The surface world was what he'd expected: noisy, filthy, incessant weaklings screaming with fear. No matter how many centuries passed, mankind had continued to repeat the cycle of their history. It was pathetic.
Bullets were shot by the men in uniforms and it killed some of his brothers, injured others. The former King did not care how many men: humans and demons, were killed; What he cared for was reaching the top, holding ultimate power of control in his hands.
Screams of fear, tearing of limbs, pleas of mercy, all filled the air and he lathered in it.
A child, no older than 12 in human years, stood before him with a gun in her shaking hands.
'A girl dare stood against him-the King of Hell?!' He laughed, revealing his sharp teeth like those on a shark. However, his laughter stuttered as he felt a bullet pressed against his flesh. Then another bullet and another, until the gun had no more to give.
