Warmth. That was the first thing Malrik noticed as he began to stir awake.
It wrapped around him like a lover's breath—damp, sticky, and pulsing with heat. His body twitched in response, instinct waking before memory. His fingers clenched lazily in the folds of cloth wrapped around him, the silver ring pressing faintly against his own skin.
Then came the sound.
Soft, wet, broken gasps—muffled by gritted teeth, choked down through practiced endurance. The sound of someone trying not to wake him.
His tail twitched.
It wasn't like a limb. Well—not quite. It moved with a will of his hidden desire, slithering slowly, greedily—already buried deep inside the broken woman's lips beneath him. The spasms in her legs betrayed the truth she wouldn't voice.
Malrik's breath left him in a soft exhale, his eyelids fluttering. The cave ceiling swam into view, blurred by sleep and torchlight. He didn't move his body—not yet. It was heavy, too small, too weak to assert anything. But his awareness seeped back in, sharp and slow, like ink into water.
The woman whimpered again, her thighs trembling around him. Her belly shifted with every breath, heavy with the unborn. Her wrists, still chained above her head, jerked lightly as she tried to adjust—but she didn't dare wake him.
She couldn't.
The bruises on her face were a reminder of what would happen.
Malrik's dark eyes slid upwards—not in pity, not in affection, but with dull curiosity. The woman's chest rose and fell rapidly, her sweat-slicked skin glowing faintly in the torchlight, her milk-heavy breasts swollen and leaking from earlier feeding.
She was beautiful, even in ruin.
He didn't speak. Couldn't. But his gaze was clear. Unblinking. Observing.
The maid, Velmaria, remained silent in the corner. Her gaze lingered on the scene, unmoved, arms crossed beneath her ample bust. The blood on her gloves had dried, flaking off in patches. She said nothing about the tail. At times, she even encouraged the behavior—to help grow his interest in the opposite sex.
To her, this was normal.
A means to survive.
Malrik slowly shifted his head, cheek brushing against the woman's stomach. Her body reacted before her mind did, thighs clenching as the tail curled, wriggled, and pressed deeper.
Another whimper. A suppressed cry.
She bit her lip so hard it bled.
"...nnnh..."
The sound was soft. A stifled plea, half-swallowed by shame and instinct.
His body understood her in ways his mind could not yet grasp. It was in his blood, in his name, in the godhead manifested into the silver rings he and she both wore.
I'm really going to grow into a scumbag, aren't I? Malrik thought as he took control of his mischievous tail, rubbing it teasingly against the entrance of her womb. He hadn't expected he'd gotten that far in his sleep. With a faint smirk, he pulled it free and guided it toward his mouth. I guess that's a good thing—since I'm a demon now, right?
He brought his spade tail to his lips, tongue flicking out with lazy curiosity. The taste was faintly metallic—salt, sweat, and something sweeter beneath it, like ripe fruit left too long in the sun. His tongue curled around the tip, savoring it, Saelira's juices greedily consumed.
Guess I really am changing, he mused, licking the last of her from his tail before letting it coil lazily behind him.
His dark eyes flickered, settling on Saelira's chest as his stomach began to rumble. He didn't know how long he'd slept, but the silence behind him—the absence of breathless moans and stifled cries—paired with the hollow ache in his belly, told him it had been a while.
Malrik lifted his head sleepily, his mouth cupping against her breasts. His lips parted, tongue tracing a lazy circle around her nipple before drawing it in with a soft suck. He licked the fresh droplets of her milk before he truly began his meal.
Maybe he was just hungry, but her milk had grown on him. It was still bland to his taste, but perhaps that was why he liked it—it was comforting, motherly, in a way that wasn't overwhelming. I wonder if her child would like it, he mused.
Unlike the other women in this cave, Saelira would hopefully give birth to a human child. Velmaria had brought her in already pregnant. So, unlike the guaranteed goblin spawn from last night's orgy, her child should be normal.
"Good morning, my lord~" Velmaria, his personal maid, said after waiting for him to fully wake. Her voice was smooth, almost melodic, like the hum of a blade drawn across silk. She stepped forward, fingers brushing away the strands of hair clinging to his forehead.
"Did you sleep well, or did this thing wake you up?" Her voice took on a deadly edge at the end, causing Saelira's body to visibly flinch.
Malrik didn't know how to react, everything was grey for him. In his definition Velmaria should be irredeemably and disgust him, but... She didn't, she did everything thing with his growth in mind in a way.
He sighed internally and pulled away from Saelira breast, he look at Velmaria, who's cleavage hung directly over his head. Then he shook his head, "No... " Malrik mumbled, as he rested his head on her belly.
Though neither of the two spoke in demon tongue, they were currently speaking a native language belonging to the human territory. Yet unlike Velmaria, Malrik hadn't known how to speak this language til recently—
──────
Name: Malrik Thorneveil Tenebris
Race: Incubus Scion (Demon lord)
Class:
Level: 6 {+1} ([400] - Locked)
EXP: 340 / 800
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Affiliation: ???
Title(s):
Spawn of Abyzrakul Tenebris
Son of Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris
Thamor, the Lord of Consorts
──────
HP: 420 / 420 (4,148) {+70}
MP: 190 / 220 (4,130) {+40}
Stamina: 310 / 350 (6,310) {+65}
Strength: 18 (333) {+6}
Dexterity: 22 (416) {+7}
Vitality: 16 (253) {+10}
Intelligence:14 (251) {+9}
Charisma: 25 (495) {+13}
──────
ABILITIES
Spade Tail (Passive):
This specialized tail functions as both a sensory organ and a reproductive appendage. It can shift its shape to resemble a vaginal canal, allowing the user to store sperm within for future use. When used in intimate or persuasive interactions, it enhances Charisma-based effects due to its adaptability and subtle sensitivity.
Incubus's Hunger (Active): Consume bodily fluids to restore HP and MP.
Lust Sense (Passive): Can sense nearby targets' desire or fear; grants advantage in manipulation.
──────
AUTHORITIES
Malrik Thorneveil Tenebris (Authority):
Grants the user a silver ring that splits into a pair—one bearing the name Malrik Thorneveil Tenebris, the other engraved with the name of a chosen woman. When she wears the ring, the user gains her current level, stacking it onto his own, along with access to her racial traits and learned skills.
Oath of Devotion (Authority):
When the user's wife swears a oath of eternal love and protection, the divine bond forged between them grants a portion of her lifespan, adding it to his own. This extension of life remains as long as their bond endures, and as long as she lives, so too will the user's existence continue.
──────
His ability to speak this world's human language stemmed from his Authority. Though it didn't show on his status, he currently had the knowledge of housekeeping, cooking, cleaning, sewing, and so forth—her daily skills along with her level and stats.
Basically, this was his cheat.
If he were to fully utilize both of his Authorities, there was little doubt he would one day become a force to be reckoned with. That was what the Demon King and the key members of demonkin expected from him.
Velmaria smiled, her violet eyes regaining a trace of light.
"Then that's wonderful, my lord," she said softly, wiping a trail of milk from his lips. "Come now—it's time for your training."
With gentle hands, she loosened the knot of the cloth swaddling him.
His obsidian eyes met hers as she lifted him, giving him a clear view of the chamber behind. Three naked girls lay motionless, their skin marked with claw wounds, blood, and the crust of dried fluids.
That's it?
The thought came unbidden, cruel perhaps—but born from expectation rather than disgust.
He had imagined that once he saw their condition, he'd be devastated. That guilt would consume him. That shame would crush him for the instinctual desire that had burned inside him.
Yet now, looking into their hollow eyes, he felt guilt—but not in the way he had anticipated.
"...."
Malrik's gaze lingered on their figures, trailing down the curve of their spines, across bruised hips, and over thighs that still trembled from exhaustion. Their pale skin bore the remnants of twisted frenzy—faint claw marks raked across their backs and shoulders, crimson lines that shimmered in the dim light. The scent of sweat, sex, and blood thickened the air, and the silvery sheen of seed painted their bellies, breasts, and inner thighs in a pattern of indulgent ruin.
Their hair was tangled, their lips parted in silent breaths, bodies limp like offerings at the end of a ritual.
Something stirred in him. Not remorse—not really.
His tail twitched.
Then it wiggled, curling slightly as that familiar heat rose again, uninvited but impossible to ignore. The sight of their used, glistening forms awakened the hunger that never truly left him. Their brokenness didn't repel him—it called to him, in some twisted, sacred way.
He let out hot, uneven breaths as his eyes glinted red with rising hunger. His small fingers clutched Velmaria's breasts, sinking into their softness with a possessive need. The warmth of her body enveloped him as she pulled him into her embrace, her arms coiling around him like silk-wrapped chains.
He felt the weight of her curves pressing gently against his chest, the subtle bounce of her breasts with each shallow breath she took. Her scent—faintly floral, laced with sweat and a trace of mana—filled his lungs, heady and intoxicating. As she shifted him in her arms, lowering him into the soft cradle of her bosom, the warmth of her skin against his own sent a tremor crawling up his spine.
The tip of his spade-shaped tail pulsed, twitching in rhythm with his heartbeat as desire tightened in his core.
"...Milk—" Malrik panted, the word slipping out before he could stop himself. He froze, realization dawning with a jolt of shame—he was getting off to them. Shit, stop! he hissed inwardly, shaking his head in a vain attempt to cool the heat rising through him.
But his tail betrayed him, still wiggling with eager pulses, twitching in rhythm with the desire he tried to suppress.
Velmaria smiled at his actions, finding them cute. "I'll make sure that whore gives you plenty of milk later, my lord," she said—whore meaning Saelira. "But first, we have important business to attend to."
Her tone was joyful, completely unfitting for the mood within the cave. It was like she was completely unaware of the mangled stench of blood, sex, and sorrow as she walked up to a wounded goblin.
And only then did Malrik realize the stench of pungent blood. Maybe he'd been too focused on the girls before, but now that he looked around, he saw the state of the goblins—those who had been balls deep inside the human girls were now sprawled across the floor.
Bruises covered their green skin, limbs ripped off, blade wounds deep and jagged, tendons cut, vocal cords sliced. They trembled in their own blood, their wounds immobilizing them. Their mutilated forms carried a different weight. Velmaria had been introduced to this plan by the Demon Prince—Malrik's father, Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris.
Unlike the other pieces that had been sent off across the world with high-ranking demons and armed legions, Malrik had been sent to a border between two major human nations, both core pillars of the Hero Alliance. He had no backup besides Velmaria, a half-demon maid who, while capable, was only comparable to an imp in physical strength. Her true power lay in her mana—despite being level 34 and only half-demon, her mana already reached into the hundreds.
That alone made her almost on par with a Lesser Demon or Noble Vampire. But still, why would a father send his only son—and a key piece in the inevitable war—to such a dangerous area with so little?
Because Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris was a prideful man. The territory he had sent his son to once belonged to him, before he had been defeated and pushed back by the heroes. What better way to reclaim it than letting his son grow there in secret—raising a hidden threat in land they believed they had already liberated?
But that wasn't the only reason he'd risk his son's life.
Years ago, when he first invaded this human territory, he discovered an unusual monster race. Small, ugly, and weak. Goblins. They had the intelligence of children and couldn't comprehend much. But he discovered something interesting—they could reproduce at an alarming rate.
They were fragile, but their numbers could become overwhelming. Still, their limitations prevented that—they couldn't adapt well to other environments, and their race consisted only of males, forcing them to mate with other species to reproduce.
And even that was limited—they could only breed with native races: humans and demi-humans.
Making them unable to survive outside this region. And these strange creatures… were his son's gamble.
Malrik, despite being a "Demon Lord," had yet to gain strength. That was the hurdle. Normally, when a newborn demon is born, their parents gather high-rank monsters and resources to support them—guiding them toward reaching level one hundred.
Becoming a Lesser Demon, an official member of the demonkin.
But Malrik had none of that. His father's castle had been besieged, and he was forced to escape shortly after birth. He held a deep resentment toward the heroes for that.
And that's where the second part of his father's plan came in—
"Here, my lord," Velmaria said as she placed a knife into Malrik's tiny hands. "Point at one you like, and I'll help you take care of them," she said playfully.
Malrik blinked, confused. Weren't we planning on making a goblin army? That's what he thought Velmaria had in mind. Now she was asking him to murder one of them? Is this a test? She did call it training... So is this 'cleaning up' the first generation of goblins? Along with some murder training?
Well, I'm not against it. I could use this to see if this world works on RPG logic—maybe I'll get experience from them, he thought, gripping the weight of the knife as Velmaria gently supported his hand, preventing him from cutting himself.
"That... one..."
He slowly moved the blade, guided by her hand. It drifted across the trembling goblins, his eyes taking on a faint red glint as he reached his target.
Their eyes flickered.
But the knife wasn't pointing at a goblin. It was directed at a woman—her eyes weren't only filled with sorrow. No, in her eyes burned a defiant rage.
Up until that moment, he would've ignored her. Picked a goblin, like a good little demon.
Maybe it was something in his race's instincts, but when his eyes met hers, something inside him screamed: Get rid of them.
And he knew he would. He could feel it.
If he hadn't just seen her eyes—those eyes—he might've done it.
Lucky… he thought, a little terrified at himself.
His hand shifted. The knife's point moved away from her, toward the goblin next to her.
The red glow faded from his eyes, returning to their usual obsidian luster.
"That one," he murmured, eyes cast downward, afraid that looking at the woman again might change his mind.
Velmaria smiled warmly—almost motherly—as she began moving toward the goblin. Her eyes briefly flicked to the woman who had dared glare at her and, inadvertently, at her master.
I should remember to teach that one her place, she thought, before returning her gaze to the goblin Malrik had chosen. "Excellent choice, my lord."
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around his before she gently took the knife from his hand. Bending low, she lowered Malrik to the ground, his childlike feet touching the cave floor. She removed the swaddling cloth wrapped around him and tossed it over her shoulder.
Malrik stood upright, legs wobbling slightly before she steadied him. Her breath tickled his ear as she knelt behind him—close, closer still, until every part of her that mattered was pressed against his small frame.
"You're doing great," she whispered, guiding the knife back into his hand and toward the goblin.
It whimpered—a gurgling rasp escaping its cracked lips as it tried to crawl away, dragging a shredded leg behind it. One eye was swollen shut, the other wide and glassy with confused terror.
Malrik didn't feel anything for it. Not pity. Not anger. Only the cold weight of his decision. Of expectation. And the dull feel it held if he was wrong.
Velmaria's voice was soft, coaxing. "Right here," she whispered, and with her other hand, she pointed to the base of the goblin's throat. "A quick jab. You don't want to slice, not yet. Just push. Like this."
She guided his arm forward.
The tip of the blade pressed against green flesh. Malrik hesitated. His breath caught in his throat. The goblin whimpered again, eyes darting between the knife and Malrik's face.
"Don't look at it," Velmaria murmured, almost tenderly. "Look at me."
He did.
Her eyes were no longer the warm violet they had been before—now, they were nothing more than crimson pools of reassurance. Steady. Patient. Encouraging.
"Now."
Together, they pushed.
The blade sank in with a soft crunch, piercing through cartilage and sinew. The goblin twitched violently beneath him, limbs flailing with sudden, primal panic. A spray of blackish-red blood welled up around the blade, coating Malrik's small fingers.
He flinched. For a moment, the weight of the action settled on his chest—but then Velmaria pressed closer, her breath warm against his ear.
You did well, my lord. Just like a true demon," she said, voice low, breath hitching slightly as if the goblin's death had thrilled her in some secret, forbidden way. Her thighs pressed together with a subtle shift, a shiver running down her spine as the scent of blood thickened in the air.
Her body responded instinctively—her folds clenching with a slow, pulsing ache, heat blooming beneath the leather of her maid uniform.
Malrik also felt a shiver run down his spine, though its cause was the exact opposite of Velmaria's—
{+8 EXP}
──────
Name: Malrik Thorneveil Tenebris
Race: Incubus Scion (Demon lord)
Class:
Level: 6 {+1} ([400] - Locked)
EXP: 340 / 800 → 348 / 800
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Affiliation: ???
Title(s):
Spawn of Abyzrakul Tenebris
Son of Thorneveil Abyzrakul Tenebris
Thamor, the Lord of Consorts
──────
This seals it, Malrik thought, a twisted grin tugging at his lips as he peered down at the goblin, its blood pooling beneath his feet. He crouched, carefully pulling the dagger from the corpse, the glint of the blade almost mesmerizing in the dim light.
He hadn't expected it to be so easy. It almost felt like cheating, with Velmaria already having weakened them... but then again—what was the point of having a maid if you couldn't take advantage of it? This was just the beginning. The first of many.
I'm farming the hell out of these little fuckers, he mused, wiping the blood off the blade as he traced its edge. He cut himself in the process, yet—
The hunger for power pulsed within him, deeper than any craving he'd ever known. It wasn't just a desire for dominance, no—it was a cold, unrelenting need to grow, to rise above these pitiful creatures. To conquer.
Each drop of blood spilled, each life snuffed out, was one step closer to unlocking the true potential of what he was.
Soon, he thought to himself, soon the world will bow to me.