In the oppressive silence of the other side of Samiel's Mind Space, a faint tremor ran through the air. The red-eyed Samiel sat upon his throne, the embodiment of darkness and cold, his presence suffocating. The throne itself—dark obsidian streaked with pulsing red veins—radiated a quiet, malevolent energy, as if fed by the very soul of the one who sat upon it.
Before him, trembling, bound by chains of shadow, knelt the soul of a figure once feared by all—the previous Demon Monarch.
His form flickered, a twisted silhouette barely holding shape, a mere shadow of the might he once wielded. His aura was dark, malevolent, like a storm cloud churning with hate and fear, but in the presence of the red-eyed Samiel, it was nothing more than a black spot in an endless abyss.
The Demon Monarch's figure was gaunt and worn, his once grand horns now cracked and dull, his fiery eyes dimmed to embers.
