How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

His heart was full of anger, burning with bloodlust. The one who had wiped out his friends was only a few steps away. Something inside him clicked, shifting his focus, twisting his ideals. Words echoed endlessly through his mind.

"Kill her!"

"Kill her!"

Each repetition struck him like a hammer. His heartbeat thundered, heavy and erratic, like it was trying to break free from his chest. Confusion and fury tangled inside him, indecision spreading like poison through his veins.

"It's you," he muttered, his voice trembling with rage. The tone was more a threat than a statement. His whole body felt like a bomb on the verge of detonation, waiting for one more wrong word to ignite.

"I remember you… you're Jamie," she said, pausing briefly as if searching her memory. "You're attempting the third game alone. That's bold." Her tone was light, almost curious, her eyes glancing around with the careless wonder of a child.

She wasn't wrong. Jamie attempting to play a game alone wasn't something anyone expected. It wasn't like him.

His heart stood on a knife's edge as he watched her. Every word she spoke made the voice in his head louder, clearer. The voice that screamed for vengeance.

"I guess killing your friends made you bold," she added coldly, her tone void of emotion.

Jamie's restraint shattered.

"She's speaking about them," he thought, trembling, "like what she did was a good thing."

His mind filled with violent images. He saw himself killing her a thousand different ways—with his bare hands, with a blade, with anything that could make her feel even a fraction of what his friends did.

[Player identification complete.]

Her interruption cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

[Good luck on your Third Game.]

Her voice glitched, the words twisting unnaturally as her body stiffened. For a second, she froze, then her face flickered like a broken screen, and her voice flattened into an emotionless robotic tone.

Tsk.

Jamie looked at her with clenched teeth. The rage still boiled in him, but what use was there in being angry at something that didn't even look alive anymore? He exhaled slowly, forcing his feet forward, his heart still pounding as he stepped toward the light at the end of the corridor.

The brightness swallowed him whole.

Screams erupted from the stands. Heads turned. All eyes locked onto the newcomer who had just entered the arena—Jamie.

He looked transformed, sharper, colder. The crowd murmured, some pointing, others whispering or placing new bets. Some ignored him entirely, while others saw an opportunity in his sudden appearance.

From above, the massive screen reflected his image as he stepped onto the field. He looked like a different person from the boy who had first arrived in Midgard.

"He's in," Bray said nervously, gripping the railing tight. From their vantage point, Jamie looked small—too small for what he was about to face. Regret crept up Bray's spine like ice.

"Alexander's fate Is In his hands" Greg muttered, standing up abruptly. "I'm going to the bathroom. I don't want any interruptions when the fight starts."

He walked off before Bray could answer, his face unreadable.

Down in the middle of the stadium, Jamie stood still, scanning the field. His eyes darted from one side to another until he found them—the Grid Lions.

From a distance, many looked terrifying. Their markings glowed brighter than before, their weapons gleamed under the floodlights, and the air around them seemed to hum with power.

"There he is," Jamie whispered.

Alexander.

They stood together, the three of the Grid lions , composed and unbothered as if they hadn't heard the cheers that marked his arrival. They didn't even glance his way.

Jamie's steps grew quicker, sharper. He pushed forward, eyes locked on them, ignoring everyone else. Spectators turned their heads, whispering as he passed. Some frowned, some laughed, but he didn't care. Every step he took felt heavier, like he was walking into the heart of a storm.

Bray's heart pounded as he watched. The captain in the VIP section leaned forward. Everyone could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric.

Jamie stopped just a few feet away. He raised his hand slightly, his mouth opening to speak—to say something, anything that could start the confrontation he came for.

But before a single word could leave his mouth, the three walked right past him.

They didn't look at him. Not once. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed their faces. They moved calmly, like he was invisible, like he was nothing.

Jamie's hand froze midair. His heart stuttered.

"Wait… what?" he whispered.

The crowd murmured, confused.

"I thought they knew each other?" someone said.

"He wanted to make friends or something?" another laughed.

"I told you he doesn't look strong at all."

Laughter rippled through the stands, cruel and mocking.

Bray's eyes widened in disbelief. That wasn't what he expected. He thought Jamie would call out to them, maybe fight, maybe yell—but not this. Not silence.

And then he saw Jamie's face.

The pain in his expression was unmistakable. It wasn't confusion anymore. It was betrayal.

"Alexander," he whispered, his lips barely moving. His eyes followed them as they grew smaller in the distance. "Why did you do that?"

The anger that had cooled moments ago flared up again, stronger than before. His heart ached, but his blood boiled.

"I came here to help," he thought, his fists trembling. "So why did you shut me out?"

The laughter from the stands grew louder, feeding the fire in his chest. He stared down at his shaking hands, his vision trembling with rage.

[Attention, participants.]

Meddusaa's voice echoed across the arena, sharp and powerful, demanding silence.

[Today's third game will be a Battle Royale.]

The big screen flashed to life, showing animated footage of the battlefield—a vast, dense forest, dotted with glowing tiles.

[All players will drop solo into the forest. Three tiles have been installed in random locations. They will change every turn.]

[The Game ends after the first three dominations]

"Shit, it's solo," Bray muttered, his stomach twisting.

[To win, a player must dominate three out of five tiles. Each tile requires ten seconds to claim.]

The crowd roared, excitement breaking through the tension.

[Every dominated tiles location will be marked for nearby players. Only one rule exists—teaming up is strictly forbidden.]

The crowd exploded with cheers. The rule meant chaos, bloodshed, and carnage—the things they lived for.

[The game will begin once the last registered player arrives.]

All eyes turned toward the dark entrance at the far end of the arena.

Silence stretched. Then came the sound of footsteps, echoing rhythmically from the tunnel. Louder, closer, steady.

And when the figure emerged, the crowd gasped.

Long black hair. A broad, muscular frame. Familiar face.

It was Greg.

He had entered the solo games.