness in that smile. It was the smile of a predator, his blood boiling at the thought of confronting and killing a god—one of the divine beings responsible for his thousand years of torment in hell.

  The captain continued, emboldened by the reaction. “Help us free our comrades, and I will personally lead you to the city. The lord there will repay you tenfold for their safe return, I am certain of it. One of the men captured is his younger brother.”

  The Demon Lord’s mismatched gaze bore into the captain, his mind calculating. He weighed the offer, his companions watching closely as the faint smile lingered on his lips. The battlefield stretched endlessly before them, a realm of chaos ripe for exploitation. And now, a god awaited him—an opponent worthy of his wrath.

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  The Demon Lord could no longer suppress the thirst that burned within him—the thought of a god, a divine being, shattered and broken at his feet. His bloodlust thickened in the air, tangible and suffocating, as though the world itself recoiled from the weight of his intent. His companions felt it like a tidal wave, their own dark desires mirroring his in fervent reverence. Their loyalty was absolute, and the prospect of aiding their lord in his conquest ignited their determination.

  The humans, however, were not so fortunate. They trembled violently, every breath labored under the invisible weight of the Demon Lord's unsealed presence. His aura was an oppressive force, dense and overwhelming, as if the air itself had transformed into a toxic miasma threatening to choke them. Faces pale and weapons slackened in their grips, their fear radiated as vividly as the malevolent energy enveloping them.

  The Demon Lord began to laugh—a laugh that carried across the battlefield like a monstrous roar, shaking the earth and echoing through the crimson skies. It was a sound of unbridled cruelty, filled with amusement and promise, causing stones to crack and hearts to race. “Why wait until tomorrow?” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain.

  With a sudden burst of movement, he ascended, his dark figure cutting through the ashen sky as his coat billowed wildly behind him. From above, he gazed upon the battlefield below—a chaotic and endless expanse of feral struggle. Mutants clawed viciously at angelic warriors, celestial swords clashed against monstrous axes, and beasts roared ferociously amidst rivers of blood. This realm of unending war was about to be interrupted, and none below had any inkling of the devastation that would come.

  Extending his arm, the Demon Lord pointed his palm outward toward the heart of the chaos. With his other hand, he began to draw demonic runes in the air, tracing intricate symbols that pulsed with unholy energy. The ancient demon tongue spilled from his lips—a guttural incantation laced with raw power, older than the stars and incomprehensible to mortal ears. As his chant grew louder, the atmosphere seemed to convulse, the sky darkened further, and the battlefield paused momentarily in stunned silence, as though the very world held its breath.

  At first, the spell manifested as a faint red flame, no larger than a baseball, hovering at the Demon Lord's outstretched palm. But it did not remain small for long. The flame began to swell, shifting colors with every breath—first crimson, then sapphire blue, then royal violet. The energy emanating from it was palpable, searing, and otherworldly, causing those below to shield their eyes even though they could not escape the inevitable.

  Finally, the fire shifted into its ultimate form: black and white flames intertwined, an enormous sphere that grew until it eclipsed the battlefield itself. A mile wide and a mile tall, it radiated ominous light as though it were both star and shadow. The sheer size and power of the fireball were unimaginable, yet its destructive purpose was singular. With barely more than a flick of his wrist, the Demon Lord sent the colossal sphere hurtling downward.

  The flames descended slowly, almost as though savoring the souls it would consume. When the black-and-white fireball touched the ground, it erupted silently—no sound accompanied its destruction, only the visual horror of its impact. Every living being it touched was instantly incinerated, their bodies reduced to nothingness, their souls burned away by the Original Fire. And yet, miraculously, the land remained unscathed. The ancient power that he wielded did not harm the earth; only those with a soul suffered the fire's wrath. Forests, rivers, and mountains were untouched, as though the flames respected the very fabric of creation.

  The humans watched in absolute terror and awe, their hearts pounding furiously in their chests. Even the Archdemons, who had witnessed the Demon Lord's power countless times, dared not move closer to the unholy flame. The devastation ended as abruptly as it began, the fireball vanishing as though it had never existed. In its wake was silence—a void where the raging sounds of war had once been. The battlefield lay still, a direct path now carved through the chaos, leading to the camp where the angelic captives were held.

  Descending once more, the Demon Lord returned to the humans' encampment. His companions greeted him with reverent praise. Insight’s crimson eyes gleamed with admiration, her raven hair falling like a veil around her face as she murmured, “Only you, my lord, accomplish the impossible time and time again.” Greed, her golden irises glowing faintly, bowed deeply and added, “Truly, greatness belongs to you alone.”

  The humans—mere knights and soldiers—looked upon the being in awe and submission. They followed the lead of the Archdemons, falling to their knees before the Demon Lord, their loyalty now unshaken by the godlike power they had witnessed.

  The Demon Lord, watching the army kneel before him, smirked darkly. “It’s the same in hell,” he mused to himself. “Power is the easiest way to gain admiration and respect.”

  He raised his voice, commanding their obedience. “Stay here. You will remain while I retrieve your comrades.” None dared speak against him or protest, too fearful of incurring his wrath.

  Before departing, he turned his crimson-and-obsidian gaze toward the captain. “Human whom they call captain,” he growled, his voice brimming with malice. “You best pray that the reward promised to me is what I receive—or you all shall feel my disappointment.”

  The ominous threat sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. The captain, visibly pale, swallowed hard and nodded, silently vowing to ensure the city’s lord would not disappoint this terrifying being.

  And with that, the Demon Lord ascended once more, Insight and Greed trailing behind him, their loyalty unwavering.