The Demon Queen's Royal Consort

"Glenn Carborex," he said, without any preamble. "Follow me."

His tone left no room for discussion. A chill ran through my stomach. That lingering sense that something was coming, the unease that had been gnawing at my chest since I woke from the dream, intensified. I swallowed hard, trying to control my anxiety. My eyes flickered to the empty wicker basket beside the bed—one last glimpse of that brief respite. Taking a deep breath, I followed the guard without a word, stepping once more into the dark corridors of the mountain, marching toward the unknown. With each step, the tightness in my chest grew, as if bracing for something dreadful, something my instincts screamed for me to avoid.

The silence was suffocating. The only sound was the echo of our footsteps against the stone floor, a grim prelude to whatever lay ahead.

The path we took was unlike any I had traveled inside the volcano before. Instead of descending deeper into the mountain's core, the route wound upward, climbing staircases to a higher level. After a few minutes, the guard escorting me joined six others, each leading their own captive.

'Thirty in total,' I calculated in my head.

Observing the situation, I concluded that we were the thirty survivors of the pink gas experiment. The faces around me confirmed it—haggard, malnourished, deep hollows under their eyes. Some had lost all their teeth; others bore missing body parts—fingers, hands, even entire arms.

'Did they not receive the same treatment as I did these past three days?' I wondered. 'Or is this what they look like even after being fed?' A possibility I couldn't ignore.

I recognized a few faces from Glenn's original memories—fallen nobles reduced to wretched figures, former politicians who once wielded influence when their families still had prestige. Most, however, were complete strangers to me.

I wanted to speak to someone, but I decided to keep my head down. The aura emanating from the six guards was unlike anything I had encountered in the mines before—majestic, commanding, and above all, dangerous. It felt as though a single glance from them could incinerate anyone on the spot.

Apparently, the other three captives who seemed to be in better condition shared my unease. We exchanged brief glances, forming an unspoken agreement: Better keep quiet.

The guards led us to an alcove in the wall, where a corridor stretched ahead. Judging by the deep tracks on the floor, it was heavily used—wheel ruts and footprints were scattered through the dust. The passage was wide enough for us to walk side by side without brushing against the walls.

'A transport route for minerals,' I deduced. 'This must be how they move the mined resources out.'

After several hundred meters, we arrived at a mechanical elevator. It had two bronze-colored metal doors, reinforced with thick beams of black steel, and chains sturdy enough to support immense weight. The doors opened, revealing a spacious interior large enough to accommodate all of us with room to spare.

'They must use this for the mining carts too, hence the size.'

One of the guards manipulated a series of levers, and the elevator began to ascend. The screech of grinding metal and turning gears filled the air, heightening the tension among the captives. Some trembled violently, others darted their eyes around anxiously, a few gnawed at their remaining fingernails.

My foot tapped against the floor in an erratic rhythm. The growing dread coiled in my stomach like a living thing, my breath turning shallow, my heartbeat stumbling in a nervous symphony.

Then, without warning, the elevator came to a jarring halt mid-ascent.

**"BRUMMMM!"**

We were all thrown off balance. Some collapsed to their knees, gasps of fear and confusion echoing through the space. The thirty survivors stared at the bronze doors with apprehension, waiting for whatever was about to happen.

But the true shock came from behind us.

With a deep, grinding roar, two sections of the elevator's back wall—previously indistinguishable from the volcano's rock—began to slide open.

"BRUUUUMM-BRUUUUMMM!"

I spun around, startled. The hidden wall revealed a small hall, and beyond it, two colossal red doors loomed imposingly.

Before I could process what was happening, the six guards began shoving us inside.

"Wait, no!!" 

"No! No! No!" 

"Please, don't do this! I don't want to die!"

Some struggled against the guards, but it was futile. We were tossed into the hall like ragdolls in the hands of giants. The moment all thirty of us were inside, the walls slammed shut behind us, sealing us in.

The hall was nothing like the decrepit structures of the mines. The floor gleamed with polished red and white marble. Jade, probably, I thought. Countless demonic runes were carved from floor to ceiling, their meanings beyond my comprehension.

There were no torches, no fire to illuminate the space. The very surface of the floor radiated a soft glow—unlike the incandescent stones that lit the mine's interior.

My thoughts shattered when the massive red doors ahead began to move.

A chill ran down my spine as they slowly creaked open, revealing what lay beyond.

The moment the doors parted halfway, an invisible force—a gravitational pull—seized us.

We struggled, but our legs refused to obey.

"Shuffle-shuffle," the sound of shuffling footsteps on polished marble filled the chamber as we were inexorably drawn forward.

The doors fully opened, unveiling an oval chamber no more than ten meters wide, bathed in an eerie crimson light emanating from a gemstone embedded in the ceiling. The demonic runes glowed as if ablaze, their presence overwhelming.

Within seconds, we were all inside. The doors shut behind us.

No one moved. No one could.

Instead, a suffocating terror filled the air, twisting my stomach into knots. My heart pounded in my throat, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

At the far end of the chamber, atop five stone steps, stood a small throne crafted from polished black and red stone. An engraving in red caught my eye.

I felt my breath hitch. This has to be a joke.

The Monarch's emblem? What the hell is it doing here?

A jagged crown, adorned with sharp spikes and two imposing horns, was etched into the throne's surface.

But my shock would have to wait.

Behind the throne, space itself twisted. With the sound of shattering glass, a portal ripped open.

Pure darkness. I can't see what's inside.

Then—

"Click-clack." "Click-clack." "Click-clack." "Click-clack."

The rhythmic sound of deliberate footsteps echoed from the void.

A woman emerged.

Time slowed to a crawl. The world moved in slow motion. Every single captive froze, breath caught in their throats.

Her steps, measured and deliberate, sent a primal dread surging through me—like the countless beatings I had endured from the overseers. But this was something far worse. It wasn't just physical pain—it was as if my very existence was being crushed under the weight of her presence.

She was tall, around 1.75m, with cascading white hair that flowed past her hips. Her skin was smooth, flawless, white as freshly fallen snow. Her nose was delicate, slightly upturned, and her eyes—burning red like molten lava—were utterly mesmerizing. Two towering crimson horns jutted from her head, radiating an aura so overwhelming it threatened to bring me to my knees.

She wore a fitted black leather outfit—buttoned up to the neck, with tight pants that accentuated her form. Silver ornaments adorned the fabric, exuding a presence that went far beyond mere clothing. Even covered, her silhouette was unmistakable: full, firm breasts, an impossibly slender waist, and hips that curved in a way that made the leather strain against them.

She strode toward the obsidian throne with an unhurried grace, every movement fluid, calculated. But her face remained an empty canvas—devoid of superiority, disdain, or even power. A blank slate. A machine incapable of emotion.

She sat. Legs crossed.

A nearly imperceptible figure lurked behind the throne. A shadow with pitch-black eyes.

I was the only one who noticed.

Then, she spoke.

Her voice rang through the chamber—clear, emotionless, absolute.

"Let's begin," she said, her tone void of warmth.

"1%."