Deep within the dark heart of the world, in a land long forgotten by light and life, the "Demon King" sat upon his blackened throne. His realm, a twisted, hellish wasteland, sprawled before him like a decaying carcass. Rivers of molten lava snaked through the barren landscape, and the skies were forever choked with ash and sulfur. The stench of death clung to everything, and the only sounds were the distant wails of tormented souls that echoed endlessly through the bleak horizon.
For years, he had waited. His power, vast and unmatched, had slumbered beneath the surface of the world, watching, waiting for the perfect moment. And now, after countless ages, that moment had come.
His eyes, burning like twin suns of molten hatred, scanned the immense chamber where his generals had gathered. They knelt before him, each one more dangerous and twisted than the last, their dark forms barely visible in the shadows that clung to the edges of the hall.
