"No... No... this is... Impossible"
Flying high in the air as a black cloud of energy, the demon god's disembodied consciousness was in a state of pure, unadulterated terror. He was a being of immense power, a lord of chaos, a god in his own right.
But now he was reduced to a fleeing coward.
He tried to scream, to curse, to rage, to unleash his power upon the world, but he couldn't. All of that was overshadowed by the sheer, primal fear that had a grip on his soul.
The fear of her.
The memories, not just his, but the collective consciousness of the demon race, were screaming at him to run. To hide. To never, ever cross her path again.
He had heard the legends, the whispers in the darkest corners of hell, and he was unfortunate to come across that being. The silver-haired woman who was more evil than the demons themselves.
In her pursuit to resurrect her twin sister, Morgana stopped at nothing and invaded many hell dimensions, one of which was this demon god's realm.
He tried to fight back, but the result was... A blood spear in the ass. The pain was nothing compared to the humiliation, the sheer, soul-crushing shame of being defeated so easily, so... thoroughly.
The Red Sea of Screams was his prison for thousands of years. The memories of that place were a festering wound in his soul. The endless torment, the unending agony, the sheer, soul-crushing despair of being trapped in a sea of impaled souls.
And the source of their pain was the woman he had just fled from.
The woman he just ran away from like a scared child.
"Why is she here?" he cried out. "Why is she in this world? This was supposed to be a godless world!"
He needed to warn the other demon gods. He needed to alert them of the terror that descended on this world. But how? He was trapped in this elven body, a vessel he didn't even want.
He had to get to the palace. Sylvana's memories showed him a way.
"Damn it!" he cursed as the black cloud of energy zoomed through the forest, a frantic, desperate escape. "I sacrificed two whole divine ranks in order to escape the torture just to end up in the same hands."
He was a fool. A prideful, arrogant fool. He thought he could outsmart Morgana. This demon god was a gold-rank god. After he was captured by Morgana during her invasion, he spent thousands of years in the Red Sea of Screams, a fate worse than death. He lost two divine ranks, a significant portion of his power, but he escaped.
When Lilith sent Morgana to her world, giving her the new breeder's body, the seal of the Red Sea of Screams weakened. He used it as a chance to escape.
However, he was still weak. And, more importantly, he was injured on a soul level.
His divine body could not be cultivated anymore, as his soul was damaged by Morgana's endless torture. His only hope was to possess a new vessel.
So that's where this world came in.
He found out about this godless world from a captured angel that was trying to invade a hell dimension. He learned about the 'Proto-Elf' and the ritual, a chance to be reborn, to regain his power.
He even acted behind the backs of the demon gods that came with him to claim this world for their own.
And now... now he is here.
Fleeing from the very being that had taken everything from him.
"Is this my punishment?" he cried out, his spiritual body shaking with fear. "Is this my fate?"
He saw a glimmer of light in the distance. The elven capital, Athel Loren. The palace was there. The power source was there.
"I can make it," he panted, his essence flickering. "I can make it."
The black cloud surged forward again, ripping through the night sky like a wounded beast fleeing a hunter.
Below him, the forest blurred into a dark sea of green. Ancient trees bent under the pressure of his passing, their branches snapping as waves of chaotic demonic energy rolled off his spiritual form.
He didn't care.
He couldn't care.
His mind was drowning in terror.
"Faster…"
Every few heartbeats, the demon god risked a glance backward—not with eyes, but with the raw nerve-endings of his shredded divinity. Each time he did, the forest seemed to stretch longer behind him. The distance he had covered felt meaningless. As though the trees themselves were complicit, bending space just enough to keep him in sight of her lingering amusement.
He could still taste the echo of that gentle laugh in the core of his stolen spirit.
"Run, little god," her phantom voice whispered inside his mind. "Let's see how far your legs can carry you."
"SHIT!" he howled, pushing himself harder.
The elven gates loomed ahead—a massive arch of living wood, carved with scenes of elven triumph.
The demon god swiftly passed through them without slowing down, his form flickering as he flew through the streets.
When he reached the palace gate, he took a physical form again.
Back to Sylvana's original body without the demonic traits, he even made himself look injured and covered in blood, stumbling through the palace gardens like a wounded soldier. He had a plan to make this more believable.
Guards rushed to his side, their faces etched with shock and concern.
"My queen!" one of them cried out. "What happened?"
"Attack..." Sylvana's lips moved, the words coming out as a hoarse whisper. "The moon elf... she... she attacked us... The ritual... it failed..."
From the memories of Sylvana, the demon god 'saw' Morgana's appearance under the helmet, yet that didn't hold value or reveal anything since he never saw the real face of Fear before.
But if he survives, then this information will be valuable.
"Queen Sylvana!"
"She is injured!"
The guards caught her—him—before the body could collapse entirely.
Two of them, tall and silver-armored, supported the trembling figure under the arms while a third barked orders toward the palace gates. Horns sounded—low, urgent, the kind reserved for royal emergencies. Lanterns flared to life along the colonnades. Footsteps thundered from every direction.
"Get the High Healers! Immediately!"
"Secure the perimeter—triple the wards!"
"Call the High Council!" a senior captain shouted, face pale with disbelief as he helped lift the 'injured' queen. "This is an act of war!"
'That's right…' the demon god thought, letting Sylvana's head loll against the captain's pauldron. 'They can stall for time.'
They carried her—him—through the gilded entrance of the palace, across marble floors that reflected the frantic, golden light of the sconces. The air inside was cool and still, smelling of enchanted wood and night-blooming jasmine.
Unlike the wild, sex-saturated madness of the forest clearing.
Unlike the suffocating presence of Fear.
"Hehehe~.... " He let out a soft chuckle. "Now all I have to do is find the power source and open the portal."
Badump!
"!!!" his heart stopped, or more like Sylvana's heart.
He knew that feeling. This is the feeling of a needle sinking into the very center of your soul. A feeling that no magic could replicate. That pressure.
That suffocating, invisible weight pressing down on his soul. It was unmistakable.
"Fuck!" he cursed as a creeping dread washed over him.
He didn't need to turn.
He didn't need to look.
He knew who it was.
Fear was there.
High above the clouds.
Watching with a sinister smile on her face, her crimson ribbons of ethereal energy trailing behind her like the wings of some great fallen goddess.
"I... Found... You," her voice, a soft, mocking whisper, echoed directly in the demon god's mind. "Little demon."
The words landed inside his stolen skull like drops of molten lead.
I… Found… You.
Not spoken aloud. Not carried on wind or mana. Simply there—sliding between one thought and the next, intimate as a lover's breath against the nape of the neck.
The body the demon god wore—Sylvana's once-regal frame—stiffened so violently that the two guards supporting it nearly dropped him.
A low, involuntary whimper escaped bloodied lips.
The captain holding the queen's shoulders frowned, mistaking the sound for pain.
"Hold on, Your Majesty. The healers are coming."
But the demon god no longer heard him.
All sound had tunneled down to the slow, deliberate beat of his own corrupted heart… and the soft, amused hum that now lived inside it.
High above Athel Loren, Morgana floated motionless.
No flapping wings. No stirring of air. Just presence—absolute, patient, amused. She didn't need to chase him. She already owned him. She was just toying with him, her amusement a form of torture in itself.
'He thinks he's safe' she thought, her crimson eyes glowing with dark delight. 'He thinks the palace walls can protect him.'
"Ahh~..." she let out a soft moan, her body shuddering with pleasure. The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill, it was intoxicating. "I love it when they run."