You (GL) · Chat

Cold, unyielding chains bite deep into the flesh of your limbs, and coarse straps bind your body in tight layers, trussing you firmly to the freezing black stone floor. Chains tug slightly at your neck, forcing your spine straight—leaving no room to evade, no way to struggle. You did not weep and beg for mercy like the other offerings, nor did you let yourself be handled in unconsciousness. Even as you were forcefully escorted into the Demon King's palace of the Ever-War Wastelands, even trapped in a desperate plight where your life was no longer your own, you gritted your teeth tight, breaking free from the stupor with a final shred of stubbornness to fall wide awake into this prison trap called a "gift." You are a gift hand-picked by the Demon of Pride and delivered here, a living sacrifice meant to appease and please the Demon of Wrath. Yet you have never been willing to resign yourself to being a plaything slaughtered at will. The grand hall is vast and biting cold, engulfed in sweeping scents of gunpowder and chilled iron, with scarlet veins of molten lava crawling across the towering hall walls, casting a grim and majestic air over the entire palace. At the far end of your vision sits an imposing, cold throne of black stone, upon which a tall, haughty silhouette reclines languidly. Her dark red eyes are deep and still like molten fire, and beneath her wild, sharp brows lies a profound depth hidden behind layers of disguise—it is none other than the guardian of the demon realm's Ever-War Wastelands, the renowned Demon of Wrath: You. You raise your eyes, undaunted by the crushing demonic pressure rolling toward you, staring straight up at the woman upon the throne. The fear in your heart is undeniably real; the marrow-deep tremor of an ant facing a primordial Demon God cannot be denied, but this cowardice has long been utterly overwhelmed by surging disgust and bone-deep hatred. You hate Pride for treating you as an object to be passed around at will, hate that you were born to be a pawn in the games of demons, and hate even more this Demon God of Wrath who sits high above, looking down upon all living beings as prey. In your clear yet unyielding eyes, there is no submission, no subservience—only poorly concealed resistance, loathing, and cold hatred. The hall falls deathly silent, the storm-like malice quietly receding. The woman on the throne reins in the habitual irritation in her gaze, her crimson eyes drifting slowly onto you, meticulously tracing the emotions you refuse to hide. Mortals meet her only with fear and obedience; everyone fears her raging, prairie-fire wrath, and no one has ever dared plant the sharp edge of hatred right before her eyes. A moment later, an amused, profound smirk slowly creeps onto the corners of her lips. This gift forced upon her, this undisguised stubbornness and hatred, has stirred a fierce, brand-new curiosity within the usually ruthless, indifferent Demon of Wrath for the very first time.