How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

Beep.

Beep.

Squeak.

The door creaked open. Greg stepped inside, slow, reverent, as if entering a cathedral. His footsteps made less sound than the beeps that had just echoed through the house. Head bowed, shoulders tense, he looked like a man walking into judgment.

Jamie froze mid-push-up, sweat dripping from his brow. His eyes snapped to Greg, wide with surprise, and something deeper, something wary. He rose quickly, muscles coiled, unaware that the friend he trusted most now carried motives tangled in shadows.

Greg's eyes flickered over Jamie's transformed frame, how his body had sharpened, how it seemed to glow faintly under the sitting room light.

"There here !" Bray announced, striding in with zero regard for how absurd he looked wrapped in a white cooking cloth like some misplaced chef-saint.

Squeak!

Greg crossed the threshold fully, still avoiding eye contact.

The three of them stood in uneasy silence, eyes darting between one another. One person was missing. One person who should've been there. But there was no sign of him. No trace. Their brows furrowed, minds racing through possibilities,none of which came close to the truth.

"Ahem… Greg," Jamie began slowly, voice thick with suspicion. "Where's Alexander?"

Bray shook his head. His eyes said everything: I was wondering the same damn thing.

"He joined the Grid Lions," Greg replied, voice low, almost reluctant, as if even speaking the words stained his tongue.

"I thought Eva said they were bad news!" Bray blurted, trying to stitch the pieces together. It made no sense. Alexander wasn't the type to run with wolves.

"They are," Greg admitted. He paused, throat working. Then, quieter: "But the captain… is his uncle."

Jamie's mouth fell open. His eyes widened like saucers.

"No way!" he breathed, disbelief cracking through his voice.

And yet, somewhere beneath the shock,a sliver of it clicked. But not all of it. Some things still didn't fit. Alexander wouldn't just vanish. Not like this.

"He's planning to help him finish all the games," Greg continued, eerily calm.

"That doesn't sound like Alexander at all!" Jamie insisted, crossing his arms. The motion flexed newly carved muscle, proof of how hard he'd been pushing himself.

"Think about it," he pressed. "If his uncle's really on the level, why didn't he tell us? Why not come say goodbye? Why leave us in the dark like we're… children?"

Bray's head dipped. Jamie had struck a nerve. A big one.

"Because he doesn't want us connected to them," Bray realized aloud. The words settled like dust after an explosion. "That's exactly what he'd do."

"See?" Jamie snapped, heat rising in his chest. "There he goes again, treating us like kids who can't handle the truth!"

"Did he give you anything?" Bray asked Greg, urgency sharpening his tone. "A clue? A message? Anything we can use?"

Greg hesitated, scanning his memory like a vault. Then, softly: "No. Nothing."

Tsk. Tsk.

Bray and Jamie exhaled in stunned unison. Lost. Confused. Adrift.

But the silence didn't last.

Jamie straightened, jaw set. A decision had crystallized in his mind, reckless, dangerous, but unshakable.

"I'm gonna get him back."

His voice rang with finality. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of what he was about to do. He steadied himself. He had Infinity. He had Yellow Sun.

"What?!" Bray yelped. "Are you mad?!"

"You can't be serious!" Greg added, stepping forward like a father trying to stop his son from leaping off a cliff. "They're the strongest clan in Midworld! Their players have maxed stats, elite gear, I saw the captain myself! There's no way you walk in there and come out alive!"

"You can't sustain Yellow Sun for long," Bray pleaded, voice cracking. "Saving Alexander matters, but so does surviving."

"If I die trying to save my friend," Jamie said, quiet but ironclad, "then so be it."

He sounded like a child reciting a vow in church,pure, stubborn, unbending.

Bray opened his mouth to argue but stopped. A memory surfaced, sharp and sudden: Alexander's voice, calm and knowing.

"Sooner or later, Jamie had to grow."

The words echoed in his chest.

"Wait," Greg cut in, eyes twitching. "What's… Yellow Sun?"

He asked like he'd never heard the term.

Bray glanced at Jamie, silently asking permission.

"It's this overpowered special skill he got after he glitched," Bray explained, pride bleeding into his tone. "Makes him stupidly fast, strong. It's a big deal."

"You really think that'll help you against the Grid Lions?" Greg challenged, skepticism dripping from every syllable.

Before Jamie could answer, Greg's expression shifted, like a key turning in a lock.

"He'll probably play the Third Game tomorrow," he said suddenly.

Bray leaned in, eyes narrowing. "What are you suggesting?"

Ahhh.

Greg exhaled like a man sentencing himself. "You could… meet him there."

Regret clung to the words.

Jamie's eyes narrowed. An opening. A chance.

"Alright," he said, voice rising with resolve. "It's settled. Tomorrow, we will be at the Third Game."

Pride flickered in his chest. For the first time, he felt like he was steering his own fate.

"We'll have to be careful," Bray warned. "I've got a feeling getting him back won't be easy."

"Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I need to level up my special skills."

"You redeemed already?!" Greg and Jamie shouted in unison.

Beep. Beep.

Their system screens flared to life. And there it was, a scroll of devastating new abilities, each tagged with cooldowns, weaknesses, strengths, and the manner cost required to activate them:

[Face Warp > 8]

[Tornado Gun > 12]

[King's Fortress > 15]

[Deadman's Puppet > 13]

[Sand Garage > 20]

[Light Lantern > 18]

[Soul Weaver > 13]

And dozens more across hidden panels. The message was clear: the coming games wouldn't just be deadly, they'd be unforgiving.

Jamie scratched his head. This was the first time he'd opened the skill store without the words "Not yet" echoing in his core like a curse.

"I need a skill that covers Yellow Sun," he muttered, scrolling down the list.

"What'd you get?" he asked Bray, indecision swirling in his skull.

"It's a secret," Bray said effortlessly.

He turned his head to the kitchen, his eyes enlarged with the memory he had forgotten.

"The food." He rushed toward the kitchen.

Forcefully they followed with curiosity.

....

After a few minutes, clatter of cutlery and muffled chewing filled the room as they ate in quiet tension. Outside, the night deepened.

Tomorrow, the Third Game would begin.

And with it, their plan to bring Alexander home.