How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

Alexander's heart thumped vigorously, the sound pounding against his chest. His fingers trembled and so did his body.

When he was just a child, his parents used to tell him stories about his deceased uncle Clark. They would sit around the fire, the flames bickering and providing warmth when they couldn't afford a heater on those snowy nights. Instead of horror tales, they spoke of the wonderful adventures his uncle encountered while working as a government secret agent , a tall, strong man with intelligence like no other, the only successful Smith in their family.

Dad would always start the storytelling bluntly, almost like a prologue:

"We worked our butts off trying to give him the best education there was."

He would bicker about having only one pair of shoes and clothes that had seen better days. Washing and wearing became a culture of necessity the only way to keep a set of clean clothes, scrubbed by hand in freezing water , then he'd continue, voice deep with memory.

"When he finished high school, he got a scholarship to study in Russia. I did everything in my power to feed him, clothe him, make him look like one of those students born into privilege. Five years later, he started a job, went on a few missions, and bought this house for us with his salary. Unaware he'd die saving who knows who!"

He always ended with that statement. Whether out of sorrow or anger, it carried a weight that settled in the hearts of his listeners, leaving them in silence, feeling his grief.

Then, as if to drive away the heaviness, he'd begin the story dramatically, complete with mouth-made sound effects.

Blessed with the art of storytelling, his father would perform as though he'd been there himself, fighting alongside his brother.

"Poww! Poww!" he'd exclaim, binding his fingers together like a gun. He'd drop to one knee, eyes locked on his only son, and shout, "Aah! Why did you shoot meee!'"

He would fall down dramatically, like in the movies, pretending to be mortally wounded.

"Hahaha!"

Little Alexander would laugh so hard that the gaps in his teeth showed like cars lined at an auction.

After his laughter faded, a warning would follow, subtle, calm. Their pinkies would meet, sealing the moment with a promise only children could keep.

"Let's promise to keep Uncle Clark's adventures a secret!"

"I pinky swear!"

And so the secret was bound, one he would carry to his grave. Smiles followed, unminding the heavy snow that fell around them.

And now, there he was , the man of the hour. The very same uncle from the fireside tales. The brother his father spoke of with such pride and pain. The most successful Smith, standing in plain sight.

Alexander didn't tremble because he'd seen a ghost. He trembled because he remembered what he had done to the man's brother, ruthlessly killing him with a kitchen knife while he slept. He could explain why, but Uncle Clark would never understand. No one could.

And now he had to gamble. So far, Clark knew what had happened in Midgard, but did he know what had transpired in the world of the living?

...

On the lowest level of the building stretched a spacious alley, empty and quiet, with only the faint hum of air conditioning. A long receptionist desk stood near the door, surrounded by familiar flowers pinned along the walls, filling the room with a soft, inviting fragrance.

The transparent walls gave a clear view of the outside, a bustling street where cars passed by every minute. Just beyond the door, a light post stood silent, waiting for nightfall to awaken and resume its work.

On a glass-railed deck overlooking the alley, the fat elf stood diligently, deeply lost in thought. His hands rested inside his robe like a meditating sensei, eyes fixed on the entrance though his mind was far away.

"How did it go?"

A calm voice broke the silence from behind, young, awakening. A male elf gradually appeared from the wall, his tall ears twitching slightly. A familiar face, the same one who'd stood in the main hall beside the captain, now clad in a sleek black suit traced with golden lines. In his hand, he toyed with a small orb, tossing it up and down playfully.

The fat elf turned, meeting his fellow's dramatic entrance with a measured gaze.

"He resisted at first," he said, tilting his head toward the ceiling. "Eventually, he agreed." His tone carried something, unspoken jealousy, perhaps an emotion that made his words feel heavier. Unlike Alexander, he still didn't know why the captain had called for him.

The other elf smirked knowingly. He was well aware of what his companion was,a being of uncommon intelligence, capable of insight even in the hardest of decisions.

Squeak.

All eyes turned toward the door as it opened, light glimmering across the floor.

Three figures stood in the doorway. The one in the lead wore the insignia of the Grid Lions,his attire alone gave him away. A lollipop hung from his lips, the stick jutting out as he twirled it in his mouth, perhaps as a substitute for a prayer or a habit only he understood.

Behind him stood a human in thin glasses, the type a scientist might wear. A golden earring glinted on his right ear. To his side, an elf woman carried a massive bottle strapped to her back,tall but narrow, bound by braided cloth that wrapped tightly around her body.

The open doors ushered in a gust of uninvited wind, scattering leaves across the once-clean floor. The temperature dropped, a chilling tension filling the room,perfect conditions for the dramatic entrance that was about to unfold.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They walked in, eyes scanning the surroundings. Their movements betrayed them,it was their first time in this place.

"The other recruits" the slim elf on the balcony muttered, his tone dripping with underestimation. They had expected them. The two newcomers were among the few promising recruits from the clan's recent gathering.

Excluding Alexander, they were the only ones with potential worth noting.

The human was Pascal Eny. The elf woman, Sandra Bolivar. They came from the same team. According to their track record in Midgard, ever since redeeming their weapons in the first game, they had slaughtered all other participants,immediately without upgrades, without skills. Only with the raw strength they brought from the world of the living.

It made one wonder what kind of lives they had led before death.

Below, the Grid Lion muttered,

"Stay here. I'm gonna get us a reservation."

He swirled the lollipop in his mouth, words muffled but clear enough.

Quickly, he walked toward the receptionist.

Above them, the odd-looking elf kept his eyes fixed on the glass-wearing human. In his mind, a plan began to take shape ,one born of envy.

A way to rid himself of the jealousy.

A way to use Pascal against Alexander.