In the obsidian fortress at the heart of the demonic realm, the seven Demon Lords sat in triumph. The very air in the grand hall was thick with the sweet, cloying scent of suffering, a perfume they had savored for a hundred thousand years. They were winning, and they were enjoying every moment of it.
"So, Deimos, what's next on our agenda?" Ichor, the Lord of Corrosion, hissed, his slimy form restlessly shifting on his throne of bone. He was a creature of action, and his patience was wearing thin. "We are strong enough now. Let us crush these remaining Gods and be done with it."
