Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World

Three days passed.

The scent of oil and blood clung to the courtyard stone—not from war, but from practice. From the sharp discipline of bodies refusing to go soft.

Asmodeus ducked, pivoted, and let Levia's blade skim past his shoulder, close enough to cut if she hadn't dulled the edge.

He moved faster than her follow-up. His hand caught her wrist and twisted. She hissed, but didn't drop the sword.

'Smart girls.'

Erika dashed behind him, dual swords in hand. He could feel her presence—the short, shallow breaths, the slight shuffle of boots on stone as she shifted her weight. She'd learned to stop telegraphing her strikes.

She still wasn't fast enough.

Asmodeus released Levia's arm, dropped low, and slid forward under Erika's punch. Her fist passed just over his shoulder. She stumbled off balance.

Levia slammed into her from behind.

"Too slow," he muttered.

He rose between them, shirtless, barefoot. His chest glistened with sweat, dust clinging to the damp lines of his arms. His knuckles were scuffed raw. He hadn't wrapped them. No need.

Ciela leaned against a column nearby, arms crossed. Her emerald braid swung over one shoulder, expression caught between delight and disbelief. Velvet and Riel sat on the stairs, legs swinging, whispering behind their hands.

"Why is he so strong without magic, or transforming... damn it," Velvet murmured, eyes fixed on him. She grinned. "No wonder those three got pregnant…"

Riel said nothing.

Her eyes shifted between Velvet, Ciela, and Asmodeus. Her lips parted, then closed again. She hadn't been touched since the fight against Mephisto—not a kiss, not a glance. She bit her lip and turned away, heading for the hall.

"Won't you chase her, Velvet?" Ciela asked.

"Why?" Velvet shrugged. "I know what she's worried about. But do you really think that man would treat her like that?" Her grin returned. "He's waiting. There's a reason. He just hasn't said it."

"I know why~!"

The voice drifted down from above. Sultry. Playful.

A blue-skinned beauty clung to the stone pillar above, wearing nothing but two flimsy strips of cloth—one covering her slit, the other her nipples. Barely.

Sariel fluttered her wings, twisting around the pillar. "He's just shy~ He doesn't know how to face her yet~ Ehehe~ Master is such a fool."

"Sariel!? What the hell are you wearing?" Ciela shouted.

"Hmmm?" She twisted upside down, smiled. "Want to try it? Look~!"

With a spin, her outfit changed—now a thick robe covered her head to toe.

"This is what others see."

Another spin.

The lewd outfit returned, barely hiding anything.

"This is what Master and my sisters see~ Isn't it amazing?"

Ciela's face turned cold. Velvet's eyes narrowed with a grin. "Can you make one for me? Maybe I'll finally catch him off guard and land a hit."

Meanwhile, in the courtyard—

A dozen demon knights, Levia, and Erika all panted, weapons stuck in the dirt, bodies slick with sweat.

"Again," Asmodeus said.

Levia snarled and came in low. Smart again.

He stepped into her attack, caught her arm with his elbow, then brought his knee between her thighs—not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to make her flinch.

She gasped.

He tossed her over his hip.

Erika lunged with both swords.

He caught one strike on his forearm. It stung. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed her collar and yanked her forward, blade pinned between them, chest to chest.

'I'm still not strong enough...' she thought.

Her eyes met his.

"Yield," he whispered.

She bared her teeth. "Never."

He slammed his forehead into hers—just enough to daze—then kicked her backwards into a pillar. Bang.

She slumped down. Not unconscious. Just out of the fight.

He exhaled, flexed his fingers. Muscles burning. Lungs heaving. His blood was still hot.

Then he looked up.

And froze.

Sariel, still half-naked, stood on the pillar, bouncing slightly with a letter in hand. The thin cloth slipped. Her breasts flopped free, soft, perfect, flushed pink against blue skin.

"Wow~" she giggled.

His cock twitched.

'That damn succubus…'

But then his eyes dropped to the letter in her hand. The grin left his face.

He already knew.

It wasn't good news.

Sariel grinned like she'd just caught him jacking off mid-ritual. Nipples still bare, wings fluttering, she hopped down from the pillar without shame. The wind caught her skirt—if you could even call it that—flashing another perfect view of her glistening slit as she landed with a soft tap beside him.

Asmodeus didn't flinch.

Didn't move.

But his cock twitched with each bounce and jiggle.

Ever since he awakened as a demon Emperor, his lust for battle and sex increased tenfold.

"You thought I'd fall for that?"

She tilted her head. "You mean this?" She held the letter out, smiling like it was some erotic prop. "It's from Vinea. They reached Grigor."

He took it from her fingers, ignoring the way her nails traced his palm.

The seal was broken already. Of course. Sariel never waited.

—

Dearest Asmodeus,

My damn father is annoying. He seems to be over the moon about the news. He's asked us to stay a little while longer… forgive me, darling.

Alice seems happy chatting with her brother. She's been in the library most of the day.Asmodea keeps sighing and calling your name while being nagged by her knight, Kathryn.

I'm not sure about the movements of the mainland humans. All seems peaceful for now.

If anything happens, I'll send another letter.

With love,Vinea

—

Asmodeus exhaled through his nose and folded the letter.

Not bad. He'd half-expected some political condition or absurd request from that old bastard.

Well… I did knock up all his daughters. And his sister.

Still, something itched beneath his skin. A tension that wasn't coming from the words.

He looked up.

Sariel hadn't moved. Her smile was still there, playful and lazy. But her eyes had changed—golden, sharp, just faintly glowing now.

"What aren't you telling me?"

He stepped closer, not liking the quiet seriousness in her posture, rare for her. Sariel didn't do silence.

She didn't answer.

Instead, she smiled wider and reached forward, slowly, unbothered, and palmed his crotch through his pants.

Her fingers curled.

His breath caught.

Her wings fluttered behind her, and her voice dropped into that low, teasing murmur only he ever heard in private.

"Ehehe~ I've missed this."

——

Smoke coiled across the ruined city.

The sword in his hand was wrong.

Alan felt the weight before he saw it—heavier than it should've been, colder. It dragged along the ruined stone, scraping with a noise that set his teeth on edge.

It had once been holy.

Now it was black. Not painted, not stained—black like rot, like something alive was coiled around the blade and whispering.

Grigor was gone.

The city he loved now lay in ruin, shattered towers, crumbled walls, smouldering beams and wind full of molten ash. The air stank of foul magic, and filthy flesh, of bodies that hadn't been burned and left to rot.

He walked forward anyway.

And there he was.

Asmodeus.

Pinned to the broken edge of a fountain, slumped against cracked stone. Alan's sword was buried in his chest, driven straight through. Blood soaked his shirt as he gazed up at his old friend. There was no hatred, just a sad... apologetic smile with his blood-soaked hair stuck to his forehead.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Alan didn't remember lifting the blade.

Didn't remember the strike.

But the blood on his hands was warm, and the weight in his chest was real.

Asmodeus looked at him like a brother would.

Like someone saying Don't worry, I don't blame you.

But the next moment his head drooped, and the light left his eyes... in that instant a silver fox with ten tails ascended in the sky... her eyes black, tears of blood and tar oozing down her cheeks...

Then she split the sky above.

Flames swallowed Grigor whole, along with Alan, who screamed in sorrow.

—

He woke in silence.

The scream died in his throat, stuck somewhere between his ribs and heart. His back was soaked in sweat. The sheets beneath him clung like wet cloth.

He reached for the blade at his side on instinct—his real one. Still wrapped. Still untouched.

His hand trembled around the hilt.

He didn't unsheathe it.

Didn't want to look.

Although the dream faded but the guilt remained.

Alan sat on his bed, hunched into a ball while breathing quietly, trying to calm himself.

The tent was quiet. No guards called. No birds outside. Just the faint flapping of canvas and the distant crackle of coals.

This wasn't the first time.

He had lost count of how many times he'd seen it—himself, standing over Asmodeus, sword plunged deep, blood spraying across stone.

Sometimes, Asmodeus fought back.

Sometimes he didn't.

Sometimes he even smiled, like it was meant to happen.

Every time Alan woke, shaking.

He couldn't speak of it.

He was the one chosen to meet the delegation from the mainland. The one the priests trusted. The one Asmodeus called brother.

He couldn't go to them. Couldn't risk the whispers. Couldn't have them doubting him now. Not when every diplomat and soldier on the continent would be watching.

Alan couldn't lie to the world, nor lie to himself. He felt it buried somewhere deep, something was corrupting from the inside, and one day, he feared he might let it.

There was something dangerous lingering inside...

However, as the one tasked with meeting the mainland's delegation he couldn't seek the help he needed. Rather he believed he could endure it.

That he had more time.