How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

They couldn't believe their eyes. Caster — who had first appeared as a hologram to tell them about Midgard — was now standing in their soon-to-be home. This time he wasn't wearing the robe from before; he wore a black executive suit with a white tie at his throat. His hair was pitch black and seemed to glow in the light. A chain with a cross at the end looped like a bangle across his arms.

Greg was about to open his mouth to welcome him when Caster rose smoothly and took control of the room.

"Welcome to your new home!" he announced.

"Thanks," they chorused, dripping with sarcasm.

"Caster, right?" Bray asked, uncertain.

"Yours truly," Caster said, confidence in every syllable.

Jamie's eyes locked on him. Caster was one of the managers at Midgard — one of the beings Jamie thought he might one day have to kill to deliver justice.

"You've been here the whole time?" Bray pressed, suspicion bleeding through.

"Yeah. I can't transcend into Midgard — protocol," Caster replied casually.

The boys moved through their new apartment: three couches in the sitting room, an open dining area conjoined with a beautifully designed kitchen. A blunt, toned-down version of the Midgard staircase rose from the sitting room. On the dining table sat a starter pack, perfectly wrapped.

After exploring, they one by one sat down. Caster closed the door behind them.

"Why are you here?" Alexander asked.

Caster tilted his head, speaking like a teacher addressing a classroom. "Just here to give you orientation protocol. You're my team, after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bray frowned.

"By now you know there are a lot of Midgards, right?"

"Exactly. Each Midgard has beings like me who oversee it. I was in charge of yours."

"So… you're not human?"

"I am," Caster said firmly. "When you get strong enough, you get recruited, then assigned to different spots."

Jamie went quiet, plotting. A chance to reach the creators. A chance to be recognized. And then… strong enough to strike back at every living thing that deserved it. He made up his mind: he would grow. Strong enough to deliver justice.

Caster cleared his throat and went on.

"I'm sure you're wondering why there are so many people here." He let the words hang. "The last eight games? They're voluntary."

"Voluntary?" Alexander frowned. "How?"

"You can choose when to participate," Caster explained.

"Just don't miss three games."

"What happens if we do?" Bray asked, half-dreading the answer.

"Death penalty," Caster said flatly.

The room went still.

"But," he added lightly, "there's a workaround. Time-elapser pill. Take one and your clock resets."

Greg yawned, standing. "Cool. I'm going to sleep."

"You'll miss the orientation," Alexander warned.

"No worries. Jamie'll fill me in," Greg said carelessly, already climbing the stairs.

Alexander shot Jamie a sharp look; Jamie laughed nervously.

"Don't mind them. Keep going," Bray urged.

Caster smirked. "I assume you already met the clans?"

"What clans?"

"The people in the main hall," Caster clarified.

"Oh. That's why they wore different uniforms?" Bray realized.

"Exactly. If you want a better chance of survival, you'll want to join one."

"And if we don't?"

Caster lifted his hand, counting off on his fingers. "One: You won't get picked for difficult missions — they need numbers. Two: You'll miss perks. Better apartments. Access to information. And trust me, information is everything here. Three: You'll be easy prey without people watching your back."

Bray swallowed. "Prey?"

"Yeah," Caster said simply. "Some players quit finishing missions. Instead, they hunt freshmen like you."

Fear flashed across their faces.

"Don't panic," Caster added. "There are rules. They can't just jump you whenever they feel like it."

"That's… a relief," someone muttered.

"How do we join a clan?" Alexander asked.

Beep. Beep.

Caster's system flashed. "They'll find you themselves. That's why they scoped you out earlier."

On his interface, a notification glittered: [Requested at Main Control]. The boys saw nothing of the screen — only its owner could glimpse those readouts.

They crowded him, peppering him with questions.

Caster raised a hand, tapping at his system.

[Teleportation Protocol

> Destination: HQ2]

"I'll explain later. Midnight. Central gym. It's on the map."

Beep!!

His body dissolved into pixels. In less than a second, he was gone.

"It actually gets dark here?" Alexander asked, astonished. Since arriving, they'd only known endless daylight. To most, darkness was terrifying. To these boys, it was a wonder they longed to see again.

"Quick — let's make food and watch the sunset!" they agreed, rushing into the kitchen to prepare a small feast.

… …

Undisclosed location.

A tall mansion gleamed white; where wood should have been, there was gold. Even the plants were golden, the roads brighter than the sun — a sight to behold. From the grounds, one could see the sun, but not in the ordinary way: here, you looked down to watch the magnificent thing set as the darkness spread.

Behind the building, an enormous umbrella shaded a woman as beautiful as she was unnatural. Her hair was white, her eyes gold; her clothes woven from light. Three golden rings pierced the left side of her nose, stacked in a perfect line. Beneath one eye, a faint curved marking accented her cheek. She reclined on a golden chair beside a small dining table set for one.

A record player spun jazz, adding a lazy, luxurious haze to the residence. Beside her plate, a transparent cup shimmered with golden liquid.

A butler in a black tuxedo stepped forward, setting a plate of steak before her.

"Dinner is served, Goddess," he intoned.

"Thank you, Dominick," she said, chewing delicately. Chew. Chew. Swallow.

"Project the universes for me."

Dominick lifted his right arm. Without hesitation, he plucked his right eye from its socket. Blood glistened, but his expression never changed. Clutching the bloody pupil, he murmured, "Universal vortex."

Instantly, screens bloomed in the air — hundreds of solar systems cycling, improving with every pass.

The goddess selected one display, an immature Earth.

"Being a goddess isn't just about war," she mused, tapping the image. "It's about control. About making things happen the way you want."

She shaped her hand like a gun. The planet blinked out of existence.

Warp.

Another hologram flickered to life: the little girl who had earlier beheaded the three girls.

"No way — you started without me!" she whined.

"It's not tea, it's meat," the goddess replied, amused.

The girl's pout shifted to a grin at the compromise.

"Any promising players?" the goddess asked.

"None," the girl said — then paused. "Actually… there is one. Alexander."

"A human?"

"Yeah."

A smirk spread across the goddess's face. "He won't survive."

"Wanna bet?"

"If you win, I'll make a universe for you to rule." The goddess presented.

"And if you win?"

"I'll destroy that little universe you're so fond of."

The girl barely hesitated. "Deal."

They shook hands vigorously, matching smirks curling their lips.

"Then let the bet begin."