Page 37 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“Thank you, Sir Formalitee,” I replied, trying to keep the horror from my voice. “I’ll pass on the disembowelment today. Please stand and tell me about the state of the city.”
He rose, looking slightly disappointed about keeping his intestines. “Of course, my lord. As required by Administrative Code 15.4, I have prepared a seventeen-part presentation on the city’s current status, beginning with a ninety-minute overview of tax collection procedures, followed by?—”
“Perhaps a more condensed version,” I interrupted, seeing my life flash before my eyes. “What are the biggest challenges facing the city right now?”
Sir Formalitee blinked rapidly, as if the concept of summarizing information was foreign to him. “Well, without the proper forms being filed in triplicate, I couldn’t officially?—”
“Unofficially,” I pressed.
He glanced around nervously, then leaned slightly closer. “Food shortages. Housing decay. Sanitation issues. And the, er, plumbing situation.”
“Plumbing situation?”
“There isn’t any, my lord.”
Ah. That explained the smell.
But that didn’t make sense. I distinctly remembered including basic infrastructure in my game design. Not modern plumbing, obviously, but at least medieval-level sewage systems and water distribution. Something had gone terribly wrong during those three centuries.
“Show me the worst areas,” I commanded, bracing myself for what I knew would be a nightmare tour of a kingdom fallen into ruin.
Sir Formalitee looked like he might faint. “But my lord, the itinerary clearly states that you are to be shown only the Noble Quarter and the refurbished marketplace! As per Visitation Protocol?—”
“New protocol,” I interrupted. “Show me what needs fixing.”
Azrael stiffened beside me, the temperature dropping several degrees. “My lord, perhaps it would be more appropriate to?—”
“The worst areas,” I repeated firmly. I needed to see exactly how bad things had gotten. I needed to understand the full extent of the decline that had happened in Lucien’s absence.
Sir Formalitee swallowed hard, then nodded. “As you command, Dark Lord.”
The “worst areas” turned out to be about ninety percent of the city. We walked through narrow alleys where waste ran in open gutters. Past housing blocks where dozens of families were crammed into spaces meant for five. Through markets where vendors sold items that looked more like props from a horror movie than food—“screaming fungi,” “despair roots,” and something called “sorrow meat” that I refused to further inquire about.
The demons we passed stared at me with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Many had sores on their skin from whatSir Formalitee delicately called “sanitation-related ailments.” Children with distended bellies played with toys made from what appeared to be bones.
This wasn’t just a medieval slum crossed with a haunted house. This was a kingdom in collapse. Whatever functioning systems had once existed had clearly broken down long ago. Three centuries of absent leadership had resulted in corruption, neglect, and suffering on a scale I could barely comprehend.
“Who lives here?” I asked, gesturing to a particularly dilapidated block, my voice thick with emotion I was struggling to control.
“Those would be Citizens 1200 through 1500, my lord,” Sir Formalitee replied, consulting his clipboard.
Great. Apparently, the numbering system I’d used as a placeholder in the game had become their actual identities. That explained the strange looks I got when I smiled at a small demon child and asked her name.
“Citizen 1347, my lord!” she’d replied proudly, as if having a number instead of a name was the greatest honor imaginable.
I’d intended to give them proper names eventually. It had been on my to-do list for the game, but I’d never gotten around to it. And now these children identified themselves by those numbers with pride. It was like some dystopian nightmare I’d read about in high school, except this wasn’t fiction anymore.
As we turned a corner, we came across a group of demons arguing loudly in front of what appeared to be a bathhouse—though “bath” was generous, as it was really just a large puddle in a stone basin.
“What’s happening here?” I asked.
Sir Formalitee hurried forward. “Vendor 42! Vendor 108! Cease this disturbance immediately! The Dark Lord is present!”
The demons froze, then prostrated themselves on the ground. The sight made my stomach turn. This fear, this absolute terror—this was what Lucien’s rule had inspired.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, trying to sound gentle rather than nauseated.
One demon, a blue-skinned fellow with small horns, raised his head slightly. “Vendor 42, my lord. This miserable excuse for a merchant”—he jabbed a finger at the other demon—“claims he has exclusive rights to the communal bath on Tuesdays, but everyone knows Tuesdays are shared bathing days as established in the Great Hygiene Compromise of?—”
