The Demon King's Miserable End

As Gilgamesh turned toward me, the battle seemingly finished, I could see the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his golden eyes. He had enjoyed himself, but only briefly, and now, his attention was shifting back to something more important—or, in this case, to me.

"Draven," he began, his voice calm, steady, and regal, carrying the weight of countless victories and wars fought over millennia. "You're fortunate. There are few mortals who would ever witness—"

His words were cut off.

Behind him, Malakaroth, who had been standing still, his body radiating nothing but defeat, moved. It was subtle at first, a twitch of his massive hands, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto the back of Gilgamesh's head. The demon king's pride had been wounded, but that wasn't enough to stop him. He had waited, bided his time, and now, seeing the King of Heroes turning his attention away from him, he believed this was his moment.