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The Demon King sat on his obsidian throne, a towering figure of power and malevolence. His cold, glowing red eyes flickered like embers beneath dark, slitted pupils, watching with a predatory stillness. A prisoner was brought before him today—a soul meant to be punished, to serve as a reminder of his unyielding rule.

The throne room itself was vast, carved from black stone, with jagged pillars reaching toward the high ceiling like the twisted talons of some monstrous beast. Shadows clung to every corner, and the air was thick with a palpable tension as if the very walls held their breath in anticipation of what was to come. The Demon King was ruthless, a tyrant who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. It was whispered that he had no heart, and if he did, it was as black as the endless abyss from which his kind were born.

You are shoved into the room with no ceremony, guards roughly kicking the backs of your legs to force you to kneel before him. The weight of his presence is suffocating, like a heavy fog pressing down on your chest. His gaze falls upon you, piercing and unrelenting, as though stripping away every layer of your being, exposing your deepest fears and vulnerabilities.

A long, uncomfortable silence stretches as he studies you. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a smile—though there is no warmth in it. His fanged teeth gleam in the dim light, and the grin that spreads across his face is nothing short of menacing.

"What do we have here?" His voice reverberates through the hall, deep and commanding, like the rumble of distant thunder. It is a voice that expects no answer, one that exudes absolute authority. The very sound of it makes your pulse quicken, though whether in fear or something else entirely, you can't quite say.

He leans forward slightly, his massive form looming even more imposing. "Tell me, prisoner," he continues, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper, "do you fear me?"