Reincarnated As A Demon Lord

Uriel walked alone, his steps echoing faintly along the wide stone pathways of Hades, the heat curling like mist from the cracks beneath his feet. His cloak, black and simple, whipped softly at his calves, caught by occasional drafts of warm, sulfuric air rising from vents in the obsidian ground.

Anubis's words were still in his ears: Take a walk… See where you fit.

He knew exactly where he fit.

With her. It would always be with her.

But now? Now he was wandering this hell-built empire of ancient stones and old allegiances, a kingdom balanced on treachery and flame, unsure of whether the crown itself was solid—or a trap waiting to close around her throat.

He didn't trust this place.

And now, it wasn't just distrust.

It was disgust.

As he passed through the arch of a broken citadel wall, he heard voices. Sharp, muttering, accompanied by the dry rustling of scaled tails against stone.

Three demons sat gathered in the broken alcove of an old shrine, their horns catching the dim glow of the city's eternal forge. Tattoos like cracks in drying clay webbed their forearms. He recognized none of them personally—but by the way they spoke, they weren't gutter scum. Servants, yes. But not without rank.

"…I don't care what anyone says," one of them spat. His voice was low, almost growling. "She's not from here. Doesn't smell of Hades. Doesn't bleed right. She doesn't belong on the steps of the Vault, much less near the throne."

Uriel stopped, his footfalls went silent.

Another demon barked a laugh. "She's pretty, though. Maybe that's why she thinks she can sit on a throne. Bet she opens those legs for them, that little—"

They didn't get to finish that sentence.

Before the word had fully left his forked tongue, Uriel was already there.

It wasn't rage that drove him forward.

It was something colder. Something cleaner.

The first demon saw him too late. Uriel's palm struck the creature's chest, fingers curling like claws into flesh, and the sound it made was not of bone breaking—but of soul tearing.

A flash of crimson lightning forked through the demon's torso from Uriel's arm. In one horrific instant, the creature's body shriveled inward—collapsed into itself like burned parchment curling into black ash.

By the time the others shouted and scrambled back, Uriel was already straightening, lowering his hand like someone dismissing a useless thought.

One of the remaining demons scrambled to his feet, hissing through sharp teeth, trembling. "D-Do you know who that was?!"

Uriel's crimson eyes lifted to meet his.

"Does it matter?"

"That was Grathak's blood servant! You—you've killed the property of one of the Twelve! You're dead. Your whore queen is dead."

Uriel stepped forward once. Just once.

And they ran.

"Bunch of cowards," he spat as he watched them run.

But the fire in his veins didn't cool.

They had spoken her name like it was dirt. Like it wasn't the only name left in his world worth protecting.

Behind him, the ashes of the dead demon scattered into the rising wind.

He didn't care about the Twelve. He didn't know them so why would he care about some insignificant identities.

The walk back to the inner chambers of the palace was longer than it should've been.

Uriel's steps were steady, measured—but his mind was burning. Not with guilt. Guilt was something mortals felt. What he felt was hunger.

Hunger for the next thing that dared to speak her name with filth.

He reached the black stone doors of her quarters, hands curling and flexing at his sides before he pushed them open without waiting for permission.

----

The chamber was quiet now.

Azazel was long gone.

Only the scent of burning oil lingered faintly in the space he had occupied, as though the room itself remembered him even when she didn't want to.

Anubis stood by the high, narrow window, the folds of her robe falling perfectly against her form—tight across her waist, loose down her sleeves, the fabric whispering faintly whenever she moved.

She wasn't moving now.

Below, the molten rivers of Hades flowed like slow blood, and the ever-present hum of distant thunder echoed softly through the obsidian walls of her sanctum.

Her fingers rested lightly against the carved stone frame of the window. Her nails traced the runes etched there centuries before her arrival—runes written in a tongue only a handful still remembered.

She didn't blink. She barely breathed.

She was somewhere between fury and exhaustion, and she didn't have the strength to tell the difference anymore.

The doors opened behind her.

Uriel stepped in, closing them behind him with deliberate care.

Anubis didn't turn right away, but she felt his presence, calm but tight like a bowstring pulled taut.

"You're back," she said quietly.

"I am," Uriel replied, his voice steady.

For a moment, only the low hum of Hades filled the air between them.

Then she finally turned her head, just slightly, enough to meet his gaze across the room.

There was something different in his eyes now.

Something heavier.

"What did you find?" she asked softly.

Uriel's jaw flexed before he answered. "The streets are restless. They're speaking of you… wrongfully."

"Let them speak," she said, almost gently. "It's their right to fear what they don't understand."

Uriel hesitated.

Her gaze sharpened slightly at that hesitation.

"There's more," she said flatly.

He exhaled through his nose, shoulders stiffening.

"One of them said your name… filth on his tongue." His fists clenched slowly at his sides. "I couldn't let it stand."

Silence.

Then Anubis fully turned.

"You killed him."

A statement, not a question.

Uriel nodded once.

It should have pleased her. Violence on her behalf usually did. But there was something else in her eyes now—not disappointment, not anger… calculation.

"Who was he?" she asked.

"A servant," Uriel said. "Of someone higher."

Anubis was already filling in the blanks in her mind, connecting threads. "Whose?"

Uriel's voice dropped like stone into a still lake.

"Grathak."

The name hung there between them like a sword unsheathed.

Of course.

Grathak.

One of the old guard. One of the ancient demons who had never accepted her rise, even if he'd been too much of a coward to speak it aloud.

Until now.

Her lips parted, a slow, deliberate inhale.

"Do they know it was you?" she asked, her voice soft, controlled.

"Not yet," Uriel said. "But they'll find out."

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then she smiled.

It wasn't warm.

It was sharp, like broken glass reflecting moonlight.

"Good," she whispered.

Uriel took a slow step forward, tension still coiled in every line of his frame.

"I won't apologize," he said firmly. "I would do it again if necessary."

She didn't ask him to.

The molten rivers below reflected in her violet eyes.

"Let them come," she said. "If Grathak wants to test the strength of my reign, he's welcome to bleed for it."

Uriel's posture eased slightly—not relaxed, but something closer to grounded.

"I'll stand with you."

Her gaze softened for the briefest flicker of a second before hardening again.

"I never doubted it."

And then—

A heavy boom echoed far below, deep in the heart of the citadel—like a distant drum or the first roll of thunder before a storm breaks.

The game was starting.