The Demon King's eyelids, heavy as obsidian slabs, snapped open. Her pupils, pinpricks of malevolent light, adjusted to the dim, oppressive atmosphere of the mountain's heart. Her body, small and deceptively fragile, lay sprawled atop a frigid, stone altar, the very cradle of her unholy birth. This was the place where the cult, their minds warped by forbidden knowledge, had torn a rift in reality and dragged her into existence.

  Her genesis was a crude parody of creation. Summoned as a weapon of annihilation, she had, with chilling efficiency, turned upon her creators, their screams echoing through the cavernous depths before she embarked on her millennia-long crusade of destruction. A path paved with shattered civilizations and the ashes of countless lives.

  For eons, a single, relentless directive had pulsed within her: obliteration. It was the only constant, the sole purpose that defined her existence. But recently, a subtle dissonance had begun to resonate within the symphony of carnage. After countless cycles of razing cities and extinguishing hope, a shift, imperceptible yet profound, had occurred. The familiar, bloodthirsty impulses remained, a dark undercurrent in her being, but now, a new, unsettling element had infiltrated her thoughts: a question.

  A thick, oily miasma, the physical manifestation of her demonic essence, seeped from the altar's cracks, tendrils of darkness coiling around her limbs, a chilling embrace. As the miasma coalesced, a fragmented memory surfaced: the Vampire. Her eyes, pools of vibrant scarlet, had burned into the Demon King's soul, leaving an indelible mark.

  She was an anomaly, a being radiating power so potent it was almost palpable. Even though their confrontation had been brief, a mere exchange of words, the Demon King recognized the raw, untamed energy that pulsed within her. Bathilda was a beacon of concentrated mana, a kaleidoscope of vibrant energies that shimmered and pulsed, visible even from vast distances. She was a force of nature, a volatile tempest poised to unleash its fury.

  In her long, bloody reign, the Demon King had encountered countless powerful beings, but none like Bathilda. This vampire spoke of concepts alien to her: right and wrong, family, empathy. She addressed the Demon King not as a monstrous entity, but as a misguided child, her tone a blend of admonishment and weary compassion.

  The Demon King's child-like form, a stark contrast to her immense power, seemed to invite this condescension. Yet, surely, Bathilda could sense the terrifying magnitude of her power? Was it possible she simply didn't care?

  For the first time since her awakening, a seed of doubt began to sprout in the barren wasteland of her mind. "Do I have to destroy everything?" The question hung in the air, a fragile whisper against the roar of her ingrained instincts.

  The miasma, now fully enveloping her, pulsed with an unseen energy. A voice, ancient and resonant, yet strangely familiar, echoed within her mind, a soothing, insidious whisper. "All is as it must be. Everything is right."

  A bracelet, formed from the same viscous, black gas, materialized around her wrist. Runes, glowing with an infernal light, etched themselves into the delicate skin of her arms, crawling like venomous insects. The Demon King screamed, a raw, primal sound that reverberated through the mountain's core. The pain was not localized, but all-encompassing, a searing agony that consumed her very being.

  She tumbled from the altar, her small body writhing on the cold stone floor, a chaotic dance of torment. Fragments of independent thought, the first glimmers of genuine volition, flickered within her mind, fragile sparks in a raging inferno. "Why? Is what I've been doing wrong?"

  Before she could grasp the fleeting thoughts, another wave of searing pain crashed over her, extinguishing the nascent sparks of rebellion. Her screams intensified, reaching a crescendo of pure, unadulterated agony, until her lungs emptied and she collapsed, her body convulsing violently.

  The twitching subsided, and her eyes, once vibrant with malevolent energy, dulled to a vacant, lifeless stare. Then, with a sudden, unsettling stillness, she rose, her movements stiff and mechanical. She staggered towards the exit of the ancient temple, her mind a blank slate, her purpose re-written by the insidious influence that had seized control.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The Demon King dissolved into a swirling vortex of black smoke, leaving behind only the cold, silent dust of the altar, and the echoes of her tormented screams. The question that had dared to blossom in her mind was ruthlessly crushed, replaced by the unwavering, unyielding mandate of destruction.

  The air in Bathilda's cabin hung thick with a tension that could have been sliced with one of her meticulously sharp nails. "How did it come to this?" she murmured, the phrase a weary sigh escaping her lips. The recent renovations, carefully created with her own magic, seemed to mock her with their pristine surfaces, a stark contrast to the chaotic tableau unfolding before her.

  On her left, Hiro simmered, a pressure cooker of barely contained rage. His usually pale complexion was flushed a furious crimson, the veins in his neck pulsing visibly. The source of his ire, a broken dream of rare vintage wine, a gift from Bathilda herself, lay shattered on the floor, its crimson stain spreading like a malevolent bloom. His purple eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now burned with an almost feral intensity, fixated on the diminutive figure across from him.

  That figure, the Demon King, was a study in unsettling normalcy. Her small, childlike form, clad in what appeared to be tattered remnants of royal finery, gave no indication of the power she wielded. No visible sign of her recent decapitation remained or the violence she had endured. Her dark eyes, an aura of terrifying power, held a disconcerting mix of confusion and frustration.

  "She just... popped over," Bathilda whispered to herself, the absurdity of the situation echoing in the quiet cabin. "Like it's a casual visit. 'Oh, hello, I'm the Demon King, just here for a chat and a spot of destruction.' As if it's the most normal thing in the world."

  The truth was, the Demon King's obsession with Bathilda, the silk-haired progenitor, was becoming increasingly perplexing. She seemed drawn to her, a moth to a flickering flame, yet every attempt to approach her was met with Hiro's unwavering, almost violent, defense. He was a sentinel, a wall of pure, unadulterated possessiveness, and she could not pass.

  "So..." Bathilda began, her voice a careful balance of diplomacy and exasperation. "What do you want? I'm not really in the mood for another round of… renovations. Especially after I just finished cleaning." She gestured vaguely to the spotless cabin, a testament to her meticulous nature.

  The Demon King opened her mouth, a torrent of dark pronouncements poised to spill forth, but Bathilda cut her off. "No! Stop that right now. Stop it." The sheer force of Bathilda's command, a blend of ancient power and weary authority, silenced the child instantly.

  "Why are you here?" Bathilda asked, her voice softening slightly. The question seemed to catch the Demon King off guard, her small brow furrowing in concentration. A battle raged within her, a conflict between her ingrained instinct for destruction and a nascent, unfamiliar desire.

  "H-Help?" she finally stammered, the word a fragile whisper in the tense silence.

  "Help?" Bathilda echoed, her eyes widening in surprise. The Demon King, the embodiment of chaos and destruction, was asking for help? It was a paradox, a contradiction that defied all logic. Yet, Bathilda's inherent nature, her unwavering commitment to aiding those in need, regardless of their nature, kicked in.

  "How exactly can I help you?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

  The Demon King’s face crumpled in frustration. "D-Destruction and D-Death. A-All who gaze upon me..." she began, then trailed off, her head hanging in dejection. The words, once a declaration of power, now sounded like a mournful lament.

  Bathilda frowned, trying to decipher the child’s garbled message. "You want me to help you destroy the world?" she asked, her voice laced with incredulity. "That's not exactly my forte, you know? I'm more of a 'friendly neighborhood vampire' type. Healing, helping, tea parties, the whole shebang. I'm not interested in world domination, just… world habitation."

  The Demon King shook her head vehemently, her dark eyes flashing with frustration. "D-Destruction and D-Death! A-All who gaze upon me! Stop!" she repeated, her voice rising in a desperate plea.

  "Stop? Oh! Stop the death and destruction, right. Okay. Erm… Hiro? Ideas?" Bathilda turned to her companion, hoping for a moment of inspired insight.

  Hiro's response was immediate and brutal. "We should chop her head off again to teach her some manners!" he snarled, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light.

  Bathilda sighed, shaking her head. "Yeah, that's way too extreme for etiquette lessons. I'm trying to help her, not add to the pile of severed heads."

  She looked back at the Demon King, a wave of empathy washing over her. The child was clearly trapped, a prisoner of her own nature, and Bathilda was determined to find a way to help her break free. The problem was, she had no idea where to even begin.