The Obsidian Fortress was originally designed to strike fear into the hearts of mortals. Its walls were forged from the screaming souls of the damned, its spires were jagged and coated in ash, and the entire aesthetic was essentially "maximum depression."
Maya stood on the balcony, her Tom Ford sunglasses perfectly placed, sipping a fresh coconut. She looked up at the spiked ceiling, then out at the rivers of molten lava.
She let out a long, heavy sigh.
Malakor and Kaelen, the two Demon Lords currently standing at attention in their butler outfits, instantly broke into a cold sweat.
"Is the beverage not to your liking, Lady Maya?!" Kaelen panicked, his napkin trembling. "I can freeze the ice wraiths longer!"
"The drink is fine, Jeeves," Maya said, gesturing vaguely at the towering black walls. "It's the vibe. It's atrocious. I feel like I'm vacationing inside a teenager's angsty poetry journal. Where is the color? Where is the life? If I have to look at one more decorative skull, I'm going to throw myself into that volcano."
Leo walked out onto the balcony, adjusting his floral shirt. He nodded in agreement. "She's right, guys. The gothic thing is a bit played out. We came here for a tropical resort experience. This place needs a facelift. Immediately."
Malakor blinked, his demonic brain struggling to process the request. "A... facelift? O Great Patrons, this fortress is carved from indestructible bedrock. It has stood in darkness for ten thousand—"
Maya lowered her sunglasses, her eyes glowing with that terrifying, absolute-zero aura that had vaporized the shadow assassin two days ago.
Malakor swallowed hard. "Ten thousand seconds! Which is far too long! We shall redecorate at once!"
Ten minutes later, the grand courtyard of the Obsidian Fortress was filled with the Vanguard of the Apocalypse. Two million heavily armored demons, dark sorcerers, and towering behemoths stood at attention, gripping their battle-axes and waiting for the order to march on humanity.
Instead, Demon Lord Malakor stepped up to the podium, wearing his tiny red bowtie.
He cleared his throat. It echoed across the valley like thunder.
"WARRIORS OF THE ASHEN WASTES!" Malakor bellowed. "Sheathe your blades! Today, we face a greater challenge! Drop your weapons... and pick up your paint rollers!"
A wave of absolute confusion rippled through the two million demons.
"I WANT THIS ENTIRE FORTRESS PAINTED PASTEL PINK BY SUNSET!" Malakor roared, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. "AND I SWEAR BY THE DARK REALM, IF ANY OF YOU WRINKLE THE TROPICAL WALLPAPER, I WILL FEED YOU TO THE DRAGONS!"
What followed was the most cinematic, high-energy montage of home renovation in the history of the Eight Kingdoms.
If this were a vlog, the camera would be panning wildly through the chaos. Two million demons sprinting through the halls with buckets of paint. Giant siege behemoths delicately holding tiny brushes to paint the window trim.
In the Grand Hall, three of Malakor's most elite, bloodthirsty commanders—General Pavan, General Karthik, and General Aman—were standing on a massive scaffold, staring blankly at a roll of floral wallpaper.
"You're holding it crooked, Pavan," Karthik growled, his terrifying fangs bared as he held a smoothing tool. "If there's an air bubble in this palm tree, the human woman is going to turn us into luggage."
"I'm not holding it crooked, you blind bat!" Pavan snapped back, his demonic wings twitching. "Aman, tell him it's straight!"
Aman, a towering brute wrapped in spiked armor, was currently wearing a makeshift apron and holding a bucket of glue. He wiped sweat from his horned forehead. "Just smooth it out! And hurry up, the Dragon King is coming to do the crown molding!"
Right on cue, Vermithrax the Sovereign of the Skies flew into the Grand Hall. The massive dragon was hovering near the ceiling with pinpoint precision, carefully applying strips of gold-leaf trim with his razor-sharp claws, looking incredibly smug about his superior craftsmanship.
Down on the floor, Ignis the World-Burner was waddling along the newly painted pink walls. The Ancient Calamity was gently exhaling warm, controlled puffs of air, acting as a giant, mythological blow-dryer to make sure the paint cured perfectly.
Up on the balcony, Leo and Maya were lounging on newly conjured bamboo beach chairs. Maya nodded approvingly as the jagged, terrifying spikes of the fortress were painted a soft, soothing coral color.
"Much better," Maya smiled, taking a sip of her drink. "The natural lighting in here is actually fantastic once you get rid of the screaming void portals."
Leo laughed, giving Malakor a high-five. The Demon Lord winced but accepted it eagerly. "You guys really turned this place around, Malakor. Five stars on Yelp, easily."
Malakor beamed with pride, aggressively adjusting his bowtie. "We aim to please, Lord Leo! The Obsidian—I mean, the Tropical Sunrise Resort is entirely at your service!"