How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

The sun shone bright that afternoon.

Midworld was as busy as ever, people carrying out countless tasks, others chasing missions to earn blue points. Unlike yesterday, one of the tall towers now displayed a clock countdown—twelve hours to go until Game 3. A magnificent reminder of where every player stood.

Bray and Jamie walked through the market, greeting their newfound friends at the flower shop, who then introduced them to other shopkeepers.

After a few minutes of forced conversations they finally got the chance to escape the grip.

But as they moved forward, the memory of their earlier conversation about suspicions surrounding Eva was still fresh in their minds.

"How is that even possible?"

"I don't know!" Alexander replied.

"Just be careful while I piece everything together."

Their thoughts rumbled. To think the very foundation of their lives hinged on a world they knew little to nothing about—it was the worst feeling they had ever experienced.

"Where do we start?" Jamie inquired as they continued down the road.

The boys had split into duos, each tasked with searching for any information that could prove useful.

"In the old world, the most reliable place to find information was at a bar. We find a bar, we find everything we need," Bray added confidently.

Beep.

Jamie's system screen appeared.

"I don't see anything that looks like a bar!"

Beep.

Bray narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the glowing map only he could see.

"No worries. We'll find it soon," he said, trying to ease Jamie's concern.

"Power ups, get your power ups over here!"

A vendor called out, his voice cunning. He stood under a temporarily constructed bench, with boxes neatly laid out, decorated to catch the eye at first glance.

"Follow my lead," Bray muttered, his tone shifting into business mode.

"Hey mister, get them at discounted prices!" the vendor exclaimed, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "I even have power-ups to help you last longer in bed!" His grin was sly.

"These are all good products," Bray said evenly, "but I'm looking for something different."

"Tell me what you need, and I'll get it in a snap," the vendor boasted, hoping to close a deal.

"I'm looking for a bar."

The man's expression shifted. He had expected a priceless request, but hope lingered that he could still profit from it.

"What's in it for me if I tell you?" He rubbed his hands together greedily.

The boys froze. They had nothing to exchange—just promises, and they knew he wouldn't accept that. Their only option was to speak the truth.

"We're broke," Jamie admitted.

"Don't shrug me off," the vendor pressed. "You must have a starter pack of MidBucks in your inventory!"

"MidBucks?"

"That's the main currency!"

Beep.

The boys quickly searched their systems for inventory.

Ding.

[MidBucks > 299]

"What?!"

They stared in shock. They'd had that much all along—a revelation they wished had come sooner.

"See?" the vendor said smugly.

"Just give me 50 MidBucks for the information, and I'll even throw in the 'last longer' power-up." His smirk widened.

Jamie was about to accept when Bray cut in.

"Make it 30."

"40."

"35."

"Deal."

They shook on it.

The vendor pulled out a pen and scribbled coordinates onto a piece of paper.

"Send me the money first. Just put 'Egnar Beroven' as the recipient."

Bray pressed the icon, followed by the share signal. A prompt appeared to enter the name.

"Egnar Beroven," he muttered while punching in the destination.

Ding.

"Done."

They collected the coordinates.

"Thank you for your time."

Waving goodbye, they continued toward the bar.

...

The smell of meat filled the air, thick with smoke from countless grills. They had arrived at the restaurant district—busy and full of life. Their plan was simple: befriend waiters, and if lucky, even chefs. Restaurants hosted people from all walks of life, and striking up conversations might increase their chances of gathering new information—including how to get the elusive time-elapser pill.

The streets were lined with colorful restaurants, their transparent windows offering tempting glimpses of customers feasting on delicacies.

"Greg," Alexander started, his tone serious.

"Yeah?"

"You remember Eva, right?"

"Yeah," Greg replied casually, unaware of where the conversation was heading.

"I smelled her scent in the house."

"Okay," Greg said quickly, still unsure where this was going.

"I mean before she even came," Alexander added.

Greg's mind froze. He had forgotten to get rid of her scent in the house—too distracted with removing the TV she had brought.

"How is that even possible?" he asked, trying hard not to sound suspicious.

"That's what I thought too. I just wanted to warn you—be careful."

Greg wasn't an amateur. He understood what Alexander was doing. The look in his eyes said it all: eliminate every possibility, and the suspicion would fall squarely on Greg. The smell hadn't been there before they trained with caster. That meant only one thing—Greg had crossed paths with Eva alone along the way. Deep down, he always knew someone would notice. She appeared far too often.

"Thanks for the tip," Greg said smoothly, cutting the tense conversation short.

As they passed one of the restaurants, they noticed three familiar strangers seated inside, eating fast food.

"Are those—?"

"Yeah, they are."

They stepped into the decorated restaurant, a mouthwatering aroma filling the air.

"Welcome, sir. Shall we get you a table?" A slim male waiter in a fancy tuxedo and white bow tie greeted them warmly.

"No, we already have one," Greg replied as they made their way to a corner table. Customers whispered, pointing fingers at them.

One of the familiar faces noticed their entrance. He had a dark complexion, His hair braided . On his face a bull tattoo , its eyes drawn near his, creating a beutiful brend that portrayed the fine artistry.

He leaned over and told his friends, who immediately lifted their heads, radiating confidence. No one could blame them—the last time they'd met, a fight had nearly broken out in the main hall, just for fun.

"Shall we join you?" Alexander asked, forcing a smile.

....

The boys sat on the chairs, facing each other across the table. At Alexander's side was a boy with a tattoo on his face.

On Greg's side sat a muscular man and a girl dressed in adventurous clothes, reminiscent of a fairy tale. The girl's eyes lingered on Greg, closely admiring his face and hair. She fell in love with everything about him—the strength he carried, the calmness in his demeanor. She had seen him before in the main hall, but being this close felt like a dream come true. Little did she know it was all just a cover, hiding the true gold beneath.

Silence filled the table, thick with suspicion. If Midgard taught you anything, it was this: never trust anyone.

"How is Midworld treating you?" Alexander inquired.

"We're managing," the tattooed man replied, his eyes sharp with distrust.

"I guess you didn't come here just to ask if we're fine."

"I like you," Alexander smirked. "Straight to the point."

He leaned forward.

"What do you think about forming an alliance?"

"Ha!"

The man sitting beside Greg burst into laughter.

"The last team we made an alliance with stabbed us in the back."

"But you're still alive. That says something," Alexander countered. His words hung in the air. Whether they stirred hate or persuasion remained unclear.

Greg stayed silent, watching how the conversation unfolded.

"Say we make an alliance," the muscular man said, "we don't know what the next game is. What if we end up fighting against each other?"

"Then we go against each other," Alexander replied flatly.

Greg's eyes widened. That statement could ruin their chances of even forming an alliance. But as he studied Alexander, he realized—this was part of a larger plan.

"Greg… Greg!" A female voice echoed in his head, low but urgent. Whoever it was, they were using telepathy.

"It's me, Eva," the voice continued, her tone sharp with urgency.

"Go to the bathroom."

Before Greg could respond, the connection cut off.

"Waiter," Greg called.

All eyes turned to him.

"Yes, sir. How may I help you?" the waiter asked, his composure warm and professional.

"Where's the bathroom?" Greg asked.

"Right ahead, through that red door," he replied, pointing toward the far end of the restaurant.

"Thanks."

"Excuse me," Greg said, standing as he made his way to the restroom.

Alexander's eyes narrowed. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. With Greg gone, their numbers were weaker.

"I've grown used to it," he thought grimly.

"An alliance is a good idea," the girl finally spoke.

"But you're bringing it up at the wrong time," she added, her words thick with tension.

"It's just like marriage—a good principle, but if done at the wrong time, it only makes you poorer and poorer."

"We killed everyone in Midgard in the first game," the tattooed man said coldly. "The moment we realized we had golden points."

"Are you trying to discourage me?" Alexander asked. Their words pulled him in different directions, stirring emotions he couldn't pin down. But one thing was certain—the tension was razor sharp.

"No," the muscular man interjected. "We're just telling you the truth."

"We're bad people," he added, his tone carrying a weight that sounded like a threat.

Alexander stiffened. He knew something was wrong.

"I choose to see the good in people," he insisted.

Silence fell.

The tattooed man smirked, lifting a cube into his hand. Its walls were transparent, glowing faintly with colors. His companions brandished their weapons, ready.

[Special Skill > King's Fortress]

In an instant while seated, the world shifted. Everyone was pulled into the cube—a black-and-white realm where the three stood opposite Alexander holding him captive.