The throne room was silent after Simon's return—eerily so.
No tremors of rebellion.
No murmurs of fear.
Only the kind of hush that comes when a predator enters a den, and the beasts inside suddenly remember what terror means.
Even the torches lining the pillars flickered timidly, as if afraid to cast their light too brightly on him.
Simon walked without hurry.
He didn't need to project dominance; he simply was dominance—measured, cold, and unsettlingly calm.
A human wearing the mantle of a demon king.
Eras trailed behind him, careful and respectful, voice low.
"Is there anything you require, my lord?"
Simon stopped, turning slightly—not to intimidate, but to acknowledge. The motion alone made Eras stiffen, as if a blade had grazed his throat.
"Yes," Simon said. "Show me the treasury."
Eras blinked, startled.
Not by the request—every ruler would eventually ask to see their hoard—but by how soon it came.
"The… treasury, my lord?" Eras echoed.
"Yes."
Simon's tone didn't waver.
He did not ask.
He declared.
Something old in his voice, something born from years of waiting in darkness, made Eras bow deeply.
"As you command."
---
The path to the treasury wasn't through grand gold-lined halls or guarded gates as human kingdoms did.
Of course it wasn't.
Demons hoarded differently.
Eras led Simon through a narrow stone corridor that spiraled downward. No decorations, no torches. Only darkness and cold breath from somewhere below.
"The treasury is not meant to be seen," Eras explained as they walked.
"It is meant to be forgotten. A vault not for vanity—only for power."
Simon hummed lightly.
"Yes. Power kept and measured, rather than flaunted."
Eras glanced at him.
"You speak as though you've lived among us longer than your nature suggests."
Simon did not answer.
Because he didn't need to.
Because Eras already knew the truth:
Simon observed demons longer and more intimately than any mortal ever should have.
He had waited.
Watched.
Calculated.
And now here he was—walking deeper into a demon king's legacy as if it were simply the next logical step.
They passed walls etched with runes—old, jagged, bleeding faint red light.
Warding runes.
Not for show.
For containment.
"Orba didn't trust his own treasures, did he?" Simon murmured.
Eras' jaw tightened.
"Orba trusted nothing. Not even himself."
They walked in silence for long minutes.
No sound but their steps.
The deeper they went, the colder the air became.
Magic density grew—heavy, suffocating, like the world itself had layered centuries of hatred in the stones.
Simon inhaled.
Ancient power tasted like iron, ash, and quiet dread.
He felt a prickle under his skin—his instincts whispering caution, not fear.
He had lived too long with demons to fear them.
But it was undeniable:
This place was not built for mortals.
And yet here he was, descending with steady steps, unconcerned.
Eras swallowed hard before speaking again.
"My lord… the treasury contains items even Orba refused to use. Artefacts from emperors before him. Remnants of abyssal conquerors. Relics lost to ages. Some of them hold malice older than nations."
Simon's response was simple.
"I expected nothing less."
They reached a massive arch carved into the mountain's depth—black stone, shimmering faintly with life.
A gate built from the remnants of a dead dragon's spine.
Ribs forming the entrance.
Its skull fused into the arch, empty eye sockets glowing dimly.
The door itself had no hinge—only a wall of shadow.
A sealed entrance that devoured light.
Simon lifted a brow.
"A Gate of Bone and Abyss. Rare."
Eras nodded with reverence and a hint of shame.
"Only the rulers of the Executioner Domain may pass. It reacts to blood… and to truth."
"Truth?"
"Yes. One cannot deceive the gate and enter unharmed. Orba—"
His voice paused.
"Orba lost his left eye when he first tested this place. His greed outweighed his honesty."
Simon smirked faintly.
A cruel irony.
A demon king who couldn't face his truth.
He stepped forward.
The shadows stirred.
Cold, hungry, probing.
Eras tensed, unsure if the gate would reject or devour him.
But the shadows parted.
Silently.
Obediently.
As though they recognized their rightful master.
The Gate of Bone whispered—voices like hissing embers, like dying hearts.
"Welcome, Executioner."
Eras trembled at the whisper.
But Simon merely walked through.
He did not fear the abyss.
He had already lived within one.
---
It wasn't gold that greeted him.
It was silence.
Thick, ancient silence.
And darkness that lived, breathed, and watched.
The vault was vast—like an abyssal cathedral.
Floating platforms of obsidian.
Chains drifting in the air like veins of midnight.
Objects rested in sealed cases, suspended by invisible force.
Armors from forgotten wars.
Blades humming with hunger.
Crystals beating with trapped souls.
Tomes written in languages forbidden even among demons.
Each item was a catastrophe waiting for a hand foolish enough to touch it.
Eras bowed deeply.
"Welcome, Lord Simon. To the treasury of dethroned kings."
Simon looked around slowly, studying, absorbing.
He felt history here—violent, restless, unsatisfied history.
Demons did not store wealth to grow fat on comfort.
They stored tools to end worlds.
Simon whispered to himself—not prayer, not awe.
Recognition.
"This is where true power sleeps."
Eras stepped beside him hesitantly.
"What do you seek, my lord? Tell me, and I will guide you."
Simon shook his head once.
"No. I will walk. You will answer only when I ask."
Eras bowed again.
"As you desire."
Simon moved across the treasury, eyes tracing each relic with surgical precision.
A spear forged from a fallen star—sealed in runic coffin, screaming faintly.
A blood-stained mantle that writhed like living skin.
A sealed eye—floating in black glass, staring back knowingly.
A crown of obsidian thorns dripping ichor, whispering promises of domination.
Simon paused briefly.
"Orba never wore this."
Eras hesitated, voice low.
"He feared it."
Simon's lips curved slightly.
"Good. A ruler who fears his own crown is already unfit."
They continued.
Artifacts crackled softly as they passed—sensing presence, measuring worth, hungry for weakness.
None found any in him.
Eras watched, awe slowly replacing fear.
Most who entered this place trembled.
Even demons bowed here.
Even Orba disliked stepping foot inside.
But Simon walked as if it were a quiet evening stroll.
As though he belonged more here than any abyssal lord ever did.
They reached a corner of the treasury—less ominous than the rest.
A pedestal.
Simple.
Stone.
Unassuming.
And on it—
A mask.
Porcelain white.
Thin.
Expression neutral—too neutral.
A mask without emotions, without name, without time.
Simon stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
He already knew.
The moment he saw it, he knew.
Eras spoke softly, as if disturbing a sacred thing.
"That is the Mask of Girte. A relic from the shadow courts. Said to hide truth itself. No magic trace. No aura. A perfect void in shape of a face."
Simon exhaled—a breath not of surprise, but of satisfaction.
"I've found it."
Eras opened his mouth.
"My lord, shall we—"
Simon raised a hand.
Silence fell instantly.
He looked at the mask not as a supplicant, not as a scholar—
but as someone who had been waiting for it
for far too long.
A tool.
A weapon.
A key.
A means to walk both worlds.
Simon's voice was low. Steady. Final.
"This is what I came for."
Simon stood before the mask—back straight, heart unreadable, purpose sharper than any blade in the vault.
Preparation.
The abyss would not consume him.
He would carve his throne inside it—and walk into the abyss as if fate itself bowed.
His eyes never left the mask.