How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

They couldn't believe their eyes. He had left with Greg looking like any ordinary man, but now he was different. Transformed.

He no longer wore his glasses. In their place were sleek, blue-colored eye-lays that glowed faintly under the stadium lights. His black suit shimmered like liquid shadow, matching the style of the Grid Lions' elite. Across his chest were golden cords, braided and looped with intricate precision. Like his uncle, he wore golden knuckles—three chains extending from them, connecting to his suit's lapel with a metallic gleam. His hair was perfectly groomed, bright and lustrous, evidence of the priceless oils and powders used on it.

Next to him stood the other Grid Lion recruits. Pascal was at his right—still wearing his glasses, their lenses glinting with a cold reflection. A silver earring shone beneath his ear, catching the morning sun. Instead of a full suit, he wore a dark Wiscot coat and matching trousers, blending sophistication with quiet menace. He looked composed, too composed for someone who was given a deadly mission that would mean treason.

...

Earlier

"I have a special job for you," said a voice from the shadows.

Pascal stopped mid-step. The corridor was dim, narrow, and smelled faintly of burning wax. From behind him, the captain's counselor emerged, a short, fat elf with a cunning smile twisting his lips.

"What may that be?" Pascal asked, his tone as calm as ever.

"There's someone I want you to kill for me," the elf said proudly, almost boastful, as if he were offering a gift.

Pascal's eyes narrowed, a quiet flicker of suspicion flashing within. Why would a new recruit be given such a task?

"Just give me his Identity," he replied, voice steady, "and I'll handle the rest."

The fat elf's grin widened, satisfaction oozing from his face.

"Don't worry," he murmured. "He's not easy to miss."

...

Across the arena grounds, Sandra stood out among the ranks. The large, strange bottle still clung to her back like a loyal companion. She wore a black robe with golden highlights and tight dark jeans beneath it. Her face was calm, radiant, refined in the way only elves could be, utterly unaware of the scheming Pascal was already part of.

Together, the three, Greg, Pascal, and Sandra, stood tall, their auras shimmering faintly, each representing the pride and power of the strongest clan of them all.

On the vast platform ahead, players gathered. Some were newcomers, trembling with excitement or fear. Others were veterans, eyes sharp, their presence heavy with experience. Every gaze was drawn toward the top five clans, especially the White Jaguars, whose two veteran players stood like giants among men.

One was slim, medium height, with two black lines tattooed across his nose, symbols whose meaning only he knew. The other had chains running across his body, drilled and attached into his flesh, rattling slightly with every breath he took.

"I have to talk to him!" Jamie blurted, panic rising as he stood from his seat, ignoring the whispers of the crowd.

"You can't," Greg warned. "There's no way to reach him unless you enter the ground."

"Then I'm going in," Jamie said firmly, his voice unwavering.

He was calm, confident, his new upgrades from Yellow Sun combined with his personal stats made him stronger than most.

"That means you'll have to play the third game!" Bray called out, concern dripping from every word.

"I know," Jamie said, already walking away. "After all we've been through, it's the least I can do for him."

"Are you even listening?!" Bray shouted, frustration cracking his voice.

Jamie didn't turn. He only raised a hand in a lazy wave, disappearing into the corridors below.

"What a shitty way to grow up," Bray muttered, anger flaring in his chest. Alexander had warned him Jamie would mature through hardship, but he hadn't expected it to mean running into suicide missions.

His thoughts were interrupted by Greg's quiet voice.

"You know that this might help Alexander, right?"

"What do you mean?" Bray asked.

"Getting pummeled might be the only way to shake Alexander back to his senses," Greg said, his hands tightening.

Bray exhaled slowly. "I hope you're right."

Jamie now walked through a narrow passage deep beneath the stadium. The air was still, the sound of cheering far above fading into distant echoes. Most participants had already gone inside; a few lingered, stretching or whispering to themselves. These games were more than entertainment; they were opportunities. For some, a chance to prove themselves. For others, to be noticed by a clan that could change their fate.

He searched for the registration station the map-giver had mentioned, but before he could find it, something found him.

[Welcome, Player.]

The voice was mechanical and sudden, echoing from the ceiling. A white robot descended, its joints clicking as it lowered itself. Its arms were half-exposed, raw metal visible beneath the polished casing.

Jamie frowned. "What are you?"

[I am Model XM4, a temporary secretary for the System in Charge.]

"I want to participate."

[You are registering for the third game? Mmh… you don't quite look like it.]

The robot's eyes flared blue, holographic lines sweeping up and down Jamie's body.

Beep.

Ding.

Lights flickered in several colors before the machine spoke again.

[Player attributes too high. Not fit for the third game.]

Jamie froze. He hadn't expected that. A strange pride welled up inside him, his training had worked, perhaps too well.

" I am supposed to play the third game. Scan again!"

[Second Identification Protocol: Initiated.]

The blue lines scanned him again, slower this time.

Beep.

Ding.

[Player attributes too high. Not fit for the third game.]

Jamie clenched his fists. His own strength had become the barrier keeping him from reaching his friend. His mind churned, running through options, possible loopholes, anything.

Then,

"Sorry for his bad behavior, human," a voice said.

"He's used to hosting tea parties."

Jamie froze. That voice. It was like a needle through his thoughts, stirring memories he'd buried deep. He turned slowly, and there she was.

The System's girl.

The one from Midgard.

The one who had killed the girls.

And now she stood before him once again.