The Damned Demon

Amidst the vast expanse of Zalthor, the most powerful kingdom in the realm, Draconis Kingdom stood unyielding. 

At its heart, colossal walls reached for the skies, their surfaces etched with demonic runes that pulsated with an eerie glow.

The walls, seemingly alive, stood as both a defense and a warning, while the blood-red sky overhead, streaked with the occasional silhouette of roaring wyverns, furthered the kingdom's aura of dread.

The kingdom itself stretched beyond sight over charred plains and intimidating volcanic mountains, their peaks spewing fire and ash, painting the horizon with shades of rage and passion. 

The constant eruptions bathed the surroundings in an otherworldly glow, the dark silhouettes of draconic sculptures and towering spires casting long shadows on the ground.

And now, darkness settled over this expansive kingdom like a suffocating blanket. The usually bustling streets lay eerily deserted, the blood-red skies casting a haunting glow over them.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

"Prince Agonon is dead," they murmured, a statement more than a question.

It was news that slightly overshadowed the fact that the Deviar was taken home by the Bloodburn Kingdom and to make it worse, the royal consort of the very same kingdom was said to be the one who killed Agonon.

The heart of the kingdom, which once pulsed with power and brutality, now throbbed with palpable tension. 

Marketplaces, usually echoing with clamorous banter, were filled with hushed conversations and darting glances. Dread hung in the air, as thick as the ash that fell from the ever-erupting volcanoes in the distance.

Deep within the palace corridors, a vast, shadowy hall stood as the epicenter of the looming darkness.

Bathed in the faint glow of mana light, a menacing beauty sat in regal stillness. 

Her face was delicately sculpted, a harmonious blend of soft curves and regal sharpness. High cheekbones accentuated almond-shaped eyes. 

Her pale, soft skin was almost luminous, defying her true age, and she looked no older than someone in their early thirties.

Her attire was the embodiment of dark royalty—a cascading gown of deep red, adorned with shimmering sapphire embellishments that mirrored the vastness of the night sky. 

The fabric hugged her hourglass figure, accentuating her pronounced bust, while flowing outwards in a sea of silken threads.

Framing her face was a cascade of silvery-lavender hair, a shade so unique that it seemed as though the silver moonlight from the Severed Realm had mingled with the soft purples of twilight. 

It flowed down her back, reaching her waist in gentle waves, a silken curtain that shimmered with every movement.

While most of her face was as pale and delicate as porcelain, intricate scales of luminous, dark silver graced the sides, shimmering softly. 

Her fiery red eyes stared vacantly ahead, lost to the world.

Dominating her silhouette, her expansive wings lay half-folded, a blend of strength and beauty. 

They were soft yet hinted at a deadly edge, much like the woman herself. 

Behind her, a retinue of maids stood with bated breath. Each heartbeat echoed the anxiety that filled the room, a palpable tension only heightened by this woman's profound stillness.

Overcoming her fear, a young maid hesitated but finally ventured forward, her steps echoing ominously. The others exchanged fearful glances, silently pleading with her to reconsider. 

Even if she was new, did she forget that it was best to never approach Queen Consort Lysandra in her current state of mind?

But undeterred, the young maid took a deep breath, bowed low, and whispered, "Your Majesty, might you consider some rest? Sitting here any longer will only...make you feel worse."

Without shifting her focus, Lysandra's voice filled the hall, cold and detached, "Are you suggesting he will never return?"

Swallowing hard, the maid responded, her voice quivering, "It has been hours since the quest's conclusion, My Queen. I fear—"

*Slish!*

But she could utter no more. In a swift, fluid motion, Lysandra's wing sliced through the air before anyone could even register the movement in their eyes.

The sharp edge caught the light for just a moment before it met the maid's neck. 

As her head rolled away, the room plunged into a tense silence once more, with only the soft fluttering of Lysandra's wings folding on itself, echoing through the hall.

In the wake of the young maid's abrupt execution, the remaining maids exchanged horrified glances, their faces ashen. 

Bowing deeply, a gesture signifying both respect and fear, a few cautiously approached the lifeless body. 

They clasped her limbs with trembling hands and quickly dragged her away, ensuring no trace remained of what just happened.

Suddenly, the massive doors to the hall groaned open, immediately arresting everyone's attention. 

A tall man wearing dark red robes entered, a commanding presence that dwarfed even the vast hall. Every inch of him spoke of raw power and dominance. 

His face was chiseled, with sharp, aristocratic features. A pronounced jawline served as a foundation for lips that wore a cold expression.

Atop his head sat a thick mane of hair, pitch black, cascading down to the nape of his neck. Contrasting with the blackness of his hair, a beard traced his jaw, neatly trimmed but wild enough to befit his status. 

He looked to be in the prime of his life, perhaps equivalent to a human in their late thirties or early forties. Yet, his eyes told a different story. 

His scales were as dark as the blackest night, contrasting starkly with the piercing red of his eyes that seemed to glow with an inner fire. 

Expansive wings, akin to Lysandra's but of a richer, deeper hue, spread slightly from his back, each feather-like scale glistening.

The maids instinctively knew to leave upon the entrance of their King Drakar.

With a single sweeping gesture of his hand, a silent command, they retreated. The massive doors closed behind them, sealing the room in a heavy silence, leaving the King and Queen Consort alone.

Drakar moved to Lysandra's side, his steps resonating with authority. 

When he spoke, his voice was deep, yet a hint of softness touched his words, "That's enough, Lysandra," he began, his eyes softening ever so slightly, "I feel the same anger and pain you're drowning in, but this is not the way."

Without turning her head, Lysandra responded, her voice tinged with sorrow and bitterness, "How can you say that when you cherished him like your first-born?"

The mention of Agonon seemed to ignite a fire within Drakar. 

His fists clenched, his eyes ablaze, his voice seethed with controlled fury, "Because we cannot bring back Agonon. What we can do, and will do, is make the entire Bloodburn Kingdom lament and tremble for each drop of blood our son shed."

For the first time since the King entered, Lysandra shifted her gaze, her eyes meeting his. 

In a frigid tone, she spoke, "Fine. But you must promise me one thing: I want to bathe in the blood of their royal consort, Asher, after he experiences the pain of losing those he cherishes."

A cold smile played on Drakar's lips, the promise of vengeance evident in his tone, "We will do more than just that. The Bloodburn Kingdom will finally get what they deserve."

—

Back on Earth,

The world, still reeling from the aftermath of the Quest of the Worthy, was a cacophony of conflicting emotions. 

Everywhere anyone went, a bittersweet song seemed to echo in the atmosphere. 

Bright banners flew, reading, "Welcome Back, Heroes!" But amidst the revelry were black armbands and tear-streaked faces, grieving the irreplaceable losses the world had suffered.

On Earth's countless televisions and radios, the same news looped. 

Anchors with carefully neutral faces reported the events of the quest, while their eyes—sometimes glossy with unshed tears—betrayed their own turmoil.

"...it's truly a day of mixed emotions," a blonde anchor said on a popular international news channel, "While we celebrate the return of many of our brave Hunters, our hearts also break for those who didn't make it back. Particularly shocking is the loss of Victor Hart, an Elite Hunter who had managed to become an S Rank at such a young age," The anchor added with a slightly hesitant look, "Nobody could really confirm what happened to Victor, while some unverified sources claim to know the truth. Unfortunately, the Hart Family isn't open to comments as of this moment."

As the news channels jumped from one interview to another, the stories of heroics and unimaginable dangers kept audiences glued. 

Many of the returning Hunters, still wearing their armor and cloaks, talked about the monsters and demons they defeated and the riches they secured.

But it wasn't just the Hunters themselves who were interviewed. Families and friends, overcome with joy or grief, shared their personal stories. 

One elderly woman, tears streaming down her face, held up a picture of her grandson who hadn't returned, "He was so proud... so eager... he wanted to make a difference. I can only hope he killed enough demons to make a difference."

Yet, the Sterling Family remained an enigma. Their mansion, a grand structure of white stone and intricate ironwork, had become the epicenter of the media's frenzy. 

Vans with bold media logos, reporters with microphones, and photojournalists with massive cameras camped outside the wrought-iron gates, hoping for a glimpse or a statement.

"Rachel Sterling was with Victor," a reporter with thick glasses commented to his colleague, "If anyone knows what really happened to him, it would be her."

A younger reporter, holding her microphone close, replied, "It's the biggest mystery of this quest. But the Sterlings have been strangely quiet for hours. I doubt they'd spill now. Even if they did, it must be sugar-coated stuff."

"I know right. I have a friend who is friends with a C Ranker who claims that Victor is a corrup-"

"Shush! Are you out of your mind? Better seal your lips before any of the Elites learn that you opened your mouth to spout nonsense. Freedom of speech always has its consequences, especially when you got no proof of what you were about to say."

"Why are you getting heated up? I was only going to say what I heard. Whatever it is, we may know soon what really happened."

As the hours passed, rumors multiplied. Controversial whispers of Victor's end began to spread. Each story, more controversial than the last.

But suddenly, within an hour, these whispers seemed to get quashed and were overwhelmed with reports and rumors of Victor dying valiantly against a demon, making people feel puzzled, wondering which was really the truth.

An influencer, streaming live on her platform, said, "Some say Victor Hart wasn't the Elite Hunter we knew but a demon in human's clothing who committed various atrocities. Others believe he heroically died while fighting a demon, and now his enemies are creating slanderous rumors to ruin his image even after his death. But we won't know until Rachel Sterling or anyone from her team speaks out."

The camera then zoomed in on the mansion's balcony. Curtains fluttered, and for a brief second, a silhouette was visible. Was it Rachel? The world waited with bated breath, hoping for answers, yearning for the truth behind the tragedy of their fallen Elite Hunter, Victor Hart.