Page 9 of Demon Lord's Proposal

She nods, her brow furrowed in concentration. On her next try, she nails it.

"Huh," I grunt, surprised. "Not bad, kid."

Hours pass in a blur of otherworldly cocktails and increasingly confident pours. The hexeblood is a fast learner, already handling the basics with a natural flair.

A commotion erupts near the entrance–a group of newly arrived souls, disoriented and belligerent. I move to intervene, but pause as I see the hexeblood approach them.

"Welcome to Slim's Last Chance," she says, her voice steady. "What can I get for you? We have Oblivion on tap, or if you're feeling adventurous, might I suggest our house special, the Mind Eraser? It comes highly recommended for, um, new arrivals."

"I-I where am I?" the first soul asks.

"Well you're–" the hexeblood starts.

"–exactly where you belong," I finish, showing them to the bar.

5

SAGE

Istand behind the bar, my senses assaulted by the cacophony of the underworld, the air is thick with the acrid scent of brimstone, intermingling with the heady aroma of exotic herbs and the metallic tang of something I'd rather not identify. My head spins, still reeling from Deus's abrupt decision to thrust me into this maelstrom of chaos.

"Focus, Sage," I mutter, grounding myself with the rough texture of the bar beneath my fingers. The array of ingredients before me is daunting–vials of Phantasmal Essence shimmer ominously, while jars of Revenant's Tears seem to weep silently. Each container holds a piece of the underworld's dark secrets, and I'm expected to wield them like I've been doing this for centuries.

A gravelly voice cuts through the din. "Hellfire Elixir. Now." The patron, a towering demon with horns that scrape the ceiling, fixes me with eyes that smolder like dying embers. His impatience radiates off him in palpable waves, but this time, I know exactly what to do.

With practiced movements, I reach for the Brimstone Liquor and carefully drop in the Aetherflame Essence, a favorite of the local demons. My fingers move swiftly, almost on autopilot, as I channel a fraction of my hexeblood energy into the mixture. The liquid ignites with a controlled burn, casting sinister shadows across the bar.

I slide the glass towards the demon, confident in my creation. He takes a long draught, fire flickering in his throat and eyes. With a grudging nod of approval, he retreats into the crowd. A small victory, but I know the night is young and full of challenges.

As I turn to the next order, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Amidst the sea of demons, shades, and otherworldly entities, I spot a figure that seems out of place. A young woman, her form still bearing the ethereal glow of the recently deceased, sits hunched at the far end of the bar. Her eyes dart nervously around the room, wide with fear and confusion. She clutches a glass of something untouched, her hands trembling.

For a moment, I see myself in her: lost, scared, thrust into a world beyond comprehension. The urge to reach out to her, to offer some comfort, is almost overwhelming. But before I can act, a flood of new orders pours in, demanding my immediate attention.

I reach beneath the counter and pull out the dusty alchemical tome. Its pages are filled with script that writhes and shifts, ancient glyphs that hold the secrets to drinks beyond mortal imagination. I flip through it hastily, searching for recipes to match the increasingly complex orders.

"Abyssal Nightcap," growls a being of living shadow. "Banshee's Wail Cocktail," demands a gaunt specter with hollow eyes.

Each order pushes me to my limits. I blend Dragon's Blood Syrup with Serpent's Fang Venom, the mixture hissing and steaming ominously. Another concoction requires me to temper volatile Hellhound Spirits with the soothing influence of Lunar Drops. The recipe book becomes my lifeline, its arcane wisdom guiding my trembling hands.

As I work, I can't help but glance occasionally at the lost soul at the end of the bar. She hasn't moved, hasn't touched her drink. In a lull between orders, I decide to take a risk.

I quickly mix a simple concoction–a blend of Ethereal Mist and a drop of Comfort Essence, a recipe I remember from my mortal days. It's not on any menu here, but I hope it might offer some solace. I make my way down the bar, sliding the softly glowing drink towards her.

"First time?" I ask gently.

She looks up, startled, her eyes meeting mine. There's a moment of recognition–not of who I am, but of what I am. Another lost soul, navigating this strange new existence.

"I... I don't understand," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the bar's chaos. "How did I get here? What is this place?"

Before I can respond, a harsh voice cuts through our exchange. "Sage! Back to work. The dead can sort themselves out."

I turn to see Deus glaring at me, his eyes flickering with barely contained hellfire. With a last apologetic glance at the woman, I hurry back to my station, my heart heavy.

The night progresses in a blur of complex orders and near disasters. I accidentally combine Viper's Venom with Infernal Sap, causing a violent reaction that sends patrons recoiling and earns me a scathing look from the other bartenders. But I recover, drawing on my hexeblood magic to infuse drinks with subtle enchantments that soon have patrons whispering in awe.

Through it all, I can't shake the image of the lost soul at the end of the bar. In her, I see a reflection of my own journey, a reminder of the confusion and fear that comes with this transition. But I also see the potential for growth, for finding one's place in this chaotic new world.

As the rush finally begins to ebb, I find myself leaning heavily against the bar, my breath coming in short gasps. The events of the night wash over me–the triumphs, the mistakes, the lingering questions about my place in this realm of shadow and flame.

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