Malgorath, Scourge of a Thousand Suns, Slayer of Empires, and Supreme Herald of Night Eternal, adjusted his too-tight collar as he stepped through the wide stone doors of the Demon Lord Bureau.
He had expected trumpets.
He had expected fire.
At the very least, he had expected an honor guard of chained souls howling praise to his name.
Instead, the air smelled faintly of ink and burnt coffee.
The reception hall was not a throne room but a square lobby lined with filing cabinets and poorly cleaned enchanted crystal panels. The receptionist—a tired-looking succubus in horn-rimmed glasses—didn't even look up from her stack of parchment forms.
Malgorath paused dramatically, one clawed hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial sword (it was mostly decorative; the ruby embedded in it was fake, but that was a secret between him and the pawn shop demon). He cleared his throat in what he believed was a commanding timbre.
"I have arrived," he intoned.
The succubus scribbled something on a clipboard and shoved it toward him without meeting his eyes. "Sign here. Name, designation, demon class, and any known allergies."
Malgorath blinked.
Allergies?
This was not the reception the last heir of the Abyssal Flame deserved.
He signed anyway, trying to make his signature extra spiky and ominous. It came out looking vaguely like a hedgehog being electrocuted. He slid the parchment back.
"Cubicle 7G," the receptionist said, still not looking up. "Third basalt hallway, take a left at the suffering fountain. Orientation starts in fifteen. Don't be late. And don't drink from the motivational chalice."
Malgorath swirled his cloak—well, cape, really, it was rented—and stalked off.
Cubicle 7G was not a lair. It was not even a crypt. It was a modest office room filled with rune-glowing desks and overworked demons typing on floating sigilboards. The air buzzed with the dull hum of bureaucratic malaise. Somewhere, someone was sobbing into a ledger.
Malgorath tried not to wrinkle his nose.
A grizzled imp in a too-tight blazer beckoned him to an underlit corner desk. "Demon Lord Malgorath? You're the last one for today."
"I prefer 'His Eternal Malice,' but yes."
The imp did not laugh.
Instead, he handed Malgorath a tome the size of a coffin labeled: Dungeon Management Brief, 67th Edition: Compliance, Blood, and Budgeting.
Malgorath staggered slightly under its weight.
"You'll want to read that cover to cover," the imp droned. "Pages 38 through 944 outline your responsibilities in hero-harvesting quotas, biome zoning, and inter-dungeon ethics."
"Surely I, Malgorath the Doombringer, require no manual!" Malgorath declared, flipping the book open. His eyes hit the first line: Section 1A: Legal Definitions of 'Hero' by Regional Jurisdiction.
His confidence withered like a cursed turnip.
"I see," he said quickly. "Of course. A mere formality. I shall memorize every word before nightfall." He began frantically jotting notes on the back of his summoning hand.
The imp slid over a sealed scroll. "This contains your assignment. Your personal dungeon sphere has already been conjured and awaits your management. You'll begin at Dungeon Rank D-minus. That's... standard for new graduates."
"D-minus?"
"It's the highest of the lowest ranks," the imp offered helpfully.
Before Malgorath could launch into a speech about noble bloodlines and destined greatness, the imp raised a gnarled finger. "And your assistant."
From behind a pillar, a green blur scampered forward.
He was tiny, barely four feet tall with oversized ears, patchy armor made of mismatched leather scraps, and the expression of someone who had just been given a birthday cake and told it was all his.
"I am Splurg!" he squeaked, saluting so hard he smacked himself in the forehead.
Malgorath stared.
Splurg beamed.
"I'm your administrative underling, cleaning goblin, trap technician second-class, and official morale officer! I passed my loyalty aptitude with full marks! Look, I made you a banner!"
He proudly held up a piece of fabric. It was mostly glitter glue and misspelled runes, but it did read "MALGORATH 4EVER" in shaky block letters.
Malgorath felt... something.
He wasn't sure if it was pride or indigestion.
"Your dungeon will start with one floor," the imp continued. "The System Interface will guide you. It's calibrated to your blood signature. You'll accumulate Dungeon Points—DP—by successfully harvesting hero energy through trauma, death, and despair. Try not to kill all the heroes. Recurring visitors are good for reputation."
Malgorath blinked. "I'm supposed to let some live?"
"Exactly. Balance is key."
This seemed suspiciously like restraint, a word Malgorath disliked on principle.
The imp ignored his scowl and pointed to a floating crystal hovering near the desk. With a flick of his claw, it pulsed and unfolded into a shimmering blue System Screen. It displayed:
[Demon Lord: MALGORATH]
Level: 1
Dungeon Points: 0
Floor Count: 1
Theme: Undecided
Malgorath attempted to gesture commandingly at the screen.
It spun sideways and opened a settings menu.
Splurg clapped. "You did it, Master! You're a natural!"
"Yes... of course," Malgorath muttered, trying not to let his smug grin look accidental. "It obeys my will."
He waved again. The screen blinked and popped open a tooltip: "Would you like to enable tutorial mode?"
Malgorath stabbed a clawed finger at NO.
The screen paused. Then blinked again: "Tutorial mode enabled."
"I SAID NO!"
Splurg helpfully tilted his head. "Maybe the crystal is nervous, Master. Try encouraging it?"
Malgorath glared at the screen until it reverted to the default view.
"Very well," he said grandly. "Our destiny awaits."
Splurg practically vibrated with joy. "Are we going to raise a Skeletal Empire, Master? With bone dragons and haunted lutes?"
"Yes! No. Wait. Haunted lutes?"
"For ambiance!"
"...We'll workshop it."
They left the Bureau shortly after. The front desk handed Malgorath a ceremonial sash (one-size-fits-none), a welcome pamphlet titled "So You're a Demon Lord Now!", and a box of complimentary dungeon starter runes.
Outside, the sky was red. It was always red. But Malgorath tilted his head up with pride.
His dungeon awaited.
He, Malgorath the Infinite, would carve his name into legend. Heroes would tremble. Minions would chant. The world would quake beneath his boots!
Splurg tripped on the welcome mat and fell flat on his face.
Malgorath offered a claw.
The goblin took it with stars in his eyes.
"Thank you, Master! I won't disappoint you!"
"No," Malgorath said, voice full of terrible certainty. "You won't. For together, we shall birth a dungeon so fearsome, so cunningly crafted, it shall echo through the ages like a cursed ballad played on haunted lutes!"
Splurg sniffled with joy.
Malgorath straightened his shoulders. His cape flapped in a breeze conjured purely by his own imagination.
Let the world watch.
Let the Bureau scoff.
He was Malgorath.
And he had a dungeon to build.