Ever since the last ti I saw Asmodeus in my dream — or rather, the last ti I sohow ventured into his dream — I had been wary of falling asleep.
What if I saw him again?
What would I do then?
What if next ti he found a way to actually harm ?
But in the end, I told myself I was overthinking it.
Whatever strange phenonon had pulled into his dream was most likely a one-ti occurrence.
I highly doubted it would ever happen again.
"...Well, so much for that!" I facepald.
Because as soon as I shut my eyes and drifted off, I found myself inside a dream.
A dream where I was standing under a starless night sky.
The sky itself was fractured — broken like a sheet of shattered glass. In the center of those cracks hung a red moon.
Now, when I say ’red moon,’ I don’t an the soft red of dawn or dusk. No. This was the kind of red that seed downright unsettling.
Rivers of crimson light leaked from that moon and poured down in endless streams, like it was a bleeding wound that would never heal.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, an overwhelming feeling of sorrow washed over just from looking at that scenery.
And kneeling on the ground beneath that fractured sky was a man.
He was weeping as though his world had been torn away. The moon’s crimson light cascaded over his body like a waterfall of blood.
His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he scread and cursed at the heavens above.
But he never stopped crying.
Tears ran down his face without end, pooling beneath him in a shimring puddle of silver.
I don’t know how long he wept.
It could’ve been weeks. It could’ve been months.
Eventually, however, his screams died down. His shoulders grew still. And though his tears did not cease flowing, he remained quietly on his knees.
Then, after a long, long ti... he began to sing.
"And the sky forgot to turn to blue,
From the day I lost you too.
Every breath just pulls through,
To a life that isn’t whole~"
His voice... was beautiful.
So beautiful it was almost heartbreaking to hear.
Deep and rich and resonant, every aching note that left his lips carried grief too profound to contain.
"I still dream of your gentle voice,
But the stars never gave a choice.
You left with all your tender noise,
To sowhere I can’t hold~"
I was entranced.
I was srized.
That song carried such unbearable pain that my chest tightened with every word.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine what this man must have lost — what kind of misery, what depth of anguish, could shape a voice into sothing so hauntingly wistful.
I felt like I was about to cry myself... when the singing stopped.
Slowly, the man turned toward .
And I froze where I stood.
He was as pale as snow, with long black hair curling loosely around a pair of curved horns that jutted from the sides of his skull.
Though he had been crying for a very long ti, his crimson eyes had not dulled at all. If anything, they burned brighter — glowing like smoldering coals that refused to be snuffed out.
For a mont, he regarded in absolute silence.
Then a smile far too friendly for my liking stretched across his face, as if he had been waiting for .
I recognized him without any introduction.
This man was Asmodeus himself.
The Prince of Desires.
And sohow, I had entered his dream again.
"Ahh, fuck !" I spat.
Asmodeus, on the other hand, jumped to his feet and waved at cheerfully, like I was so old drinking buddy he’d just bumped into.
I groaned and prepared myself to run as far away from him as humanly possible.
...But the mont I turned around, he was already standing right in front of .
"Wha—?" I blurted in surprise.
The Prince of Desires placed a hand on my shoulder. "Hey there, Little Puppet. I was beginning to wonder when I’d see you again after our last date. I would’ve been so upset if you’d ghosted ."
I shoved his hand away. "First of all — please don’t touch . Second of all — date?! That wasn’t a date! Last ti I saw you, you played piano and tried to scare !"
Asmodeus gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like I’d stabbed him. "Tried to scare you? Little Puppet, do you have any idea how many kings and queens of old have waged wars just to hear my music?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, well, I’m not exactly a dieval monarch desperate for a lullaby."
The Seventh Demon Prince rely shrugged off my jab. "Anyway, shall we resu our second date?"
"I said this is not a date!" I snapped. "I don’t even want to be here!"
Asmodeus nodded solemnly. "You’re right. This is not a date. This is."
He snapped his fingers.
And suddenly, I was sitting in a dazzling restaurant with velvet carpets underfoot, crystal chandeliers overhead, violins humming in the corner, and waiters gliding about in sharp tuxedos like they’d been trained since birth in elegant etiquette.
There were even other patrons here — couples murmuring softly over candlelit tables, nobles draped in silk and jewels, and a group of businessn laughing far too loudly while holding champagne flutes.
My jaw practically dropped to the floor.
I looked down to find myself wearing an expensive red-and-black three-piece suit.
In my hand was a glass of wine.
And across from sat a woman of unearthly beauty. She had long black hair, crimson eyes, and a pair of curved horns.
In a low-cut backless velvet dress that did nothing to hide her voluptuous curves, she swirled her wine glass and smiled at with predatory sweetness.
I blinked, disoriented in more ways than one. "What the fuck?!"
"Like this form?" she purred, sounding overly seductive. "You must already know I’m a genderless being. I shift into any shape I desire. So I assud you’d prefer a sexy woman over a handso dude."
Her voice was like honey — low and velvety and laced with mockery as much as allure.
I nearly choked on the wine that I hadn’t even sipped. "Actually, I’d prefer if you could just let go."
Asmodeus leaned forward with feline grace, delicately resting her chin on her knuckles.
"Oh, co now, Little Puppet. The night’s just getting interesting. And besides—" her eyes glinted wickedly "—you’re the one who rudely barged into my dream. Again."
I almost threw my hands up. "Believe , I have no idea why this has happened twice! I want nothing to do with you! And just why are you calling ’Little Puppet’?!"
Asmodeus’s smile faltered for a heartbeat.
She studied wordlessly, her expression sowhere between amusent and genuine confusion.
I didn’t like that look.
Finally, she snapped her fingers again.
The restaurant lted away.
Now I was sitting on the balcony of an ancient castle, overlooking lush mountains.
A small coffee table stood between us, set neatly with tea and cakes.
Opposite , Asmodeus had returned to his male form and was lounging like a king at leisure.
"You really don’t know?" he asked with a sly smirk, gesturing toward my right arm.
It was only then that I noticed my three-piece suit had been replaced with a plain black sleeveless vest.
I glanced down and saw he was pointing to the tribal tattoo on my right forearm. It looked as ordinary as ever, if a little edgy — an intricate pattern of what seed to be occult runes from so dead language.
"...What about it?" I asked, sounding a bit more dreadful than I’d cared to admit.
"I noticed it the last ti we t," Asmodeus said. "But I didn’t bring it up because I assud you already knew. You see, I call you Little Puppet because that’s exactly what you are. You are marked... by death."
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