Dawn of the broken king
The sky over the human capital of Aetherion cracked open at exactly 4:57 a.m.
No warning.
No declaration of war.
No dramatic monologue.
Just a single, perfect vertical line of pure black fire splitting the heavens from horizon to horizon, as if God himself had taken a box cutter to reality.
Then he stepped through.
Beelzebub IX.
But not the king they remembered from old legends.
This one wore my collar.
Void-black metal circled his throat, my name glowing electric blue with every heartbeat. His wings were fully unfurled, thirty meters of living nightmare, each feather dripping liquid shadow that hissed when it touched the air. Silver hair whipped in a wind that didn't exist. Eyes no longer crimson; now twin voids that swallowed light itself.
And he was smiling.
Not the cruel, regal smile of a conqueror.
The smile of a man who had been promised a reward if he performed well.
The first thing he did was speak.
Not with words.
With presence.
Every ward in the capital, every holy barrier blessed by archangels, every sacred seal carved by saints across a thousand years, shattered simultaneously. Glass towers of the mage academies exploded outward in perfect spheres of silence. Church bells rang backward. Infants woke screaming. Dogs clawed out their own eyes.
Zero deaths.
That was my order.
Terror only.
He descended slowly, deliberately, until his boots touched the golden cobblestones of the Royal Plaza. The impact cratered the stone fifty meters deep, but not a single crack touched the surrounding buildings.
Because he was being careful.
Because he wanted to be good.
The royal guard, five thousand elite paladins in mithril plate blessed by the Goddess herself, formed ranks. Spears of pure light leveled at him.
Their commander, Saint-Queen Elowen (level 999, wielder of the holy sword Ascalon), stepped forward.
"Demon," she called, voice ringing with divine authority, "this city is under the protection of—"
He tilted his head.
And every single paladin dropped their weapons.
Not in surrender.
Their bodies simply forgot how to hold things.
Spears clattered to the ground like rain.
Elowen's sword fell from numb fingers.
Beelzebub walked forward, boots crunching over holy steel, until he stood directly in front of her.
Looked down.
And spoke for the first time.
His voice was soft. Intimate. The kind of voice you use in bed when you want someone to fall apart.
"Do you know," he said, "what your gods sound like when they beg?"
He reached out, brushed a strand of golden hair from her face with one clawed finger.
"They sound like you will in approximately forty-three seconds."
Then he leaned in and whispered a single sentence.
We will never know what he said.
But Saint-Queen Elowen, the undefeated champion of light, the woman who had once severed a dragon's head with a single strike, pissed herself.
The warm stain spread down her ceremonial white robes in front of five thousand witnesses.
And the screaming began.
Not from pain.
From memory.
Every citizen in Aetherion suddenly remembered every nightmare they had ever suppressed. Every childhood terror. Every moment they had ever felt truly, helplessly afraid.
All at once.
The plaza became a writhing sea of bodies clawing at their own faces, trying to dig the memories out.
Beelzebub watched for exactly ten minutes.
Then he raised one hand.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Every person froze mid-scream, mouths open, tears suspended in air.
He turned slowly, surveying his work, then spoke again; this time loud enough for the entire city to hear, amplified by power that cracked the sky further.
"This is what happens when you forget who owns the dark."
He snapped his fingers.
Every shadow in the city detached from its owner and slithered across the ground, pooling at his feet like obedient dogs.
Formed a perfect circle.
Then rose into a titanic mirror of liquid night.
And in that mirror, a single image appeared.
Me.
Sitting in the war room, legs crossed, sipping tea from a cup that said "World's Best Tyrant."
I smiled and waved.
The entire capital saw it.
Saw the collar around their apocalypse's neck.
Saw my name glowing on it.
Saw the way his wings trembled when I blew him a kiss.
Then the mirror shattered into a billion black butterflies that dissolved into smoke.
Beelzebub spread his wings.
Rose into the air.
And left.
No destruction.
No corpses.
Just twenty million people who would never sleep again without seeing my face.
And one Saint-Queen on her knees in her own piss, staring at the sky, whispering a new prayer.
Not to the Goddess.
To me.
Back in the nine hells, he returned exactly at dawn's final second.
The war room doors blasted open on their own.
He strode in, covered in the scent of human terror, eyes still void-black, collar pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Dropped to his knees in front of me without a word.
Wings mantled.
Head bowed.
Waiting.
I set my tea down.
Stood.
Walked forward until my shoes touched his knees.
Reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair.
Pulled hard enough to arch his neck.
"Look at me."
He did.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Not just obedience.
Worship.
I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"Tell me," I whispered.
He told me everything.
Every scream.
Every dropped weapon.
Every nightmare he forced into waking minds.
The way the Saint-Queen's voice cracked when she realized her gods had abandoned her.
The way twenty million souls now belonged to me by proxy.
He told me in graphic, reverent detail, voice shaking with something that wasn't fear.
When he finished, silence fell.
I released his hair.
Stepped back.
And smiled.
"Good boy."
Then I snapped my fingers.
The chains returned.
But this time, they didn't bind him to the table.
They lifted him, spread him against the wall, wrists and ankles locked, wings pinned open, body arched in helpless offering.
I walked forward slowly.
Trailed one finger down the center of his chest.
Watched him shudder.
"You kept your promise," I said softly. "No deaths. Terror only."
My hand slid lower.
Stopped just above where he was straining so hard it had to hurt.
"Now I keep mine."
I looked up.
Met his eyes.
And for the first time since I arrived in this world, I let him see exactly what I was.
Not just the man who died at a desk.
The thing that had been waiting inside me my entire life.
The part that had always wanted to own something completely.
I smiled.
And began his reward.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
Until the Devourer of Realms screamed my name like a prayer.
Until the nine hells themselves shook with the sound.
Until the collar around his throat burned white-hot and branded my name into his very soul.
Forever.