Praise Me More, Demon Lord!Chapter 10: "Your Guests Are Terrible, Demon Lord-sama!"
The air inside the Dark Citadel was usually heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient stone. Today, however, it smelled of lemon polish and sheer, unadulterated terror.
The impending arrival of the Council of Shadow Lords had sent the minions into a panic spiral not seen since the Great Plumbing Disaster of Era 4.
"Straighten that banner!" Lilith screamed, pointing her clipboard like a sword at a trembling Skeleton. "If Lord Malacor sees a wrinkle, he will disintegrate your femur! Do you want to be a pile of dust? Do you?!"
"No, Ma'am!" the Skeleton clattered, frantically ironing the banner with a heated rock.
In the center of this chaos, Valdred sat on his throne. He was fully armored. His helmet was on. His jagged black cape was draped perfectly. He looked the part of the terrifying Tyrant of the West.
But under the helmet, he was sweating.
"Elara," Valdred hissed.
Elara was standing next to the throne, adjusting a vase of black roses on a small side table. She was wearing her 'Official Strategic Advisor' uniform—a crisp military coat with gold buttons, a short skirt, and high boots. Val-Jr (the bat plushie) was conspicuously absent.
"Yes, Boss?" she hummed, snipping a thorn off a rose.
"You must hide," Valdred said, his voice tight. "The Council... they are not like Leo. They are not like the adventurers. They are ancient. They are cruel. If they see a human standing by my throne, they will not hesitate to flay you alive."
"Flaying is bad for the complexion," Elara noted calmly. "But hiding is bad for branding. If I hide, it proves I'm a weakness. If I stand here, I'm an asset."
"You are stubborn," Valdred growled. "They represent the North, South, and East. Combined, their mana output rivals a catastrophic volcanic event. I cannot guarantee your safety."
Elara stopped fussing with the flowers. She walked up to the massive obsidian throne and placed her small hand on Valdred's armored knee.
"Valdred," she said softly. "Look at me."
He looked down. The red glow of his eyes reflected in her violet ones.
"We blew up a holy airship together," she said. "We survived a dungeon audit. We have a pet slime named Jelly. Do you really think three grumpy old demons are going to scare me off?"
"They are very grumpy," Valdred warned.
"I can handle grumpy. I work for you, don't I?" She winked.
Valdred sighed—a sound like a collapsing mine shaft. "Fine. But stay behind the warding line. And do not... do not provoke them."
"I promise to be the picture of diplomatic grace," Elara lied.
The Arrival
At high noon, the sky above the Citadel turned three different shades of wrong.
To the North, the clouds curdled into a bruising purple. A thunderclap shook the foundations of the castle, and a meteor slammed into the courtyard.
CRASH.
From the crater emerged Grog, the Warlord of the North. He was a Behemoth—twelve feet of red muscle, tusks, and fur, wearing armor made from the skulls of dragons. He didn't carry a weapon; his fists were the size of boulders.
To the East, the sky turned a sickly, necrotic green. A silent tear in reality opened, and a figure glided out.
Malacor, the Lich King of the East. He was a floating skeleton draped in expensive, rotting velvet robes. He held a staff topped with a screaming soul-gem. He radiated an aura of intellectual arrogance and death.
To the South, the sky turned a lush, venomous pink. A carriage drawn by shadow-panthers descended on a bridge of smoke.
Lady Vex, the Succubus Queen of the South. She stepped out, her heels clicking on the stone. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with curling horns and wings that looked like stained glass. But her smile was sharper than any blade.
The doors to the Throne Room were blown open. Not pushed. Blown.
The three Shadow Lords marched in. The pressure in the room skyrocketed. The air became thick, hard to breathe. Weak-willed goblins in the corners fainted instantly.
Valdred didn't flinch. He sat immobile, radiating his own oppressive black aura to counter theirs.
"Welcome," Valdred's voice boomed, amplified by the acoustics of the room. "To the West."
"Valdred," Malacor hissed. His voice sounded like dry leaves skittering on a tombstone. "You have redecorated. It smells... alive in here. Disgusting."
"I like it," Lady Vex purred, sauntering forward. She eyed the clean floors. "But it lacks... screaming. Where are the torture pits, darling? Have you gone vegan?"
"GRAAAH!" Grog roared, smashing a pillar with a casual backhand. "TALK IS CHEAP. WHERE IS MEAT?"
"The kitchen is preparing a banquet," Valdred said coolly. "But I assume you are not here for the appetizers. Why has the Council convened?"
Malacor floated to the center of the room. He pointed a skeletal finger at Valdred.
"We are here because of the rumors, Valdred. Rumors that the Tyrant of the West has been... compromised."
He turned his eyeless sockets toward Elara.
Elara stood perfectly still beside the throne. She had her hands clasped behind her back, her expression neutral.
"A human," Malacor spat. "Standing in the Royal Presence. Unchained. Unmarked."
"Is that a pet?" Vex laughed, covering her mouth with a fan made of black feathers. "Oh, Valdred, how quaint. I usually keep my pets on a leash. Or in a cage. It's so much safer for them."
"She is not a pet," Valdred said, his hands tightening on the armrests of his throne. The obsidian began to crack under his grip. "She is my Head Mage. And my Strategic Advisor."
"A human mage?" Malacor scoffed. "Impossible. Humans are batteries. They are cattle. They do not have the capacity for true darkness."
"Grog say CRUSH IT!" Grog stepped forward, drooling slightly. "Human soft. squishy. Make good sound when pop."
The tension in the room snapped taut like a bowstring. Valdred began to stand up, dark fire igniting around his shoulders.
"If you touch her," Valdred snarled, "I will mount your heads on the outer wall."
"Oh?" Vex's eyes narrowed. "Defending the cattle? How... sentimental. The rumors were true. You have gone soft."
"Soft!" Grog bellowed.
"This is an intervention, Valdred," Malacor declared, raising his staff. Green energy crackled at the tip. "We cannot allow a weak link in the Demon Lord Alliance. The Humans are mobilizing. The Heroes are annoying. We need strength. If you are compromised by affection for this... creature... then you must be purged."
"Purged!" Grog echoed happily.
"Kill the girl," Vex said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Do it now, Valdred. Show us you are still the monster we remember. Snap her neck. And we will leave."
Valdred stood fully. He was trembling—not with fear, but with rage. He looked at the three Lords. He looked at Elara.
"She is worth a thousand of you," Valdred said.
"Then die with her," Malacor intoned.
He cast a spell. "Death Ray: Level 8."
A beam of concentrated necrotic energy shot toward the throne. It was fast. Faster than Valdred could summon his shield.
But it didn't hit Valdred.
It hit a shimmering, geometric barrier that appeared instantly in front of the throne.
PING.
The death ray bounced off the barrier at a perfect 90-degree angle and incinerated a decorative tapestry on the wall.
"What?" Malacor gasped.
Elara stepped forward. She adjusted her glasses. She held her clipboard in one hand and her staff in the other. Her eyes were glowing a brilliant, defiance-filled violet.
"Excuse me," Elara said, her voice calm but amplified by wind magic so it cut through the room. "I believe you failed to file the proper paperwork for an assassination attempt."
"Paperwork?" Grog looked confused. "What is pay-purr-werk?"
"And," Elara continued, walking down the steps of the dais to stand between the Demon Lords and Valdred. "You are incredibly rude guests. You broke a pillar. You insulted the host. And you tried to kill the staff. That's a 0-star rating on Yelp."
"Insolent worm!" Vex shrieked. "You dare speak to us?"
Vex lashed out with a whip made of shadow-thorns. It was a weapon that bypassed physical armor, attacking the mind directly.
Elara didn't dodge. She slammed her staff into the ground.
"Support Magic: Emotional Baggage Denial."
A golden aura flared around her. The shadow whip hit the aura and dissolved into glitter.
"My mental defenses were trained by dealing with a Narcissistic Hero for five years," Elara said coldly. "Your amateur insults can't hurt me. I've been called 'useless' by the Chosen One. You'll have to do better than that."
The three Lords stared at her. They were stunned. A human blocking a Death Ray? A human nullifying a Succubus Queen's mental attack?
"Valdred," Elara called out without looking back. "Are we going to let them trash the place?"
Valdred looked at her back. He saw her small shoulders squared against three titans of darkness. He felt a surge of pride so intense it almost felt like a physical buff.
"No," Valdred said. A dark grin spread across his face beneath his helmet. "We are not."
He drew Night-Eater. The sound of the blade leaving the scabbard was like a dragon inhaling.
"You wanted to test my strength?" Valdred asked, stepping down to stand beside Elara. "You wanted to know if I am soft?"
He raised his sword.
"Elara. Analysis."
"Malacor is weak to physical blunt force and holy light—I can simulate the light," Elara reported rapidly. "Vex relies on charm and speed; if we slow her down, she's fragile. Grog is a tank; kite him, don't engage directly until his rage timer runs out."
"Understood," Valdred said.
"Fools!" Malacor shrieked. "Attack! Destroy them both!"
The Skirmish of the Four Kings
The Throne Room erupted into chaos.
Grog charged first. He was a freight train of muscle. "SMASH PUNY MAN!"
Valdred didn't try to block. He side-stepped with supernatural grace.
"Gravity!" Valdred commanded.
"On it!" Elara flicked her wrist. "Gravity Magic: Heavy Burden."
A purple sigil appeared on Grog's back. Suddenly, the gravity around the Behemoth increased by ten times. Grog's charge faltered. He stumbled, his feet cracking the stone floor. He didn't fall, but he was slow.
Valdred used the opening. He didn't use the edge of his sword; he used the flat. He swung Night-Eater like a baseball bat.
CRACK.
Valdred slammed the massive blade into Grog's ribs. The Behemoth flew sideways, crashing into the buffet table, burying himself in a mountain of roasted meats.
"One down," Valdred counted.
"Mind the left!" Elara warned.
Vex was a blur of motion, darting around the room, throwing daggers made of crystallized lust.
Valdred parried three of them, but Vex was fast. She appeared behind him, her claws extending toward the gaps in his armor.
"Too slow, darling!" Vex laughed.
"Valdred! Praise me!" Elara shouted suddenly.
"What?!" Valdred grunted, spinning to block. "Now?!"
"I need the buff to catch her! Tell me I'm smart!"
"You are..." Valdred ducked under a claw swipe. "You are a tactical genius! Your intellect is terrifying!"
DING.
Elara glowed. Her speed stat skyrocketed.
She vanished.
Vex blinked. "Where did—"
Elara reappeared in mid-air, right next to Vex's face.
"Gotcha," Elara grinned.
She slapped a piece of paper onto Vex's forehead. It wasn't a spell scroll. It was a Explosive Rune.
"Tag!" Elara kicked off Vex's chest and backflipped away.
BOOM.
The rune detonated. It wasn't lethal, but the concussive force blasted Vex out of the air. She tumbled, her wings tangled, and crashed into the pile of gifts (mostly fruit baskets). Her perfect hair was now a bird's nest.
"My hair!" Vex screeched. "You little witch!"
That left Malacor.
The Lich King was floating near the ceiling, gathering a massive ball of green energy.
"Enough games!" Malacor roared. "Apocalypse Sphere!"
The ball of death grew larger. It was enough to vaporize the entire throne room.
Valdred looked up. He couldn't reach him. And his shield wouldn't hold against that much raw power.
"Elara," Valdred said. "Do we have a plan C?"
Elara looked up at the giant ball of doom. She adjusted her glasses. Her hand went to her pocket.
"Valdred," she said. "Trust me. Throw me."
"Excuse me?"
"Fastball Special! Throw me at the Lich!"
"You will die!"
"I have a plan! Just throw me! Aim for the staff!"
Valdred hesitated for a nanosecond. Then, he sheathed his sword. He grabbed Elara by the waist. She felt tiny in his grip.
"If you die," Valdred growled, "I will resurrect you and kill you myself."
"Deal!"
Valdred spun. He channeled all his demonic strength into his arms. He roared, releasing her.
Elara flew. She broke the sound barrier. She was a human missile aimed straight at the Lord of the East.
Malacor saw her coming. He sneered. "A suicide run? Pathetic."
He prepared to disintegrate her.
But as Elara flew, she pulled something out of her pocket. It wasn't a weapon. It wasn't a wand.
It was Jelly the Slime. (She had been keeping a piece of him in a jar).
"Go get 'em, Jelly!" she yelled, uncorking the jar mid-air.
The slime expanded instantly upon hitting the air. It turned into a giant, sticky net.
SPLAT.
The slime hit Malacor directly in the face. It covered his eyes. It gummed up his mouth. But most importantly, it wrapped around his staff—the source of his power.
"Mmph! Glllgg!" Malacor panicked. He couldn't see. He couldn't chant.
The Apocalypse Sphere fizzled out and vanished.
Elara collided with the Lich (cushioned by the slime). Momentum carried them both out of the air. They crashed onto the floor in a heap of bones, robes, and blue goo.
Silence fell over the room.
Grog was covered in gravy. Vex was covered in soot. Malacor was covered in slime.
Elara rolled off the Lich and stood up. She dusted off her uniform. She looked at the three defeated Demon Lords.
"Audit complete," she announced cheerfully.
Valdred walked over to her. He checked her for injuries. Seeing none, he turned to the Council.
He didn't need to shout. His presence was absolute.
"You came to test my strength," Valdred said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "You found it. And you found something else."
He placed a hand on Elara's shoulder.
"You found that the West has evolved. We do not just use brute force. We use tactics. We use adaptability. And yes... we use humans."
Grog sat up, eating a turkey leg he found in the wreckage. "Grog... impressed. Tiny human hit hard."
Vex crawled out of the fruit baskets, fixing her hair. She looked at Elara with hatred, but also a begrudging respect. "You humiliated me. I haven't been humiliated in four hundred years."
Malacor finally pulled the slime off his face. "This... is irregular."
"This is the future," Valdred declared. "Now. Get out of my Citadel. Or the next time, I won't use the flat of the blade."
The three Lords gathered themselves. They were beaten, but they were not destroyed. They were Demon Lords, after all. Pride was their currency.
"This isn't over, Valdred," Malacor hissed, regaining some of his dignity. "You won the skirmish. But the Council does not accept defeat so easily."
"We invoke the Trial of the Black Sun," Vex said, her eyes gleaming. "A tournament. Three months from now. In the Neutral Wastes."
"If you win," Malacor said, "We will acknowledge your new regime. We will acknowledge her."
"And if we lose?" Valdred asked.
"Then the West is divided amongst us," Grog burped. "And we eat the human."
Valdred looked at Elara.
Elara grinned. "A tournament arc? Classic. We accept."
"We accept," Valdred confirmed.
The Lords departed—Grog leaping through the hole in the ceiling, Vex vanishing in smoke, and Malacor stepping through a portal, still trying to wipe slime off his robe.
The Aftermath
The room was a disaster.
Valdred sat down on the steps of the dais. He felt exhausted. Not physically, but socially.
"That went well," Elara said, picking up a surviving grape and eating it.
"We are at war with three continents," Valdred groaned, putting his head in his hands.
"A tournament isn't war," Elara corrected. "It's a sporting event. We just need to train."
She sat down next to him.
"You were amazing, by the way," she said softly. "You defended me. Even when they threatened to take everything."
Valdred looked at her. He reached out and removed a bit of blue slime from her hair.
"I told you," Valdred said, his voice rough. "You are my partner. I do not discard my partners."
"You know," Elara leaned closer, her shoulder bumping his armor. "When you swung that sword... my heart might have skipped a beat. Just saying."
Valdred froze. "Is that... a medical concern?"
"No, you idiot," Elara laughed gently. "It's a compliment. A 10/10 compliment."
Valdred looked away, but the tips of his ears turned red.
"Three months," Valdred muttered, changing the subject. "We have three months to prepare for the greatest battle of our lives."
"Plenty of time," Elara stood up and offered him her hand. "But first... I think we need to hire a contractor to fix the roof."
Valdred took her hand. He stood up.
"Lilith is going to kill us," he said.
"Yep," Elara agreed. "Totally."