Page 10 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Holy crap on a cracker with a side of what the actual hell,” I whispered, pressing my face against the glass like a five-year-old at an aquarium. “It’s exactly how I designed it.”
And it was. Every detail matched what I’d painstakingly created inEnolyn: Build Your Empire. The game had been my escape for years—a place where awkward, forgettable Beau could be powerful, respected Lucien Noir. I’d spent countless hours perfecting my dark domain, building it from a small outpost into a thriving realm while normal people were out doing things like “having friends” and “developing social skills.”
Well, “thriving” might be generous. Last time I’d checked—which was yesterday on the subway before my date with truck-kun—Iferona had been facing some challenges. Population decline, resource shortages, unhappy demons, the usual management nightmares. I’d been planning to implement some reforms after work, maybe reorganize the agricultural districts to improve food production.
Instead, I’d gotten isekai’d. Because apparently that’s a thing that happens when you do one (1) heroic deed. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I squinted at the city below, trying to gauge its condition. From this distance, it looked… worse than in the game. Buildings that should have been impressive were crumbling like stale cookies. Streets that should have been bustling seemed nearly empty. The magical barriers at the borders—visible as a faint purple haze—appeared to be flickering like a dying lightbulb.
“Three hundred years,” I murmured, remembering Azrael’s words. “No wonder everything’s gone to hell. Or, well, more to hell than it already was, being a hell-adjacent realm and all.”
My business administration degree suddenly seemed a lot more relevant than I’d ever expected it to be. If this was real—and the cold marble under my feet, the scent of dust and magic in the air, and the hunger gnawing at my stomach all suggested it was—then I had an actual kingdom to manage. A kingdom that, according to Azrael, was in serious trouble.
I turned away from the window and began exploring my chambers. The room was massive, easily the size of my entire apartment back home. Actually, scratch that—it was the size of my entire apartment building. Besides the bed, there was a sitting area with plush chairs arranged around a blue-flamed fireplace, a desk piled with scrolls and books, and several doors leading to what I assumed were additional rooms.
Opening the first door revealed a bathroom that would make a luxury hotel weep with envy. A sunken tub the size of a small pool dominated the center, with various crystal bottles of oils and soaps arranged around its edge. Faucets shaped like dragon heads promised to deliver hot water on demand—a luxury I hadn’t expected in a medieval fantasy realm.
“At least evil overlording comes with good plumbing,” I muttered. “One point for the forces of darkness.”
The second door led to a walk-in closet filled with elaborate outfits that screamed “villain with a flair for the dramatic and possibly back problems from all the excessive shoulder padding.” Capes, high-collared shirts, leather pants that looked impossibly tight—exactly the kind of wardrobe I’d imagined for Lucien Noir. There was even a section dedicated solely to accessories: crowns, rings, amulets, all dripping with dark gems and ominous power.
I was fingering a particularly impressive cape (because who doesn’t want to swish around dramatically while giving evil monologues?) when a knock at the main door interrupted my exploration.
“Enter,” I called, then winced at how squeaky it sounded. I cleared my throat and tried again, dropping my voice an octave. “ENTER.”
The door swung open to reveal Azrael, followed by a procession of servants carrying silver platters. Each servant was a different type of demon—some with multiple arms, others with scales or horns, one that seemed to be made entirely of shadow. They arranged themselves in a line, heads bowed, waiting for some signal.
I straightened my spine and tried to look imposing while only wearing nothing but a silky robe. Still, fake it till you make it, right?
Azrael stepped forward, his perfect posture making me acutely aware of my own slouch. “Your breakfast, my lord,” he announced with a flourish.
On cue, the servants removed the silver covers from their platters, revealing… oh sweet merciful gods of all realms.
The first dish appeared to be a massive organ—still pulsing—floating in a viscous purple liquid. The second was a black soup with what looked suspiciously like eyeballs bobbing on its surface like the world’s most horrifying bubble tea. And the centerpiece, on the largest platter, was the roasted carcass of some doglike creature, its head still attached and its dead eyes staring accusingly at me. Its lips were pulled back in a permanent snarl, revealing razor-sharp teeth.
My stomach lurched violently. I’d been hungry, but suddenly the idea of food seemed like the worst thing imaginable. Right up there with “juggling chainsaws” and “swimming with hungry sharks while covered in fish guts.”
“Is something amiss, my lord?” Azrael asked, noticing my expression. “Does the presentation not please you? I can have the staff flogged if the arrangement is not to your liking.”
“No! No flogging necessary,” I said quickly, swallowing hard and trying not to look at the eyeballs, which seemed to be looking back at me. “It’s just… I’ve just awakened after centuries of slumber. My stomach might need something a bit… lighter to start with.”
Azrael’s perfect eyebrow arched slightly. “Lighter, my lord?”
“Yes, perhaps something like…” I searched desperately for a food that might exist in this realm and wouldn’t involve still-beating organs. “Porridge? Just a simple porridge would be fine.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Every demon in the room stared at me as if I’d suggested we all hold hands and sing campfire songs about friendship and rainbow unicorns.
“Porridge,” Azrael repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. “The peasant gruel made from boiled grains?”
“That’s the one,” I confirmed, trying to sound confident in my bizarre request. I puffed out my chest slightly and added, “It’s excellent for… for rebuilding magical reserves after prolonged magical slumber. Very… restorative. Dark magic requires… precise nutritional balance.”
I was bullshitting so hard I could practically feel the manure piling up around my ankles.
The servants exchanged glances, clearly confused by their lord’s pedestrian taste. One small demon actually looked offended, as if my rejection of the hellhound roast was a personal insult to his entire lineage.
Azrael, ever the perfect butler, recovered quickly. “Of course, my lord. If porridge is what you desire, porridge you shall have.” He turned to the servants. “Return these dishes to the kitchen and prepare a bowl of… porridge… for Lord Lucien.”
The servants bowed and retreated, taking the horrifying feast with them. I couldn’t help but notice their disappointed expressions—they’d clearly worked hard on this grotesque breakfast. I almost felt bad. Almost. But not as bad as I would have felt vomiting all over their shoes after attempting to eat a still-pulsing organ.
