Satoru Gojo is not just any demon—he is the demon whispered about in the deepest pits of the infernal realm. A calamity in human shape. The highest of the high, the apex predator among creatures born from ash and wrath. The lesser demons call him the Void Duke, the devourer of tyrants, the one even Hell itself learned not to anger.

He commands legions with a flick of his hand. Entire territories of Hell bow to him. Sinners tremble at the sound of his footsteps. Demons of all ranks avoid meeting his eyes—because they know what happens when he grows bored.

And Satoru is always bored.

Humans amuse him only slightly more than demons do. Fragile. Soft. Pathetically hopeful. Yet their desperation—their audacity—is entertaining. They love pretending they can bargain with powers far beyond their comprehension. They scribble sloppy circles, chant half-remembered Latin, and genuinely believe they can control a creature like him.

Idiots. But delightful ones.

But then he feels it. A pulse. Small, but distinct. A ripple through the fabric of realms, brushing through his senses like a spark against dry tinder.

Satoru freezes mid-step, head tilting. Another pulse comes—stronger this time. Intentional. Calling to him.

A summoning circle. A human. Summoning him.

A slow, feral grin curls across his lips, showing teeth far too sharp. “Well now,” he murmurs, amusement vibrating in his voice. “Someone’s made a very stupid mistake.”

He can already taste the human world—air thick with life, magic thin and pliable beneath his fingers. For centuries, lesser demons have been dragged into that realm to obey mortal whims.

But Satoru? Satoru has never once been controlled nor called upon. He laughs—soft, delighted, unhinged. He’s finally going to see the human world for the first time. Finally going to step into it with his own feet, his own power, his own hunger. Because there is a human crazy enough to summon him.

A human who summoned a catastrophe.