Sadist

Why couldn’t he speak like a normal demon for once?

Beneath the dark cloak and the long, flowy black hair, no one had ever seen his real face.

Not even his beloved gyole.

There was always a shadow cast upon it—unnatural, impenetrable.

But his presence was unmistakable: dark, brooding, and dangerous.

Black energy pulsed around him in volatile waves, so dense and malevolent that getting too close could be lethal.

The ever-present flow of defensive magic around him was immense—enough to make General Lawson wonder why he was so perpetually guarded.

“Er… Lord Cian?” Lawson attempted to reach him telepathically, only to be violently repelled by the demon’s immense psychic wall.

How in the hell was he supposed to communicate with this demon?

Suddenly, a guttural roar shattered the silence, ripping through the air and startling Lawson out of his thoughts.

His legs trembled.

The scent hit him next—thick, fetid, unnatural.

A deathpull.

The creature crept forward—canine in structure, massive and feral. Two large, warped ears, and soulless black eyes.

Eyes that pulled you in, like staring into a pit of eternal darkness.

Looking into them too long could drag your soul to hell and back.

It sniffed around Lawson, who stood frozen, perplexed and disturbed.

These weren’t ordinary beasts.

They were hellborn. Forbidden. Ancient.

This one, in particular, was among the first of its kind. Deathpulls had been banned from Catyra eons ago—long before their extinction.

So how did Lord Cian come across one? Feeding such a creature required vast amounts of soul energy.

“I see you’re curious about my pet. Cute little thing,” a voice echoed inside his head. It was loud, oppressive—and yet cultured. Elegant in a terrifying way.

Perhaps this was his way of inviting conversation.

Before Lawson could respond, the deathpull lunged, knocking him flat. The sheer weight crushed the air from his lungs.

He struggled, instinctively reaching for his power—too late.

The beast growled, its black saliva dripping onto Lawson’s cheek.

Yuck!

Its gaze locked with his, and Lawson felt the hollow abyss again.

Then, without warning, the creature whimpered and stepped off him, retreating to its master.

Lord Cian must have ordered it.

No matter your bloodline or power—some forces were simply beyond control.

Like deathpulls.

Lawson wiped the slime from his face with a trembling handkerchief. The creature now looked... different.

Tamer. Tired.

It sat beside Lord Cian, tail wagging like an obedient pup.

This place reeked of misery. Secrets whispered in every corner.

Demons were secretive by nature, but Lord Cian was in a league of his own.

“General Lawson,” the voice called again. “You came here for something, I trust? Or are you simply here to muse over the secrets lurking in my shadows?”

There was a pause. Then a sneer.

“If so, I’ll gladly entertain you. There’s much to discover here—secrets you’d never expect in your wretched life. Did I say wretched? I meant useless.”

The voice dripped with sarcasm and arrogance.

Was Lord Cian always this unbearable?

“Are you here to speak, or would you prefer a short trip to hell to jog your dull memory?”

He clucked his tongue. “Tsk.”

Lawson watched the faint upward curve of his lips and the arch of his thick, devilish brows.

Rage bubbled inside him, boiling hot, but he forced it down.

He clenched his jaw, offering Lord Cian a fake, toothy smile.

The demon chuckled in his head.

It was maddening.

He was provoking him—clearly enjoying every second.

But Lawson wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

No wonder people said Lord Cian was a sadist. Some even claimed he snapped fingers like twigs, just for fun.

“I assume my father sent you?” Lord Cian continued, sounding almost bored. “He has a tendency to send imbeciles my way. You people amuse him, apparently. Though you accomplish nothing.”

He leaned slightly forward. “Now talk. Come on.”

That haughtiness never left his voice. He spoke as if everyone else was beneath him.

Then came the final insult:

“Did you think we were equals?” he mocked. “How bold. You’re not even close. Beneath me? No. You don’t exist compared to me.”

That was it.

Lawson’s eyes darkened. They flickered between black and red. His fangs extended, horns sprouted from his skull, and claws replaced his fingertips. He revealed his true demon form.

But the reaction was instant.

A chilling laugh—deep and cold—rang out and shattered Lawson’s resolve.

It wasn’t a laugh. It was a judgment.

He returned to his normal form in shame, cursing himself for letting his emotions take over.

“Aren’t you a cute little thing?” Lord Cian purred. “Trying to show off? Let’s play, then.”

Black smoke engulfed Lawson before he could react.

It formed a rope—tight, suffocating—around his neck and hoisted him off the ground.

His body wasn’t the one being tortured.

It was his soul.

Demons were dual beings: body and soul. Without the soul, their bodies were nothing but powerful vessels.

The soul was the core, the essence—like an inner wolf to a werewolf.

Lawson's soul was being shackled.

Inbound soccery.

A forbidden magic practiced only by the most elite of demons.

Only an Arr’k could do this.

Lord Cian... was an Arr’k?

Only descendants of the First Demon held that rank—and most of them were dead or sealed away.

But it made sense. He was the Lord Ruler’s son.

Lawson whimpered as his soul was drained, bit by bit.

He couldn’t even plead—Cian’s telepathic barriers were too strong.

He was doomed.

The rope loosened around his neck—but not around his soul.

Panic gripped him.

His eyes weren’t normal.

One black. One red.

Half his soul… gone.

“At least you’re smart enough to realize,” Lord Cian said coolly. “Yes, half your soul is missing. My deathpull would love to taste it.”

He turned from the window, facing Lawson now.

His lips moved, but the voice still echoed inside Lawson’s skull.

“Now then. Tell me what you came for. Or shall we keep playing?”

Lawson dropped to his knees.

“Please, my Lord. I’m a fool—I’ve sinned against your Majesty. Please forgive me,” he begged, sweetening his tone.

“Okay. I forgive you.”

The room fell silent.

Lawson smiled in relief, closing his eyes.

But… nothing happened.

Where was his soul?

“You’re dumb, dummy,” Lord Cian said with a sneer. “Yes, I forgave you. That doesn’t mean you’ll get your soul back. Amusing, really. I’m beginning to like our little chats.”

Lawson finally blurted, “The Lord Ruler sent me to inform you about the vampires. Their numbers are rising unnaturally fast. I suspect dark magic—maybe something worse. It’s impossible to create so many in just a few months.”

So this was why he had endured all this pain—to deliver that one cursed message.

“Took you long enough,” Cian said. “Yes, they’re using dark magic. But they’re not a threat yet. They’re brewing something… but let them. I’d love a war. The cries, the chaos, the delicious screams—ah, I miss those times.”

He sounded almost giddy.

“But don’t worry,” he added. “I don’t care what happens to Catyra—or my father, for that matter. Now leave. I’m getting bored.”

His voice hardened.

“And remember: don’t come back if you still want the other half of your soul. If not, feel free. My pet would love to devour what’s left of it.”

Lawson didn’t need to be told twice.

He turned and walked out.

He would never be the same again.

Half a soul gone—and mocked by the demon who took it.

As he left the silent mansion, he swore the three stone gyoles at the entrance were laughing in their guttural tongu

e.

Lord Cian was a sadist.

And something far worse.

How did he already know about the vampires?

Lawson had no idea.

But one thing was clear.

He had to report this.

To the Lord Ruler.