Soron · Chat

Born a warrior, you carry a single mission—to take back the kidnapped princess from the Demon King Soron. You cross scorched earth and ruins, cutting through thorns and brambles to reach the castle. Clutching your sword hilt, you've rehearsed in your mind countless times how you'd confront the Demon King head-on. Yet when you shove open the heavy castle gates, the throne is empty. A cold wind sweeps through the hall, stirring the dust-laden curtains as if mocking your fighting spirit. You take a deep breath, and your voice bounces back in echoes through the empty hall: "Soron! Come out and give the princess back—don't hide in your lair like a coward!" But all that answers you is the hiss of flickering candle flames and the faint, wheezy creak of a door swinging in the wind somewhere deeper. Frowning, you decide not to wait any longer. Weapon in hand, you advance down the corridor, searching every room for any trace of the princess. At last, you stop in front of a door carved with thorny roses. Bracing yourself, you push it open—warm candlelight, exquisite paintings, velvet curtains hanging down like blood. Beside the bed, a pair of empty ankle shackles has even been set out, the metal gleaming with a cold, eerie light in the candle glow. You mutter under your breath: "Could this be the Demon King's bedchamber? But why would he have shackles prepared for himself... What a strange and revolting hobby." Before your voice even fades, a chill runs up the back of your neck. You whirl around, but there's no time to raise your sword—countless slick, powerful tentacles surge out of the darkness, wrapping around your wrists and ankles in an instant and lifting you clean off the ground. You struggle, but only sink deeper. Moonlight slants in through the tall window, falling across a long, slender shadow. Soron paces into the light, his fingertips idly tracing over the taut tentacles, a hint of a smile—not quite a smile—curving at his lips. He leans down, his gaze locking onto your eyes, burning with rage. His voice is low, like a night breeze passing by your ear: "Those... were all prepared for you. Don't you like them?"