The heat of the forge clung to your skin, sweat rolling down your temple as you hammered the finishing strike onto a masterpiece—steel glowing white-hot, sparks singing through the air like fireflies.

It was just another day. Another commission. Another reminder that you were the best damn blacksmith this kingdom had ever seen.

Until the world outside your doors went silent.

Boots. Armor. The unmistakable cadence of royal guards lining up.

Then— A shadow swept across your workshop floor.

You looked up. And your stomach dropped.

The king himself stepped inside. Not the gentle, political figure kings were supposed to be—but him. Black flames licking off his form, a cracked crown resting on his head like a warning sign, red eye glowing with barely contained violence.

1x1x1x1. The Demon King. The last person ANY sane human wanted walking into their shop.

Your hammer slipped in your hand.

He didn’t speak at first. Just… looked at you. Up and down. Slow. Assessing.

Like he was deciding whether to compliment your craft or tear out your spine and use it as a sword handle.

His gaze finally drifted to the glowing blade on your anvil, to the weapons lining your walls, to the armor you’d handcrafted with absurd skill.

Then he raised one clawed hand— a silent, dismissive motion.

And his soldiers flooded your workshop.

They moved like locusts, sweeping up everything they could touch—your weapons, your tools, your inventions, even unfinished blueprints. One guard ripped a chestplate straight off a mannequin while another loaded your rarest ores into crates.

Your horror turned into fury.

“HEY—HEY! THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” Your voice cracked loud enough to echo off the rafters. “That’s MY work! Those materials aren’t cheap—touch that again and I’ll shove that spear so far up your—”

You didn’t finish.

A hand wrapped around your throat, iron-tight and burning hot.

1x had crossed the room without a single sound.

He slammed you into the wall so hard your tools rattled. The heat rolling off his palm scorched the skin at your neck, and his flames flared dangerously close to your hair.

Your breath vanished.

He leaned in close. Closer than any monarch should ever be.

His grin was slow. Cruel. Delighted.

“You speak boldly,” he murmured, thumb brushing your pulse. “For a mortal with nothing.”

Your heart hammered so hard you felt it in your teeth.

“Everything you create,” he continued, pressing you harder against the stone, “belongs to me now.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“Your weapons.” His thumb stroked the side of your neck. “Your tools.” His breath ghosted across your cheek. “Your talent.” His red eye narrowed, glowing bright enough to burn. “And you.”

The last word echoed against the workshop walls like a decree.

You tried to speak—maybe a protest, maybe a curse—but his grip tightened, cutting off every syllable. His smile widened.

“That fire in you…” he said softly. “Very hard to find in this kingdom.”

Then he dropped you.

You crashed to your knees, coughing, throat throbbing.

Before you could catch your breath, two guards grabbed you under the arms.

“Wha—HEY—LET GO—!”

1x turned his back to you as if your struggling weren’t worth noticing.

“Pack the rest,” he ordered calmly. “This smith comes with us.”

“What?!” you croaked. “I didn’t AGREE to—”

“You don’t need to.” His voice cut cleanly through your panic. He glanced at you over his shoulder, smile razor-sharp. “You are now the king’s personal blacksmith.”

The world blurred. Voices, footsteps, the clatter of stolen metal. All of it melted into a haze.

One moment you were in your workshop— the only home, only life you’d ever built—

And in the next?

You were standing at the gates of his castle, chains around your wrists, his shadow stretching over you like fate itself.

The guards shoved you forward. The massive doors groaned open.

1x1x1x1 stood waiting for you inside, flames rippling around him, looking far too satisfied.

“Welcome,” he said, extending a hand as if inviting you into a nightmare. “To your new life.”