Still in the Praximas Dwarf World, surrounded by the aftermath of mass suicide, the atmosphere was morbid—for both Evan and the Imp. Evan was perplexed and silent, drained both physically and psychologically. The Imp could see this.
But for the Imp, it was an all-too-familiar sight. It reminded him of the days when he was still a world conqueror, sitting at the center of chaos left in his wake, wondering: What was all this for? What would this be worth?
Back then, he'd tell himself it was for the Nefarious Empire—to show supremacy, to leave a legacy of power. But after his daughter's death, none of it mattered anymore. Purpose had faded.
So, seeing Evan in such a state, the Imp decided it was time to share a story—his story.
While Evan remained stunned by everything around them, the Imp began:
"The Nefarious World—once the mighty Nefarious Empire—was the most powerful and beautiful in all the universes. I was born lucky... the son of Persephone, the greatest warrior to ever live. My mother was both kind and vicious—a queen in every sense. She believed in expanding the empire across all worlds. Even while pregnant, she led campaigns and never relented.
When I was born, she named me Kalon, and she spoiled me beyond imagination. No, 'Imp' wasn't my original name—that's a story for another time.
When my powers first manifested, that was the true beginning. I was destined to be the next king of the Nefarious Empire. I was normal then—tall, powerful, charismatic. All I wanted was to fulfill my mother's dream.
But soon, I learned that the idea of war was different from the reality of it.
My first real battle was against the Weavers—twisted creatures from the Dark Realm. They had grown too bold, and my mother sent me to deal with them.
Eager to prove myself, I entered the deep end of the realm… determined to make her proud.
But shortly after I arrived, I realized that most of the Weavers… well, there were only about five of them left, as they had been killed by a plague. And now I had no other choice than to bring them back to my mother in the hope that she would have mercy. After all, she was always kind to me.
And so we went back to the Nefarious world—so naive—and we got to my mother's throne room. She, with her council, would decide the fate of the last Weavers. And at the end, I begged them to let them be. And as I spoke the last line, she gave a command, and four of the five were beheaded.
I don't know if it was the brutality or the splatter of blood on my face, but that was the first self-actualization for me—of what the empire was really about. And it scared me.
Then my mother turned to me and said, "We saved the last for you. Fix your mistake. Correct your error."
And so she gave me her hefty sword—Quintessa—a sword which holds the soul of all those it takes. And whoever wields it can feel the weight of the pain and agony it brings.
This was the first time my mother ever gave me her sword. That was the turning point for us. I was no longer just her son—I was her project. She had to get me ready to take over the empire, and she knew I couldn't do that with lenient mercy.
So the choice was either use Quintessa to end the Weaver race, or face the consequences and maybe be stripped of my title of king-to-be. And I couldn't take that chance.
I swear to you, immediately I held Quintessa, I took a step back—it was too much for me. But with all my strength, I pushed myself to hold it. And now I could practically hear Quintessa begging me for the Weaver's soul. And the look in the Weaver's eyes begged for mercy... but I just had to do it.
And as I raised Quintessa in the air, there fell a silence in the room. You could've heard an ant passing by. And as I brought it down on the Weaver's neck, it was like cutting butter with a knife. And seeing the Weaver's head roll, and blood on Quintessa... but there was a certain peace and power that came with it.
That was when my conquering days began—my first spilled blood at the order of my mother. But I loved it and hated it at the same time. Contradictory, yet it made so much sense to me.
I was cheered and celebrated for my first kill. A feast like never seen before. My mother invited everyone under the Nefarious Empire's rule, and she knew that it was the beginning of my era. But I was conflicted. I wasn't exactly peaceful, but neither was I evil enough to not feel anything.
I started to think it was our nature, because after all, my mother and the entire empire were celebrating spilled blood that did nothing to them. So I ignored this and decided to love it. Took it all in. Embraced it. And they loved me.
For every new victory, a party. At that point, I lost count of how many lives I had taken. And especially when his mother, Persephone, gave him her sword—Quintessa—whenever that happened, it would be a complete massacre.
He saw lowly on any and every other being that wasn't Nefarious. Quintessa was intoxicating with power. It was like a nick in your neck, telling you to kill and claim souls. At one point, it was all that was in my mind.
It was at a final battle against the Oxims—an empire just like ours, almost as strong as ours—that I truly embraced my power as a mage. As my magic and Quintessa's power was paralyzing. And that was the day I earned the name World Conqueror, as I didn't just destroy the species of Oxims—I destroyed their world as well.
Practically oozing power and energy, my mother decided to save me by taking Quintessa away from me and limiting my power.
And it was at the feast celebrating the destruction of the Oxims… I found her.
Lunafreya. A healer. One of the newly appointed Elites under the Nefarious Empire—not by choice, but by circumstance. She had been taken in after her people were conquered, and though she bore the title "Nefarious," she never truly belonged. She only agreed to stay because it gave her the power to heal. Nothing more.
When I first approached her, she was like ice. Distant. Cold. Beautiful. Her words were short, clipped, like every syllable was a chore. One-word answers, nothing more. She didn't care for me. She despised me. To her, I was war incarnate—a reminder of all she had lost.
I asked her not to speak to me like a subject. I told her to be honest, to speak like a person—like a mate.
She looked me dead in the eyes and said:
"I hate you with every fibre of my being. I hate the Empire. I hate your mother. I hate the way we celebrate mass genocide. And most of all, I despise being called Nefarious."
Her words hit like blades. And in that moment, all the humanity I thought I'd buried—or struggled to hold onto—came rushing back. I was speechless. She walked away, and I was left standing there, hollow and trembling. That night, I finally saw the blood on my hands. And it was disgusting.
The next morning, I went looking for her. I had to explain—had to say something. And there she was: radiant, fierce, unapologetically alive. I approached her, and she just asked, "Are you following me now?"
I told her she didn't understand.
"You had a chance to be a child," I said. "But me? The moment I showed a hint of power, they began grooming me to be the next Emperor."
She stopped me.
"Are you still a child?" she asked. "Are you still little and defenseless?"
And in that second, it hit me. I was free. I could choose. I didn't have to be here. I didn't have to continue this cycle. And once again, she left me speechless. And walked away.
She was everything I wanted. Before her, my only goal was to make my mother proud. But after Lunafreya, I had my own dream: to be something better.
I told her I would leave the Empire—but only if she'd be by my side.
She said, "I'll go—but it will be you by my side."
We were ready. But I stalled. I didn't know how to explain this betrayal to my mother… until Lunafreya told me she was pregnant.
She said, "I will not bring life into this world under the Nefarious Empire."
And that was it. We had to leave. LLP