The demonic capital wasn't a city built; it was a scar on the very face of existence, a place where reality itself had curdled and turned malevolent.
The air was a suffocating, hot blanket, thick with the scent of burnt flesh and the cloying sweetness of rot.
Structures, impossibly tall and jagged, clawed at a sky the color of a deep red.
They were not made of stone but of solidified malice, their surfaces slick with a sheen of oily black and their edges sharp enough to tear a soul.
Every street hummed with the collective, crushing weight of a million powerful auras,
It was a city of predators, where every corner held a silent promise of violence and the only currency was power.
Yet, amidst this landscape of pure terror, a single shop stood as a grotesque monument to a different kind of horror.
This was the "Fresh Meat Corner," a shop that catered to the specific appetites of the demigod demons.
