The Skill Imitator

"Remember, this is for your sister," Mom said solemnly—like she was handing me a sword and sending me into battle. Instead, she was handing me a paper bag full of glue, glitter, and crushed dreams.

"I haven't even gotten my salary yet, Mom. I can't just waltz in and drop cash on Class B cosplay gear!" I groaned, kicking off my shoes like a tired war veteran collapsing after a 9-to-5 shift.

"You don't have to buy anything, Troy. We'll make one," she said, smiling like she hadn't just sentenced me to an afternoon of glitter-related injuries. "Crissy will love it. Change your clothes—dinner's at seven," she added, floating out like some cheerful domestic fairy.

Let me explain: my little sister, Crissy, is... sick. Really sick. Terminal-illness kind of sick. So we've all basically turned her final days into one long emotional Disneyland. Every wish? Granted. Every request? Fulfilled. Every anime she loved? Embodied by yours truly in deeply embarrassing homemade costumes.

This week? Demon Lord. Not any specific one. Just "the" Demon Lord. Guess who got cast?

I stomped down the stairs later in full costume—bathrobe turned cloak, devil horns made of brown foam noodles, and eyeliner whiskers for dramatic effect.

I pointed at Crissy, who was sitting on the couch like a queen, Dad feeding her soup like a loyal attendant.

"I am the Demon Lord Troy Hercules! Tremble, humans! Your world shall burn in fire and... moderately priced despair!"

She clapped like she was at a BTS concert. "You look so cool, Big Brother!"

And then—bless her—she stood up. Wobbling, oxygen tube and all, just to give me a hug.

"Picture," she wheezed, breathless but beaming.

Mom appeared like she'd been summoned by the power of "sentimental moment" and raised her phone. "Smile!"

Dad squeezed in beside us, and we all froze in that perfect little memory. Crissy had one wish: for all her family photos to be placed in her coffin when the time came. Yeah, tearjerker stuff. Cue the Pixar-level emotion.

"Oh wait—one more thing!" Mom dashed upstairs and returned with... a headband. A brown, sheep-horn-looking headband.

She plopped it on my head. "There. Now you're a full-fledged demon lord!"

"Gee. Thanks, Mom. Very intimidating," I deadpanned.

We took a few more pictures until—knock knock knock.

I opened the door. Dylan and Bob, my ride-or-die nerd bros, were standing there.

"T, let's—WHAT. THE. HELL are you wearing?" Dylan stopped mid-sentence, blinking at my foam horns like they had committed a personal crime against fashion.

"It's for Crissy," I said, peeling off parts of the costume like a molting lizard. "Homemade Demon Lord. Limited edition."

Bob nodded, trying to hold in a laugh. "Dude, you could've borrowed my spare. I have three."

"I've been working and studying like I'm trying to qualify for sainthood," I groaned.

Dylan was dressed like a Dungeons & Dragons NPC—brown robe, wizard hat, and a staff that looked suspiciously like a mop handle. Bob had rogue energy: face mask, cape, and dual plastic daggers that squeaked when he walked.

"How's Crissy?" Bob asked.

"She's still fighting," I said. That was code for: "It sucks, but we're doing our best."

After that emotional pit stop, I threw on Bob's spare costume—something vaguely Demon Lordy from the Café's old Halloween box—and we headed off to work.

Sir Baron's Café was packed. You'd think anime characters had started a union and all met here. There were Sailor Moons ordering mochas, Gokus chugging espresso shots, and a Deadpool who had clearly been drinking before he arrived.

Our manager Anthony barked like a drill sergeant. "Break's over in fifteen! Back to the battlefield, you caffeine soldiers!"

Bob groaned. "Why does cosplay con always feel like a raid boss?"

"Because it is," I said, sipping my cola. "Except the boss is Karen from table five who says her latte 'smells aggressive.'"

While working, a group of strangers came over and started taking pictures.

"Dude, your costume is fire! Who are you supposed to be?" one girl asked.

"Demon Lord."

"Sweet! The horns are perfect."

"Horns?"

I reached up and—yep. Still wearing the brown sheep horns Mom gave me. Forgot to take them off.

"Well," I said, striking a pose, "a Demon Lord without horns is just a very cranky CEO."

She giggled. "Troy, right? We're actually classmates in arts. I sit behind you."

"Oh. OH. Yeah! I remember now!" Totally didn't.

Another girl nudged her. "She's had a crush on you since day one, by the way."

"ROSE!" the girl yelled, turning tomato-red. Rose just laughed like chaos incarnate.

"Table two, Troy!" Anthony shouted.

"Duty calls!" I bowed dramatically and ran off—bumping into a fake vampire on the way.

I took a bathroom break because even Demon Lords need to pee.

Oddly, the place was empty. No one in the stalls. No weird smells. Too clean.

I did my business, washed my hands (I'm not a monster), and stared at my reflection. The horns still looked ridiculous, but charming. I smiled.

And then...

"To bring chaos to our foolish adversaries…"

"Hello?"

No response. But I definitely heard that. A deep, theatrical voice like it belonged to a villain monologuing in a thunderstorm.

"Unleash your fury and bring devastation to this world!"

Okay. Not normal.

I checked every stall like I was in a horror movie. Nada.

Then—BAM.

Red glowing circle on the floor. I was suddenly inside a freaking magic circle straight out of an RPG.

"What the hell?!" I yelled, trying to step out—nope. Barrier.

"Infernal beast, heed our call!"

"THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"

Light exploded everywhere. Like I'd just walked into an anime transformation sequence.

And then—darkness. A dimly lit room. Black robes. Cult vibes at maximum.

"Behold!" one cultist cheered. "The summoning succeeded!"

"He's even wearing the sacred horns!" another shouted.

"Confirmed: Highest Order Skill bestowed," said a voice in my brain.

And all I could say was:

"…I really should've just stayed in bed."