Page 12 of The Dark Lord Awakens
The little demon froze, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. His ears shot straight up, quivering with what appeared to be shock. Then his face split into a grin so wide it seemed physically impossible, revealing rows of tiny needlelike teeth.
“The Dark Lord thanked me!” he squeaked, bouncing slightly on his toes. “He thanked ME! Tray 15! He knows I exist!”
Beside me, Azrael went rigid. The temperature in the room plummeted so suddenly I half expected to see my breath. His eyes flashed crimson, and for a split second, I glimpsed something beneath his perfect butler facade—something possessive and dangerous and decidedly not human.
“That will be all,” Azrael said, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice. “Lord Lucien requires privacy for his meal.”
Tray 15 didn’t seem to notice the death glare being directed at him. He was too busy having what appeared to be a religious experience, clutching his hands to his chest and staring at me with something akin to worship.
“Of course, of course! Anything for the Dark Lord! Tray 15 will go now! But Tray 15 will remember this day forever! The day the Dark Lord thanked Tray 15!”
He backed toward the door, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor, then scurried out, still grinning maniacally.
As the door closed, I turned to find Azrael staring at me with an unreadable expression. Well, mostly unreadable. The eye-twitching and slight jaw-clenching gave away that something had definitely gotten under his perfectly pressed collar.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked innocently, reaching for my porridge.
“You… thanked him, my lord,” Azrael explained carefully, as if talking to a child. “It is… unusual for the Dark King to express gratitude to servants.”
Oh. Right. Evil overlord and all that. Probably more of a “do this or die screaming” kind of boss than a “thank you for your contributions to the team” manager.
“Well,” I said, trying to recover, “consider it a new policy. Positive reinforcement. Makes for better service.” I waved my hand dismissively, trying to channel my inner dictator. “Fear is all well and good, but a little appreciation keeps the minions loyal.”
Azrael’s eye twitched again, but he nodded. “As you say, my lord.”
Was it my imagination or did he sound… jealous? Surely not. Why would an ancient, powerful demon butler care if I thanked some little imp?
I dipped my spoon into the porridge and took a cautious bite. It was surprisingly good—creamy and sweet, with a hint of spice I couldn’t identify. Cinnamon’s evil twin, perhaps.
“This is excellent,” I said between bites. “My compliments to Chef… what was his name?”
“Head Chef 001 Ramsay,” Azrael supplied, watching me eat with an intensity that was slightly unnerving. Like a hawk watching a particularly juicy field mouse. “He will be most pleased that you approve, though perhaps confused by your… unusual tastes.”
I nearly choked on my porridge. Head Chef 001 Ramsay? That name actually stuck? I remembered creating it during a three a.m. gaming session while binge-watching cooking competitions, my bleary eyes barely able to focus on the character creation screen. “Name your royal chef,” the prompt had said, and my sleep-deprived brain had thought “Chef Ramsay… but make it sound official… with numbers!” was absolutely brilliant.
And Tray 15—good Lord. I’d named all the serving staff after their functions plus random numbers because I couldn’t be bothered to come up with actual names for NPCs I’d barely interact with. “Tray 1 through 50, report for duty!” I’d declared, cackling at my own efficiency while shoving microwaved pizza into my mouth.
I’d given about as much thought to those names as I did to picking socks in the morning, and now actual living beings were walking around with them, apparently for centuries.
“Everyone has their quirks. Even Dark Kings. Especially Dark Kings,” I managed, trying to sound like this was all intentional. “Quirks are what make us… dark. And kingly.”
Azrael’s lips twitched again in that almost-smile. “Indeed, my lord.”
As I ate, I considered my options. I could try to maintain the facade of the terrifying evil overlord that everyone seemed to expect, or I could be honest about who I really was—a confused call center employee who had somehow ended up in his favorite video game.
The first option seemed safer. If these demons thought I was some kind of impostor, who knew what they might do? But pretending to be someone I wasn’t—someone apparently feared and possibly hated—didn’t sit well with me either. Customer service had taught me many things, but “how to be an effective tyrant” wasn’t one of them.
There was a third option, of course. I could embrace this new role but do it my way. Use my knowledge of business administration and management to rebuild Iferona, improve conditions for its inhabitants, and maybe, just maybe, find a way to coexist with the neighboring kingdoms without all the “eternal darkness shall reign” drama. It would be like continuing where I’d left off in the game, but with the ultimate immersive experience—actually implementing all those kingdom improvements I’d planned but never got around to.
After all, if I was stuck here, I might as well make the best of it. This was essentially my game save file come to life, just with a few centuries of neglect to fix. And honestly, being an evil overlord had to be better than customer service. At least when people called me names here, I could probably turn them into toads or something. Plus, I’d spent years theorycrafting the perfect dark kingdom in forum posts—now I could actually test those ideas in real time.
I finished my porridge and set the bowl aside, reaching for the blood apple. It was juicy and sweet, with a hint of tartness that reminded me of the best parts of both cherries and apples.
“So,” I said, wiping juice from my chin, “before we tour the domain, I should probably figure out what I can actually do. You know, power-wise. If I’m going to face these heroes eventually, I need to know what I’m working with.”
“A wise decision, my lord,” Azrael said. “Your powers have likely been dormant during your slumber. Testing their limits would be prudent.”
I glanced down at my silky robe, which was admittedly not appropriate attire for magical practice. “I should probably get cleaned up first, though.”
