BAM!

"I am Rian Millbrook!" His voice cracked through the silence like thunder, venom dripping from every syllable. The Demon of Plague straightened, power radiating from his diseased form.

Pustules covered his gray skin, each one a testament to the suffering he'd harvested from thousands. "How DARE you, bastard—"

The fist came before he could finish.

CRACK.

Millbrook's head snapped back, teeth rattling in his skull as he hit the ground hard. The concrete cracked beneath him, dust rising in a cloud.

Before he could even process the pain, weight crushed down on him—a knee driven into his chest, pinning him like an insect.

He gasped, eyes widening.

Above him, glaring down with eyes that burned like amethyst flames, was 'him'. The demon or god who shouldn't exist.

The one who shouldn't be standing, let alone 'fighting'.

Violet eyes, glowing with an intensity that made Millbrook's plague-riddled heart stutter. A broken horn jutted from his head, jagged and raw. His tail lashed behind him, and one wing hung limp, torn and bleeding.

But it was the wound that made Milbrook's breath catch.

A dagger—no, not just any dagger but of betrayal—was buried deep in the demon's chest.

Blood poured from it in thick, dark rivulets, soaking through his torn shirt, dripping onto Milbrook's face.

The smell of it was intoxicating and wrong all at once.

This demon should be 'dying'. He should be on the ground, gasping his last breath.

Instead, his grip tightened around Milbrook's throat.

"You—" Milbrook choked, rage bubbling up through the pain. "You bastard! How are you so strong?!" His voice rose to a shriek, disbelief cracking through the fury. "I should be strong in this place! 'I' should be the one standing!"

It didn't make sense. None of it did. A demon's power came from absorbing their particular affinity from humans.

Disease. Suffering. 'Plague'.

And when sickness swept through cities, when children wept and mothers wailed over dying bodies, when humanity drowned in filth and fever—'that' was when he thrived.

That was when his power surged until he could crush mountains, until gods themselves would hesitate to face him.

This place—this cursed, broken world—'reeked' of suffering.

It should have made him invincible.

Yet here he was, pinned beneath a dying demon.

"Answer me!" Milbrook snarled, clawing at the hand around his throat. "How are you—"

The demon leaned closer, blood dripping from his lips onto Millbrook's face. His violet eyes didn't waver. They didn't flinch.

They burned with something far more terrifying than rage.

Purpose.

"I will leave the first piece of my rebirth," the demon rasped, voice low and guttural, "with your death, measly demon."

Milbrook's eyes widened. "Wait—WAIT—"

The demon's hand shot out, fingers digging into Milbrook's jaw with inhuman strength.

"KURGH!" Milbrook screamed, thrashing beneath him, but it was useless.

The grip was iron.

The fingers were claws.

"Wh—who—" Millbrook was trembling in fear of inevitable death, not understanding what could be in this world far stronger than the humans who can fuel this powerful entity.

Yet he was not so unlucky as to not get the answer, and he got it.

'...L-lust?' His mind instantly went to one of the four strongest emotions—anger, greed, lust, pride—that dominates the human.

"Y-you.. are you god of lus—!"

And then—

"ARRGH—SCKLCH!"

The sound was wet and obscene. Milbrook's head twisted violently, vertebrae snapping like twigs as the demon 'tore' it clean off his shoulders.

Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the walls, the floor, the demon's already blood-soaked body.

For a moment, silence.

The demon stood, breathing hard, still clutching Milbrook's severed head.

The Plague Demon's eyes still blinked, mouth opening and closing in silent agony before finally going still.

With a grunt of disgust, the demon hurled the head across the cave.

It hit the far wall with a sickening 'thud', rolling once before stopping in a pool of its own blood.

The demon or god whoever he was, stood there, shoulders rising and falling with labored breaths.

His hand moved to the wound on his chest, fingers pressing against the dagger still embedded there. His jaw clenched, muscles tightening as pain shot through him.

He looked up, glaring at the ceiling—at the cracked, filthy rafters that stretched above him like the ribs of some dead god.

"Hey you fool, do not forget yourself in lust..." His voice was barely a whisper now, hoarse and strained. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. "Try to love... and have a family... who do not betray—"

His knees buckled.

He caught himself, one hand slamming against the ground to keep from collapsing.

His violet eyes flickered, dimming for just a moment before blazing back to life.

"...Millbrook..."

[ Race Integration: 17/100 (**Notification Inaccessible) (Current trait work: Demonic Lust) ]

'!!'

Viktor jolted awake with a violent gasp—his whole body jerking forward like someone had grabbed his soul and yanked it back into his flesh.

"Hah—hah—hah—"

His chest heaved, lungs burning as they dragged in air that felt too thick, too hot. Sweat poured down his face in cold rivers, dripping from his jaw onto the fabric bunched across his lap.

His heart slammed against his ribs—'thump-thump-thump-thump'—so loud he swore everyone in the damn carriage could hear it.

His vision swam. Blurry shapes. Rocking wooden ceiling. The creak of wheels grinding over uneven dirt roads.

'What... the fuck... was that?'

His hand moved on instinct, trembling as it rose to his face. His palm dragged across his forehead, fingers sliding through the slick layer of sweat plastering his dark hair to his skin. Cold. Everything felt cold despite the warmth of bodies pressed around him.

"Young Master!"

"Young Lord!"

Two voices—familiar, worried—cut through the fog in his head at the same time. Two hands landed on his shoulders, one from each side, gripping him with surprising strength.

Viktor blinked hard, forcing his vision to sharpen. The carriage interior came into focus—dim light filtering through the small window, wooden benches creaking with every bump, the faint smell of old wood and sweat hanging in the air.

He turned his head left.

Mira.

Her brown eyes were wide, pupils dilated with genuine concern. Her thick brows furrowed as she leaned closer, her face only inches from his.

Her hand on his shoulder squeezed—warm, solid, grounding. Her breasts, massive and heavy even bound beneath the rope and fabric, pressed against his upper arm as she shifted closer.

"Young Master... you were shaking," she whispered, her voice soft but edged with worry.

Viktor turned his head right.

Helena.

Her pale face mirrored Mira's expression—lips parted slightly, breathing shallow, her warm brown eyes searching his face like she was trying to read his thoughts. Her fingers dug into his other shoulder, her grip trembling just a bit.

"Young Lord, are you hurt?" Helena's voice cracked on the last word. "Did something happen?"

Both women had woken up the instant he'd gasped. How long had they been watching him? How long had he been out?

Viktor swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper scraping against itself. His tongue felt thick, useless.

"I..." His voice came out rough, hoarse. He coughed once, then again. "I'm... fine."

But he wasn't fine.

He could still feel it—the remnants of whatever the hell that dream had been. It was slipping away, dissolving like smoke between his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold onto it. The details blurred. The images faded.

Except one.

'...Purple.'

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