Chapter 3: Dawn of the Broken King
The sky over Aetherion split at 4:57 a.m.
A single vertical tear of black fire, clean and precise. No fanfare. No armies pouring through. Just him.
Beelzebub IX stepped out wearing my collar. Void black metal hugged his throat, electric blue letters pulsing with my name on every breath. Wings spread thirty meters wide, feathers dripping shadow that hissed against the dawn air. Silver hair snapped in a wind of his own making. Eyes pure void now. No crimson left.
He was smiling.
Not the old conqueror's sneer.
The quiet, eager smile of someone who knew a reward waited if he did this right.
I watched it all through the scrying mirror I had conjured. Sitting in the war room with my legs crossed, teacup in hand. The same cheap instant tea I had drunk cold at 3 a.m. in Tokyo, back when my desk was my entire world.
Back then, I was the one who forgot how to hold things. Not weapons. Pens, coffee cups, my own spine. Boss would drop another impossible deadline at 11 p.m., and my hands would just go numb. I would stare at the screen until my eyes burned, telling myself one more hour, one more spreadsheet, and maybe they would notice I existed. They never did. I was invisible. Replaceable. A cog that kept turning until it broke.
Now? I was the one deciding who got to kneel.
He landed in the Royal Plaza. Boots cracked golden cobblestones in a perfect fifty meter radius, but the shockwave stopped exactly at the edge of the gathered royal guard. No collateral. No broken windows. He was being careful. Following orders.
Five thousand paladins in mithril plate formed ranks. Spears of holy light leveled. Saint Queen Elowen stepped forward, holy sword Ascalon gleaming.
"Demon," she called, voice steady, "this city stands under the Goddess's protection."
He tilted his head.
Every spear dimmed. Every shield flickered out. The paladins' arms went slack. Not from fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming inability to grip anything. Weapons clattered like dropped toys.
Elowen's sword slipped from her fingers. She stared at her empty hands, then up at him.
Beelzebub walked forward slowly. Stopped inches from her.
He spoke soft. Intimate.
"Your gods are very quiet today."
He brushed a strand of golden hair from her face with one claw.
Elowen flinched but held ground.
Then he whispered something only she could hear.
Her face drained of color. Knees buckled. She dropped to one knee. Not in worship, but because her legs refused to hold her.
The guard followed. One by one, then in waves. Five thousand elite warriors knelt, heads bowed, weapons forgotten.
No blood. No screams. Just perfect submission.
I leaned forward in my chair. Heart pounding. Not from guilt, but from something sharper.
In Tokyo, I knelt too. Every morning in the elevator, eyes down, saying "Good morning, senpai" to people who barely grunted back. Every performance review where they told me my "attitude needed adjustment" while handing me another 80 hour week. I smiled through it. Always smiled. Until the night I did not wake up.
This? This was the opposite. And it felt good.
Beelzebub raised one hand.
Every holy ward in the city cracked like thin ice. Mage towers dimmed. Church bells rang once backward then silent.
He spoke, voice carrying everywhere.
"This is mercy. Remember it."
He snapped his fingers.
Shadows rose into a towering mirror of liquid night.
In it: me. Teacup raised in toast. I blew a kiss.
The collar around his neck pulsed brighter.
The mirror shattered into black butterflies that faded.
Beelzebub spread his wings. Rose. Left.
The capital stayed kneeling long after he vanished.
Back in the nine hells, doors blew open at dawn's last second.
He strode in reeking of ozone and holy fear. Dropped to his knees. Wings mantled. Head bowed. Waiting.
I set the teacup down.
Stood.
Walked until my shoes touched his knees.
Threaded fingers through silver hair. Pulled his head back to meet his eyes.
"Look at me."
He did.
And I saw need. Gratitude. Something raw.
"Tell me," I said.
He told me everything.
How the paladins' weapons failed.
How Elowen's sword slipped.
How the city's wards cracked without sound.
How twenty million people felt real fear for the first time but no one died, no building burned.
He spoke in a low, reverent rush. Voice shaking from the high of pleasing me.
I listened. And somewhere inside, a knot from Tokyo loosened.
My old boss would have loved this power. He would have used it to make us work weekends without overtime pay. But he never had real control. He just had fear of losing his job. I have more now. And I am not wasting it on spreadsheets.
When he finished, silence settled.
I released his hair.
Stepped back.
Smiled.
"Good boy."
I snapped my fingers.
Chains rose. Firm but not cruel. Lifted him gently, spread him against the wall. Wrists and ankles secured. Wings pinned open. Body arched in offering.
He leaned into the restraints like coming home.
I walked forward.
Trailed one finger down his chest. Felt him shudder.
"You followed orders perfectly. No deaths. Terror only. Controlled. Precise."
My hand slid lower. Stopped just above where he strained.
"Now your reward."
I met his eyes.
For the first time, I let him see it fully. The part of me that had always craved this. Not the salaryman who collapsed at his desk at 29, ramen cup still warm beside a stack of unread emails.
The thing underneath that wanted to own, to command, to cherish what was given freely.
In Tokyo, I never got to choose. Choices were made for me. Deadlines. Targets. "Team spirit" that meant unpaid drinks after work. Here? I choose. And he chooses me back.
He saw it.
And groaned. Soft, eager.
I smiled.
And began.
Slowly. Thoroughly. Teasing until he trembled. Pushing until he begged. My name on his lips like scripture.
Until the Devourer of Realms arched against the chains and came undone screaming for me.
Until the collar burned white hot, searing my name deeper than skin. Into his soul.
Forever.
When it was over, I released the chains. He slid to the floor in a heap of wings and silver hair.
I knelt beside him. Pulled him against my chest.
He curled into me without hesitation. Head on my shoulder. Breathing ragged.
I stroked his hair.
"Rest," I murmured. "You did well."
He made a small, contented sound.
And for the first time since I arrived in this world, the nine hells felt quiet.