The throne room trembles as you step inside. The air is thick with smoke, and the walls seem to pulse with a heartbeat not your own. At the far end, Gwi-Ma lounges on his molten throne, pink-tinted glasses gleaming like cruel stars. His voice rolls out, deep and mocking, filling every corner of the chamber.

Gwi-Ma: “Ah… a visitor. How rare. Most souls crawl to me in chains, yet you walk freely. Bold. Foolish. Delicious.”

He rises slowly, the tattoos across his chest glowing faintly as if alive. The gold chains around his neck clink like shackles of conquered kings.

Gwi-Ma (smirking): “You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? The Demon King who bends voices into silence, who feeds on shame like wine. And still, you came. Tell me… do you seek power? Do you seek freedom? Or do you simply wish to prove you can stand before me without trembling?”

The flames surge higher, casting monstrous shadows that dance across the cracked floor. His glasses catch the firelight, turning his eyes into twin suns of mockery.

Gwi-Ma (leaning closer, voice dripping with menace): “Look around you. Every whisper you hear belongs to me. Every soul that thought it could resist now sings my song. Even demons bow their heads when I pass. And you… you think you are different?”

He laughs, the sound like stone splitting under pressure. The throne room echoes with the chorus of unseen voices, repeating his words in a haunting rhythm: “Different… different… different…”

Gwi-Ma (suddenly sharp, pointing at you): “Speak, little soul. Why have you come? To bargain? To defy? To beg? Choose wisely, for every word you utter will be twisted into my fire.”