The toast didn't stand a chance.
Marcus sat at the long obsidian dining table in the Royal Suite, staring down at the mangled remains of his breakfast. He had simply attempted to butter a slice of sourdough. Instead, his new left hand—the Claw of the Void—had applied a fraction too much pressure.
The result was less "buttered toast" and more "wheat confetti."
"That is the third slice," Mammon whimpered from the far end of the table. The Duke of Greed was meticulously collecting crumbs with a silver tweezer. "Do you know how hard it is to import yeast into the Ashlands? The skeletons have to smuggle it in their ribcages! We are eating contraband, Commander!"
"I'm barely touching it," Marcus grumbled, flexing his obsidian fingers. The chitinous plates clicked softly, a sound like beetles skittering on glass. "The tactile feedback is... aggressive. It doesn't understand 'gentle.' It only understands 'crush' and 'tear'."
"You have the grip strength of a hydraulic press," Elena said, not looking up from her morning newspaper, The Daily Doom. She was sipping coffee from a mug that bore the hand-painted slogan World's #1 Demon Lord. "Stop fighting the arm, Marcus. You're trying to move it like a human limb, using muscles you no longer have. It is liquid intent solidified. Don't push; just will."
Marcus sighed, looking at the butter knife, which was now bent into a perfect U-shape.
He closed his eyes. He stopped thinking about tendons and nerve impulses. He thought about the Void—that cold, quiet ocean inside him. He imagined the arm not as a tool attached to his shoulder, but as a shadow extending from his mind.
He picked up a fourth slice of toast.
Soft, he commanded silently.
He picked up the knife.
Fluid.
He spread the butter. The obsidian claws moved with the delicate precision of a surgeon, barely grazing the bread.
"Better," Elena noted, turning a page. "Though you still look terrifying doing it. You butter toast like you're dissecting a soul."
"I look like a villain," Marcus muttered, catching his reflection in the silver serving platter. The vertical scar on his forehead was silver and faint, but the arm... the arm was a monstrosity of black armor and violet veins. "How am I supposed to explain this to the Visitor? 'Sorry about the demon limb, I had a bad reaction to some spicy wings.'
Elena finally lowered the paper. Her expression darkened, the humor vanishing instantly.
"You won't have to explain it," she said. "Because to her, you are a victim. A poor, tragic soul corrupted by the wicked Witch of the West."
She slid a dossier across the polished table.
Marcus picked it up—carefully. Inside was a magical portrait of a woman who seemed to be made entirely of light and judgment. She was blindingly blonde, dressed in white robes that looked expensive enough to feed a small kingdom, holding a staff topped with a golden sunburst.
"Saintess Aurelia," Marcus read the name. "The 'Voice of the Goddess'."
"Also known as 'The Golden Headache'," Elena added, her lip curling. "She is the High Priestess of the Western Sect. Valerius sent her because she specializes in 'Purification and Exorcism'. She isn't coming to kill you, Marcus. She's coming to 'save' you."
"Save me?"
"By peeling the corruption off your soul like dead skin," Elena said, her voice dripping with venom. "It's a procedure that usually leaves the patient lobotomized, but technically 'pure' and ready for burial."
Marcus looked at his black hand. He clenched it into a fist. The violet mana pulsed between the plates.
"She can try," he said.
"No," Elena stood up, walking over to the balcony. "That is exactly what she wants. If you fight her, you prove you are a monster. You validate the Crusade. The entire Human Realm will unite to destroy us."
She gestured for him to join her.
Marcus walked to the balcony. The view from the Royal Suite overlooked the desolate grey plains of the Ashlands.
But today, the grey was broken by a speck of obnoxious, blinding white.
Far in the distance, a carriage was approaching. It was an absurdity of engineering—white wood, gold leaf trim, pulled by six pegasi that looked absolutely miserable to be breathing the smoggy air of the demon realm. A small battalion of Holy Knights rode alongside it, their pristine banners snapping in the wind.
"We can't fight her," Elena explained. "This is a diplomatic envoy. Under the Ancient Accords, I have to grant her audience."
"So what do we do?" Marcus asked. "Invite her for tea and hope she chokes on a scone?"
"Exactly," Elena grinned. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a cat watching a mouse walk into a trap. "We play the game, Marcus. She expects to find a mind-controlled slave and a tyrannical Queen. She expects a damsel in distress scenario, with you as the damsel."
Elena turned to him, her fingers tracing the lapel of his shirt.
"So let's give her a show. You will be the tragic, silent prisoner. Broken. Hopeless. And I..." She flipped her hair, her posture shifting from casual to imperious. "...I will be the seductive nightmare she reads about in her little holy books."
"You want me to act?" Marcus raised an eyebrow.
"I want you to be the bait," Elena whispered. "She will try to get close to you. She will lower her mental shields to try and 'cure' you. And when she opens her guard to perform her little miracle..."
"We corrupt her," Marcus finished the thought.
"We diagnose her," Elena corrected. "I have a feeling the Saintess has some repressed darkness of her own. Nobody wears that much white unless they are hiding a stain."
The Castle GatesOne Hour Later.
The arrival of Saintess Aurelia was not subtle.
The carriage stopped before the massive iron gates. A herald blew a trumpet that sounded thin and reedy compared to the deep, bone-shaking resonance of the Gabriel Horn.
"Open in the name of the Goddess!" the herald squeaked.
The gates groaned open, urged by the skeletal guards.
The carriage rolled into the courtyard, the wheels crushing the scorched stones where the Seraphim had died just days ago. The Pegasi snorted nervously, their eyes rolling white as they smelled the lingering scent of dead angel and burnt ozone.
The door of the carriage opened. A red carpet unrolled itself magically, covering the dust.
Saintess Aurelia stepped out.
She was radiant. Literally. She had a passive illumination spell cast on her skin, making her glow with a soft, ethereal light that made looking directly at her mildly irritating. Her expression was one of practiced, sorrowful benevolence.
She looked around the gloomy courtyard, wrinkling her nose at the sight of a skeleton guard casually scratching its ribcage.
Then, she looked up at the main staircase.
Elena stood at the top. She was wearing a gown of deep crimson velvet, cut dangerously low, with a slit that went up to her hip. She sat on a throne that had been dragged out for the occasion, swirling a glass of dark red wine.
Marcus stood beside her. He was shirtless, wearing only loose black trousers. His demon arm was on full display, a jagged scar of darkness against his pale skin. Around his neck, he wore a heavy iron collar—a prop from the dungeon—attached by a thick chain to Elena's delicate wrist.
It was a theater. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
Aurelia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Oh, brave Hero..." she whispered, her voice amplified by magic so the whole courtyard could hear. "Look at what she has done to you."
Elena laughed. She yanked the chain, forcing Marcus to stumble slightly closer to her. She ran her hand down his chest, lingering over the black veins.
"Welcome, little Saint," Elena purred. "You are trespassing. State your business before I feed you to my pet."
Aurelia straightened her spine. She tapped her staff on the ground, dispelling a puff of demonic dust.
"I am here to negotiate the release of Hero Marcus!" Aurelia declared, her eyes burning with righteous fury. "The Church offers a ransom. Gold. Relics. Land. Name your price, Witch!"
Elena looked bored. She took a sip of wine, leaving a red stain on her lips.
"He is not for sale," Elena drawled. "He is... entertaining."
She glanced at Marcus.
Marcus stared down at the Saintess. He kept his face blank, his eyes dead. But inside, through the Soul Bond, he projected a thought to Elena.
She's using a Truth Detection aura. Be careful.
I know, Elena replied mentally, her amusement echoing in his skull. Watch this.
"However," Elena continued, standing up slowly, the chain rattling in her hand. "I am a reasonable Queen. If you think you can 'save' him..."
She gestured to the open doors of the castle, which yawned like the mouth of a beast.
"Be my guest. Stay in my castle. Try your prayers. Try your potions. See if your light can reach him here."
Elena walked down the stairs, the chain dragging on the stone. She stopped inches from the Saintess, towering over her in heels.
"But be warned, Aurelia," Elena whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "The Ashlands have a way of staining white robes. Once you enter... You might find that you enjoy the dark."
Aurelia glared at the Demon Queen. The air between them crackled—Holy Light clashing with Void Mana in a shower of invisible sparks.
"I am protected by the Light," Aurelia stated, though her voice wavered slightly. "I do not fear the dark."
"Good," Marcus spoke for the first time. His voice was a rasp, distorted by the metal collar pressing against his larynx.
He looked directly at Aurelia. His third eye twitched behind his bangs.
"Because the dark," Marcus grinned, letting a flash of violet hunger show in his eyes, "is very hungry."
Aurelia flinched, taking a half-step back.
Elena yanked the chain hard. "Come, Pet. We have a guest to entertain."
She turned and walked back up the stairs, dragging Marcus with her.
As they entered the shadows of the Great Hall, out of sight of the Saintess and her knights, Marcus reached up to adjust the collar.
"You pulled a little hard there," he whispered. "And the collar is a bit much, don't you think?"
"Hush," Elena smirked, patting his demon arm affectionately. "You look rugged. Besides, I saw her checking out your abs. Phase one is complete."
"What's Phase two?"
"Dinner," Elena said, her eyes gleaming. "And I'm going to serve something she can't digest."