The Demon King's Hall
The Demon King's Hall was an empire of shadows and flame, where power rested upon an obsidian throne, and the air itself felt heavy with the weight of ancient rule. Molten gold coursed through the cracks in the dark stone, veins of fire that pulsed in time with the heart of the Underworld. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings of demons and dragons, their eyes glowing faintly as if alive. The ceiling stretched high above, disappearing into a haze of smoke and shadow, while the floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the flickering torchlight.
It was a place of judgment. A place of power.
And tonight, it was a place of spectacle.
At the center of it all, seated upon his blackened throne, was Taros, the Demon King—lounging with an air of careless authority, his golden eyes flickering like the embers of a dying fire. His presence was commanding, yet relaxed, as if the chaos around him was nothing more than a passing amusement.
Before him stood Piero—the intruder, the performer, the walking contradiction.
His presence was absurd.
Clad in a flowing coat of deep crimson and royal purple, polished boots reflecting the torchlight, and an oversized red nose that seemed to glow faintly, he stood at the heart of the hall as if he belonged there. His mask was a perfect porcelain white, its smile frozen in place, hiding whatever lay beneath.
The Demon Lords surrounded him, their expressions a mixture of amusement, irritation, and suspicion.
Sparrow, arms crossed, smirked with barely contained arrogance. His green jacket hung loosely over his muscular frame, his wild crimson hair falling over sharp eyes that gleamed with mischief.
Beside him, Isaac ran a hand through his golden locks, his smirk laced with disdain.
"You're not taking anything from us, Clowny," Sparrow sneered, stepping forward. "You're just a joke. And the thing about jokes? They don't matter."
Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no, Sparrow. A joke is funny. This guy? He's just noise."
Laughter rippled through the hall—low and cruel, a chorus of demons mocking a fool who dared stand among them.
Yet Piero's expression did not change. His grin remained, a mask of amusement too perfect, too still.
But one voice cut through the mockery like a blade.
"Enough."
The laughter died instantly.
Veronica stepped forward, her crimson eyes locked onto Piero.
Her violet hair swayed slightly as she moved, her steps careful, precise—like a hunter approaching its prey.
"You shouldn't be here."
Piero tilted his head, his grin widening ever so slightly.
"Oh?"
"Where are the guards?"
Silence.
A single torch flickered, the sound almost deafening.
Taros exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping lightly against the throne. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his golden eyes—then it was gone.
The Demon Lords exchanged looks, a subtle shift in the air as realization crept in.
Something was wrong.
---
A Magician's Distraction
Piero clapped his hands together, the sound unnervingly crisp.
"Ah, Miss Veronica! The only one here with a working brain. Wonderful, wonderful!" He bowed deeply, then straightened with a flourish. "Now then, as a reward for your keen observation—allow me to entertain."
And then, he began.
A silver coin flickered between his fingers, rolling over his knuckles like liquid metal. With a flick, he tossed it high into the air—
It spun, catching the dim torchlight—and when it landed back in his palm, it had transformed.
The silver was gone. Now it was black as shadow, marked with an ancient demonic sigil that pulsed with an eerie red glow.
"Ah, but a mere trick!" Piero mused, flipping the coin once more—before crushing it in his fist.
The moment his fingers uncurled, the coin had turned to dust, scattering into the air.
Sparrow's smirk faltered.
Isaac tilted his head, watching a bit closer now.
And then—came the cards.
Piero produced a deck from seemingly nowhere, the cards sliding between his fingers as if they were alive. He shuffled them too quickly, a blur of motion that left behind afterimages of red and black.
Snap.
A single card flicked into the air.
It hovered, spinning—and then began to change.
The paper warped. The ink bled. The image stretched.
And then—a small black bat burst forth, its wings flapping wildly as it screeched and disappeared into the shadows.
A heavy silence settled in the hall.
Piero sighed dramatically.
"Ah, but I digress! Shall we speak of history? The history of fools, the kings of jesters, the sacred and the damned?"
His voice lowered, playful, yet strangely weighted.
"Once, long ago, there were no kings. Only laughter. Wild, reckless, untamed. Fools who danced on the edge of madness, playing their games beneath the watchful gaze of monarchs who believed themselves gods."
He spun, his coat flaring as his voice took on a storyteller's cadence.
"A clown is not just a clown, dear demons. A clown is a shadow. A whisper in the court of power. A thing that exists because men cannot bear the weight of their own cruelty without a mask to hide behind."
His red nose glowed faintly, an unnatural light against the dim room.
"They laughed, oh, how they laughed! Until one day... the fools stopped laughing back."
His grin stretched wider, his voice lowering to a near whisper.
"And then, the kings fell."
The room was dead silent.
Taros exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping lightly against the throne. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his golden eyes—then it was gone.
"So... you are human after all."
The Guards' Discovery
The guards moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end.
As they approached the doors, one of the guards hesitated, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. "Something's not right," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The others nodded, their eyes darting nervously around the dimly lit hallway. The torches on the walls flickered, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to dance and twist in the corners of their vision.
With a deep breath, the lead guard pushed the door open—and froze.
The sight before them was horrifying.
The bodies of their comrades lay scattered across the floor, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and terror. There were no signs of struggle, no wounds or blood—just stillness.
One guard staggered back, his voice catching in his throat. "They're... dead."
The others exchanged uneasy glances, their hands tightening on their weapons. "What could have done this?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling with fear.
The lead guard shook his head, his expression grim. "I don't know," he said, his voice low and steady. "But we need to warn the others."
Without another word, they turned and rushed back toward the throne room, their hearts pounding in their chests.
The Curtain Falls
The doors burst open, and the guards rushed in, their faces pale with horror. "The other guards are dead!" one of them shouted, his voice echoing through the hall.
The Demon Lords reacted instantly.
Sparrow's hands curled into fists, his smirk replaced by a look of pure rage. "What the hell is going on?" he snarled, his voice booming through the hall.
Isaac tensed, his golden eyes narrowing as he scanned the room for any sign of danger. "This isn't a joke anymore," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
Veronica's eyes blazed with fury, her crimson gaze locked onto Piero. "You," she hissed, her voice like ice. "What have you done?"
Piero sighed dramatically, his grin never wavering. "Oh, Miss Veronica," he said, his voice almost sad. "You were the only one who saw it coming."
He blew her a kiss.
His nose detached, hitting the floor.
A thick red gas erupted.
Veronica inhaled once—then collapsed.
No scream. No resistance.
Just silence.
The moment Veronica fell, the room itself seemed to inhale—a breathless pause, a silence so deep it rang louder than any scream could.
The Hunt Begins
Komori reacted instantly.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, the air itself seemed to tremble. Then, from the shadows, a wave of bats erupted—silent, swift, their red eyes burning like embers as they scattered into the night, hunting.
Find Piero.
The gas was fading.
Taros remained on his throne.
But for the first time—
He did not smile.