His ability to speak this world's human language stemmed from his Authority. Though it didn't show on his status, he currently had the knowledge of housekeeping, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and so forth—her daily skills along with her level and stats.
Basically, this was his cheat.
If he were to fully utilize both of his Authorities, there was little doubt he would one day become a force to be reckoned with.
That was what the Demon King and the key members of demonkin expected from him.
Velmaria smiled, her violet eyes regaining a trace of light.
"Then that's wonderful, my lord," she said softly, wiping a trail of milk from his lips. "Come now—it's time for your training."
With gentle hands, she loosened the knot of the cloth swaddling him.
His obsidian eyes met hers as she lifted him, giving him a clear view of the chamber behind. Three naked girls lay motionless, their skin marked with claw wounds, blood, and the crust of dried fluids.
That's it?
The thought came unbidden, cruel perhaps—but born from expectation rather than disgust.
He had imagined that once he saw their condition, he'd be devastated. That guilt would consume him. That shame would crush him for the instinctual desire that had burned inside him.
Yet now, looking into their hollow eyes, he felt guilt—but not in the way he had anticipated.
"...."
Malrik's gaze lingered on their figures, trailing down the curve of their spines, across bruised hips, and over thighs that still trembled from exhaustion.
Their pale skin bore the remnants of twisted frenzy—faint claw marks raked across their backs and shoulders, crimson lines that shimmered in the dim light. The scent of sweat, sex, and blood thickened the air, and the silvery sheen of seed painted their bellies, breasts, and inner thighs in a pattern of indulgent ruin.
Their hair was tangled, their lips parted in silent breaths, bodies limp like offerings at the end of a ritual.
Something stirred in him. Not remorse—not really.
His tail twitched.
Then it wiggled, curling slightly as that familiar heat rose again, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
The sight of their used, glistening forms awakened the hunger that never truly left him. Their brokenness didn't repel him—it called to him, in some twisted, sacred way.
He let out hot, uneven breaths as his eyes glinted red with rising hunger.
His small fingers clutched Velmaria's breasts, sinking into their softness with a possessive need. The warmth of her body enveloped him as she pulled him into her embrace, her arms coiling around him like silk-wrapped chains.
He felt the weight of her curves pressing gently against his chest, the subtle bounce of her breasts with each shallow breath she took.
Her scent—faintly floral, laced with sweat and a trace of mana—filled his lungs, heady and intoxicating. As she shifted him in her arms, lowering him into the soft cradle of her bosom, the warmth of her skin against his own sent a tremor crawling up his spine.
The tip of his spade-shaped tail pulsed, twitching in rhythm with his heartbeat as desire tightened in his core.
"...Milk—" Malrik panted, the word slipping out before he could stop himself. He froze, realization dawning with a jolt of shame—he was getting off to them. Shit, stop! he hissed inwardly, shaking his head between her breasts in a vain attempt to cool the heat rising through him.
[Exp: +00.1]
But his tail betrayed him, still wiggling with eager pulses, twitching in rhythm with the desire he tried to suppress.
Velmaria smiled at his actions, finding them cute. "I'll make sure that whore gives you plenty of milk later, my lord," she said—whore meaning Saelira. "But first, we have important business to attend to."
Her tone was joyful, completely unfitting for the mood within the cave. It was like she was completely unaware of the mangled stench of blood, sex, and sorrow as she walked up to a wounded goblin.
And only then did Malrik realize the stench of pungent blood.
Maybe he'd been too focused on the girls before, but now that he looked around, he saw the state of the goblins—those who had been balls-deep inside the human girls were now sprawled across the floor.
Bruises covered their green skin. Limbs were torn off, blade wounds ran deep and jagged, tendons were severed, and their vocal cords sliced.
They trembled in their own blood, their wounds immobilizing them.
Their mutilated forms carried a different weight—they're very existence would sarve Malrik's journey to power, one life at a time.
This was the plan Velmaria had been introduced to by the Sixty Fifth Demon Prince—and Malrik's father, Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris.
Unlike the other pieces that had been sent off across the world with high-ranking demons and armed legions, Malrik had been sent to a border between two human nations, both weak but core pillars of the Hero Alliance.
He had no backup besides Velmaria, a half-demon maid who, while capable, was only comparable to an imp in physical strength.
Though, her role wasn't chosen for that, instead her true power lay in her mana—despite being level 34 and only half-demon, her mana already reached into the hundreds.
That alone made her almost on par with a Lesser Demon or Noble Vampire. But still, why would a father send his only son—and a key piece in the inevitable war—to such a dangerous area with so little?
Because Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris was a prideful man.
The territory he had sent his son to once belonged to him, before he had been defeated and pushed back by the heroes. What better way to reclaim it than letting his son grow there in secret—raising a hidden threat in land they believed they had already liberated?
But that wasn't the only reason he'd risk his son's life.
Years ago, when he first invaded this human territory, he discovered an unusual monster race. Small, ugly, and weak. Goblins. They had the intelligence of children and couldn't comprehend much. But he discovered something interesting—they could reproduce at an alarming rate.
They were fragile, but their numbers could become overwhelming. Still, their limitations prevented that—they couldn't adapt well to other environments, and their race consisted only of males, forcing them to mate with other species to reproduce.
And even that was limited—they could only breed with native races: humans and demi-humans.
Making them unable to survive outside this region. And these strange creatures… were his son's gamble.
Malrik, despite being a "Demon Lord," had yet to gain strength. That was the hurdle. Normally, when a newborn demon is born, their parents gather high-rank monsters and resources to support them—guiding them toward reaching level one hundred.
Becoming a Lesser Demon, an official member of the demonkin.
But Malrik had none of that. His father's castle had been besieged, and he was forced to escape shortly after birth. He held a deep resentment toward the heroes for that.
And that's where the second part of his father's plan came in—
"Here, my lord," Velmaria said as she placed a knife into Malrik's tiny hands. "Point at one you like, and I'll help you take care of them," she said playfully.
Malrik blinked, confused. Weren't we planning on making a goblin army? That's what he thought Velmaria had in mind. Now she was asking him to murder one of them? Is this a test? She did call it training... So is this 'cleaning up' the first generation of goblins?
Well, I'm not against it. I could use this to see if this world really works on RPG logic—maybe I'll get experience from them, he thought, gripping the weight of the knife as Velmaria gently supported his hand, preventing him from cutting himself.
"That... one..."
He slowly moved the blade, guided by her hand.
It drifted across the trembling goblins, his eyes taking on a faint red glint as he reached his target.
Their eyes flickered.
But the knife wasn't pointing at a goblin... It was directed at a red haired woman—her eyes weren't only filled with sorrow. No, in her eyes burned a defiant rage.
Up until that moment, he would've ignored her. Picked a goblin, like a good little demon.
Maybe it was something in his race's instincts, but when his eyes met hers, something inside him screamed: Get rid of them.
And he knew he would. He could feel it.
If he hadn't just seen her eyes falter with fear, and slightly moved away from the blade, he might've done it.
Lucky… he thought, a little terrified at himself.
His hand shifted. The knife's point moved away from her, toward the goblin next to her.
The red glow faded from his eyes, returning to their usual obsidian luster.
"That one," he murmured, eyes cast downward, afraid that looking at the woman again might change his mind.
Velmaria smiled warmly—almost motherly—as she began moving toward the goblin. Her eyes briefly flicked to the woman who had dared glare at her and, inadvertently, at her master.
I should remember to teach that one her place, she thought, before returning her gaze to the goblin Malrik had chosen. "Excellent choice, my lord."
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around his before she gently took the knife from his hand. Bending low, she lowered Malrik to the ground, his childlike feet touching the cave floor. She removed the swaddling cloth wrapped around him and tossed it over her shoulder.
Malrik stood upright, legs wobbling slightly before she steadied him. Her breath tickled his ear as she knelt behind him—close, closer still, until every part of her that mattered was pressed against his small frame.
"You're doing great," she whispered, guiding the knife back into his hand and toward the goblin.
It whimpered—a gurgling rasp escaping its cracked lips as it tried to crawl away, dragging a shredded leg behind it. One eye was swollen shut, the other wide and glassy with confused terror.
Malrik didn't feel anything for it. Not pity. Not anger. Only the cold weight of his decision. Of expectation. And the dull feel it held if he was wrong.
Velmaria's voice was soft, coaxing. "Right here," she whispered, and with her other hand, she pointed to the base of the goblin's throat. "A quick jab. You don't want to slice, not yet. Just push. Like this."
She guided his arm forward.
The tip of the blade pressed against green flesh. Malrik hesitated. His breath caught in his throat. The goblin whimpered again, eyes darting between the knife and Malrik's face.
"Don't look at it," Velmaria murmured, almost tenderly. "Look at me."
He did.
Her eyes were no longer the warm violet they had been before—now, they were nothing more than crimson pools of reassurance. Steady. Patient. Encouraging.
"Now."
Together, they pushed.
The blade sank in with a soft crunch, piercing through cartilage and sinew. The goblin twitched violently beneath him, limbs flailing with sudden, primal panic. A spray of blackish-red blood welled up around the blade, coating Malrik's small fingers.
He flinched. For a moment, the weight of the action settled on his chest—but then Velmaria pressed closer, her breath warm against his ear.
You did well, my lord. Just like a true demon," she said, voice low, breath hitching slightly as if the goblin's death had thrilled her in some secret, forbidden way. Her thighs pressed together with a subtle shift, a shiver running down her spine as the scent of blood thickened in the air.
Her body responded instinctively—her folds clenching with a slow, pulsing ache, heat blooming beneath the leather of her maid uniform.
Malrik also felt a shiver run down his spine, though its cause was the exact opposite of Velmaria's—
{+8 EXP}
──────
Name: Malrik Thorneveil Tenebris
Race: Incubus Scion (Demon lord)
Class: None
Level: 6 {+1} ([158,492,830,127] - Locked)
EXP: 340 / 800 → 348 / 800
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Affiliation: ???
Title(s):
● Piece of Abyzrakul Tenebris
● Son of Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris
● Thamor, the Lord of Consorts
──────
This seals it, Malrik thought, a twisted grin tugging at his lips as he peered down at the goblin, its blood pooling beneath his feet. He crouched, carefully pulling the dagger from the corpse, the glint of the blade almost mesmerizing in the dim light.
He hadn't expected it to be so easy. It almost felt like cheating, with Velmaria already having weakened them... but then again—what was the point of having a maid if you couldn't take advantage of it? This was just the beginning. The first of many.
I'm farming the hell out of these little fuckers, he mused, wiping the blood off the blade as he traced its edge. He cut himself in the process, yet—
The hunger for power pulsed within him, deeper than any craving he'd ever known. It wasn't just a desire for dominance, no—it was a cold, unrelenting need to grow, to rise above these pitiful creatures. To conquer.
Each drop of blood spilled, each life snuffed out, was one step closer to unlocking the true potential of what he was.
Soon, he thought to himself, soon the world will bow to me.