The voice echoed through the chamber, low and rumbling, filled with malice so thick it seemed to coat the air itself.
"Again, you've failed my plans, human," the voice sneered, reverberating through the silence like a sinister growl. It was unmistakable, a voice that carried power beyond any ordinary demon—this was the voice of a demon king.
Draven remained still, his eyes narrowing, his body taut with tension but betraying none of it. He didn't flinch, didn't react with fear or awe as the voice continued to weave its way through the air. No, he stood there in silence, staring into the unseen source of the voice with deadly calm. He knew who this was. The demon king. Not just any demon king, but Malakaroth, the Blood-Forged Sovereign, the ruler of orcs and ogres, worshiped as a god by the monstrous races that devastated the western lands centuries ago.
