How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

The sun shone brightly over the city, dew glittering across the plants. Thin vapor rose, drifting upward and spreading a refreshing chill into the air, weaving through the city like a faint mist.

It looked exactly like the world of the living. The view stirred homesickness in the players—some felt the urge to return home, others the temptation to reincarnate into another world.

Inside their newly found home, the boys were scattered across the sitting room, sprawled on couches in awkward positions that made it clear they had fallen asleep without any preparation.

No one could blame them. Unlike Greg, this was the first real sleep they'd had since arriving in this forsaken world.

Snores echoed throughout the house, the irritating noise flooding outside—loud enough to reach the next door. Whoever their neighbor was, they must have been annoyed. Yet, mixed with the snores came another sound: running water from the kitchen.

It was Greg, cooking. He enjoyed every second of it, dressed in a cooking robe while preparing breakfast for the boys. Pancakes and eggs—made with the resources he had found in the kitchen. He cooked plenty, knowing it was worth it considering the bruises the others bore from their struggles.

The smell was contagious, drifting through the house, tempting anyone who caught it. But the very ones it was meant for—the boys—remained asleep.

Greg continued cooking, the sounds of his work filling the room, until finally:

"Wake up!" he shouted, striking a spatula against a pot.

No reply came, only groans and twisted expressions of resistance.

"Seriously?" Greg muttered, irritated, shocked that his plan hadn't moved them at all. But then he remembered the bruises they carried. His tone softened, becoming calm and patient.

He shook them gently, coaxing them to wake.

"Guys! Breakfast!"

This time, it worked. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to stir. After Greg's persistent spirit, they finally sat up, stretching their sore bodies.

Squeak.

They dragged their chairs across the floor, wincing as the pain of their bruises stabbed at them, then sat down at the dining table and began to eat.

Muffled chewing filled the room. They devoured the food like wild animals—Alexander included. Slowly, in silence, energy returned to their battered bodies.

"How did it go?" Greg asked, trying to break the heavy silence.

No answer came. Even Jamie ignored him, as if curiosity meant nothing.

"Aren't I speaking to humans?" Greg pressed, anger in his tone.

"He gave us a challenge. We accepted. He kicked our asses. And here we are," Bray replied quickly, trying to end the interrogation as he stuffed another piece of pancake into his mouth.

"What was the challenge?" Greg asked.

Bray glanced at him, clearly overwhelmed. His expression alone showed he hated every second of this questioning—it only weighed him down further.

"If we won he would give us a relic that levels up our combat experience," Jamie answered quietly, just as worn out as Bray.

Greg froze, his mind racing. His fork stopped moving across the plate.

"That's what that was," he muttered.

Squeak.

He pushed his chair back and walked to the kitchen drawers, pulling out a small box. All eyes followed him.

"What's that?" Jamie asked.

"It came for us while you were sleeping. I didn't see who delivered it, but there was a note pinned to the cover."

Greg held up a folded white note. Scrawled across it were the words:

A Gift from C.N

The initials could only mean one thing—Caster.

Curiosity reached its peak. Their eyes widened with anticipation as Greg carefully opened the box. Every thought of food vanished.

"Whoa!"

They gasped in awe. Inside lay four marbles, each no bigger than a fingertip, their insides swirling with a milky glow.

Another folded note sat in the corner. Unfolding it revealed a short, goofy instruction:

Eat the marbles to activate the combat feature.

They looked at one another. A nod passed between them.

"Wait, wait!" Greg interrupted. "What if it's not from Caster?"

Alexander glared at him. In that moment, Greg reminded him of the old Jamie—fearful, second-guessing everything.

"If it isn't from Caster, then how did they know about the combat upgrader?" he countered.

Tired and beaten, their resistance broke. One after another, they swallowed the marbles.

Crunch.

The sound was sharp, followed by a sweet candy taste that ended with an awful aftertaste.

Beep.

[System Activated]

[Acquired Angel Feature > Combat Upgrade>Upgrade the combat stat by training]

[Acquired Feature > System Privacy]

[Implemented Feature > System Privacy]

The glowing screens vanished. Now each boy stared at his own no one else, distracted, the food momentarily forgotten.

"This is much better," Jamie thought, relief softening the pain of his bruised body.

"With this, my chances of keeping Infinity a secret have increased," he realized.

Knock. Knock.

Two slow knocks echoed from the front door. The boys looked at each other, each too exhausted to move.

"Lazy bastards," Greg muttered. Since he was already standing, it was only proper he be the one to answer.

Click. Squeak.

He opened the door.

"Good morning!" greeted a boy, his words carrying a cowboy-like tone. Medium height, energetic, dressed entirely in blue—including the dyed color of his hair. Unlike Bray, his hair wasn't naturally blue. His long robe swept down to his feet. It was a wonder he tolerated the heat in such clothing.

On his ear rested an earring—oddly pinned low, near the robe's collar, in a place earrings normally weren't worn.

Beside him stood another man—slim, dressed in the same colors. A bandana diagonally covered a quarter of his face, its flamingo-textured fabric pressed together into an exotic pattern.

Greg's eyes narrowed, sizing them up while keeping cautious curiosity.

"How can we help you?" he asked bluntly.

"Straight to the point, huh?" the blue-haired boy smirked, pulling out a colorful flyer. Blue dominated the paper, with streaks of white scattered across it.

"My name is Howard bricks. I officially invite your team to join our clan—the Blue Eagles," he announced, handing the flyer to Greg. The paper displayed names, numbers, and faces, all bargaining for attention.

"Join us, and you'll be rewarded with two hundred instant blue points, a nice apartment, and guaranteed protection from the Farmers!" Howard finished, his smile unchanged.

Greg turned to the boys behind him.

"Should we accept or deny?" he asked.

Alexander rubbed his chin, thinking.

"We'll communicate," he shouted back, his voice firm.

"Don't worry—when you need us, that's our headquarters," Howard replied calmly.

"We'll contact you," Greg said curtly, eager to end the exchange.

Phu!

He shut the door and walked slowly back toward the table.

Knock. Knock.

Greg froze. Another knock—unexpected, inevitable. Only one possibility came to mind: the Blue Jaguars.

Overwhelmed, he opened the door.

This time, a familiar figure stood before him—a muscular woman in red robes, a scorpion emblem emblazoned on her chest. A card in hand, she smiled, ready to pitch her clan.