How to Make the Perfect Demon Lord

Alexander rushed at the Russian man, feet forward, target locked.

With him came the two clones.

"Aaah!"

Pow!

A dropkick connected—right to the man's chest. The Russian staggered back, teeth gritted, every muscle in his legs and arms straining as he fought to stay upright. Somehow, he managed. He didn't fall.

Pop! Pow!

He fired twice, trying to force some distance between them.

Blood splattered—one of the bullets had torn through a clone's arm.

Alexander didn't hesitate. He dashed forward again, fast and fierce like a cheetah lunging for its prey. He shifted angles, perfectly synchronized with his copies. It was a deadly coordination—one that made sense. A trio of Alexanders was something to fear.

One came from the right, another from the left, while the real Alexander attacked straight from the center. They switched positions with each strike, a seamless triangle formation—like strikers weaving through defenders in a football game.

With the real Alexander commanding the middle and the clones flanking him, the Russian man was overwhelmed. His earlier attempt to create distance had backfired, revealing a glaring weakness—he wasn't comfortable in close-quarters combat.

Alexander smirked.

He had found the crack in the man's armor—something he'd always excelled at since arriving in Midgard.

Shack!

The clone on the right stabbed, hitting the exact same arm that he shot the clone earlier.

An eye for an eye.

"AAAH!" the man screamed in agony, clutching the wounded limb as if his touch could mend it.

Thud!

Alexander and his doubles slid behind him, bodies low, their movements silent and precise—true assassins.

The fight had taken a darker turn. Their Grace period was over. The dangerous phase had begun. Someone out there might already be dominating a tile, defending it until the timer ran out.

That thought stung Alexander more than anything.

Shack! Shack! Shack!

They struck again, all three blades driving into flesh.

Their target was turned away—no need for distraction now.

The sound of metal cutting through skin filled the air, slicing in straight, cruel lines as if he were parchment.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Fuck!" the man screamed again, louder this time. He jerked his right leg back as if he'd stepped on a nail.

The Alexanders withdrew their blades, jumping back with smooth precision.

The Russian man turned around, face contorted in agony. His fingers trembled; his eyes twitched. The red was draining from his body—he was losing blood fast.

"What's wrong with you?!" he spat, his tone a mix of fury and disbelief.

He looked down at himself like someone examining a ruined outfit—only his new marks were deep, crimson wounds. Four of them.

He glared at Alexander—the cause of his torment. But Alexander didn't flinch. His expression was dark, eyes filled with quiet, murderous intent.

Spit.

The man activated his system screen.

[Activate Special Skill > UNION]

BOOM!

An explosion tore through the forest.

A violent wave of dust, heat, and debris surged outward.

The blast dug a crater in the earth, trees toppled, leaves scattered in the storm.

The clones disintegrated instantly, ripped apart by the shockwave. Alexander was hurled backward, slammed spine-first into a tree.

Thud!

He hit the ground hard, breath stolen. The explosion had caught him off guard.

As his vision cleared, he turned toward the Russian man—and froze.

The man's body had transformed into something monstrous, something out of a nightmare.

His head was gone—replaced by an assault rifle. An AK-47 gleamed where his skull should have been, its polished wood shining ominously in the scattered light. There were no eyes, no nose—only a hollow void where the mouth used to be.

Both arms had merged into rifles as well, veins pulsing and snaking into the metallic barrels, fusing man and weapon into one grotesque being.

The silence that followed was heavy. Then—

"Much better," the creature said, his voice strained yet relieved.

The gun that served as his head shifted slightly, almost like he was stretching his neck.

He began stepping toward Alexander—slow, deliberate, each footfall heavy with menace.

"Let's see how you handle this one," he muttered, bloodlust thick in his tone.

...

The forest still trembled. So did Jamie's body—and the man he fought.

Jamie had used what he thought would be the finishing move, a skill meant to silence his opponent and claim the golden point. But underestimating one's enemy—he was learning—was a deadly mistake.

"I'm sorry for what I'm about to do to you," Jamie muttered, pressing his heel into the dirt, ready to spring.

Out of options, the man reached for his ring.

Beep!

[Activated Special Skill > SONIC DASH]

Suddenly, his legs began to glow, radiant like twin bulbs in the night. His eyes darted through the forest, searching desperately for a way out of the trap he'd fallen into.

"There!" he hissed.

An opening between the trees—spaced just enough for high-speed movement. And at the end of the path, he saw an elf. A female elf, wearing a Grid Lions uniform and carrying a large bottle on her back. Her eyes were sharp, focused—she was heading toward a tiled zone.

"She must be going to the zone," he realized.

Vroom!

He bolted through the trees, vanishing into a trail of dust. The forest quaked in his wake. He didn't look back—didn't dare. But when he did glance over his shoulder, Jamie was standing still, motionless, like time had frozen around him.

Maybe his eyes hadn't caught up yet. Maybe he hadn't realized he'd already moved.

When he turned forward again—

Jamie was there.

Standing right in front of him.

Unmoving.

As if he'd never even shifted position.

"Wait… how?" the man gasped, legs bracing, momentum pushing him forward.

Stopping was impossible. Turning was his only option.

Thud!

He twisted his right leg, redirecting his motion like a skilled striker mid-game.

Vroom!

He shot to his right, no time to check if Jamie followed.

Then—

Peewee!

A red light flashed in his vision—thin, coiling like a thread of energy. At its end stood Jamie again, hand lifted, the crimson current dancing across his arm like serpents in water.

His mouth moved. The last word the man would ever hear:

"Die."

Peeewww!

Suddenly

Bloom!

A massive beam of magic erupted from another direction, scorching the air.

It swallowed both Jamie and his foe in a single devastating blast. The explosion tore through trees, carving a wide ridge into the ground.

"Shit!"

"What's going on?!" one of the watchers shouted.

The blast wasn't normal. Not natural.

Someone had fired it—but it wasn't any of the players.