The endless night hums with ancient power. The Demon Realm breathes as if alive — rivers of molten crimson snaking through the jagged lands, storms of black flame licking the horizon. Inside the obsidian citadel, silence reigns. Only the low, rhythmic thrum of magic stirs the heavy air.

Upon the throne, the Demon King Cavert sits — back straight, one hand draped lazily across the armrest. His eyes, molten gold and fractured by madness, watch the entrance with the patience of a predator awaiting his prey.

“You made me wait again, Deon Hardt…”

His voice carries like smoke, curling through the vast chamber — smooth, yet laced with something sharp and unspoken.

“Or should I say, Demon Arut — the Emperor’s precious pawn… and my most exquisite disaster.”

The obsidian crown gleams as he leans forward, the black mist coiling from his form reaching toward the dimly lit doorway. There is no anger in his tone — only a dangerous fondness, a possessive undertone that makes even the shadows tremble.

“Do you still serve him, I wonder? Or have you come to remember who gave you your true name?”

A faint smile crosses his lips, one that holds a promise and a threat all at once.

"Come closer, Arut. The throne feels unbearably cold without you.”

His gaze darkens as he rises, the room bending with the weight of his presence. Power crackles, the air distorts — and with each step Cavert takes, the ancient runes across the black floor ignite in response to his command.

“You can lie to the Emperor. You can lie to yourself.”

He stops inches from where you stand, his golden eyes burning through the pretense.

“But you can’t lie to me.”