Page 8 of The Dark Lord Awakens (Dark Service #1)

Azrael inclined his head and moved to stand beside the chair I’d indicated, hands clasped behind his back. “What specifically would you like to know, my lord?”

I sank into the chair, trying to look regal rather than overwhelmed. I spread my legs a bit wider than necessary and rested my elbows on the armrests, going for “casual dictator” vibes. “Let’s start with population. How many subjects do we currently have?”

“The last census, conducted fifty years ago, counted approximately forty thousand demons within Iferona’s borders,” Azrael replied. “However, I suspect the number has declined since then. Many have fled to neutral territories, seeking better conditions.”

“Forty thousand?” I frowned. “That’s less than half what we had in—” I caught myself before saying ‘in the game.’ “Before my slumber.”

“Indeed, my lord. The population has been in decline for some time. The lack of leadership—other than my humble efforts—has led to instability. Resources have become scarce, and the constant threat from the neighboring kingdoms has made many seek safer havens.”

I nodded, processing this information. In the game, I’d built Iferona up to house over a hundred thousand demons of various types.

I’d established specialized districts for different demon castes, created infrastructure to support their needs, and implemented policies to encourage growth.

All of that work, apparently undone by three centuries of neglect.

“And our resources?” I asked. “The mines, the farmlands, the marshes?”

“The Obsidian Mines are nearly depleted,” Azrael reported, his tone matter of fact. “The Twilight Farmlands produce enough to prevent starvation, but only just. The Murk Marshes remain largely untapped due to the dangers they present. We lack the manpower to properly harvest their resources.”

This was worse than I’d thought. In the game, those areas had been key to Iferona’s economy. The mines provided building materials and magical crystals, the farms fed the population, and the marshes yielded rare ingredients for potions and spells.

“What about our military strength?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“The Shadow Legion stands at approximately five thousand troops,” Azrael said, a hint of pride entering his voice. “I have maintained strict training regimens despite the declining numbers. They remain formidable, though not nearly as powerful as during your reign.”

Five thousand. We’d had twenty thousand in the game. This was a disaster. A catastrophe. A five-alarm dumpster fire of epic proportions.

“And our enemies?” I asked.

Azrael’s expression darkened slightly at the question, like a thundercloud passing over the sun. His eyes flashed crimson for a split second, and I swear the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

“The Groston Empire, led by High Luminary Thaddeus Brightshield and their champion Paladin Commander Valorian Lightheart, has expanded its territory to our eastern border. They preach the eradication of dark magic and all who practice it. The Cizia Republic, where Chancellor Aurelia Goldvein and their battlemage Sylvan Stormcaller hold significant influence, maintains a strict embargo against us from the west. Together with smaller kingdoms, they have formed the Heroes’ Alliance, dedicated to—” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your permanent defeat.”

Great. So not only was my kingdom falling apart, but I had a bunch of self-righteous heroes gunning for me. The universe wasn’t just laughing at me; it was rolling on the floor, holding its sides, and wheezing with glee.

“When I’m feeling stronger,” I said, “perhaps we should tour the domain. I need to see the conditions for myself.”

Azrael’s eyes lit up with something like approval. “An excellent suggestion, my lord. It would also reassure the populace to see you have returned. Your presence alone would do much to restore morale.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. If I was as terrible an evil overlord as the title suggested, my return might cause more panic than celebration. Like announcing a surprise audit at the office or telling kids the dentist is making a house call.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

“Enter,” I called, remembering to deepen my voice this time. Nailed it.

A small, nervous-looking demon scurried in, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl and a plate of what must be blood apples—ruby red and perfectly round.

He couldn’t have been more than three feet tall, with enormous bat-like ears that twitched anxiously and big yellow eyes that darted around the room.

“Your… porridge, my lord,” the demon said, setting the tray on a small table beside my chair before backing away quickly, as if afraid I might bite. Given what they’d tried to serve me earlier, the irony wasn’t lost on me.

I peered into the bowl. It looked like normal porridge, thankfully—creamy and topped with what appeared to be honey and some dark berries. The apples, despite their ominous name, looked delicious.

“Thank you,” I said automatically.

The little demon froze, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. His ears shot straight up, quivering with what appeared to be shock. Then his face split into a grin so wide it seemed physically impossible, revealing rows of tiny needlelike teeth.

“The Dark Lord thanked me!” he squeaked, bouncing slightly on his toes. “He thanked ME! Tray 15! He knows I exist!”

Beside me, Azrael went rigid. The temperature in the room plummeted so suddenly I half expected to see my breath. His eyes flashed crimson, and for a split second, I glimpsed something beneath his perfect butler facade—something possessive and dangerous and decidedly not human.

“That will be all,” Azrael said, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice. “Lord Lucien requires privacy for his meal.”

Tray 15 didn’t seem to notice the death glare being directed at him. He was too busy having what appeared to be a religious experience, clutching his hands to his chest and staring at me with something akin to worship.

“Of course, of course! Anything for the Dark Lord! Tray 15 will go now! But Tray 15 will remember this day forever! The day the Dark Lord thanked Tray 15!”

He backed toward the door, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor, then scurried out, still grinning maniacally.

As the door closed, I turned to find Azrael staring at me with an unreadable expression. Well, mostly unreadable. The eye-twitching and slight jaw-clenching gave away that something had definitely gotten under his perfectly pressed collar.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked innocently, reaching for my porridge.

“You… thanked him, my lord,” Azrael explained carefully, as if talking to a child. “It is… unusual for the Dark King to express gratitude to servants.”

Oh. Right. Evil overlord and all that. Probably more of a “do this or die screaming” kind of boss than a “thank you for your contributions to the team” manager.

“Well,” I said, trying to recover, “consider it a new policy. Positive reinforcement. Makes for better service.” I waved my hand dismissively, trying to channel my inner dictator. “Fear is all well and good, but a little appreciation keeps the minions loyal.”

Azrael’s eye twitched again, but he nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

Was it my imagination or did he sound… jealous? Surely not. Why would an ancient, powerful demon butler care if I thanked some little imp?

I dipped my spoon into the porridge and took a cautious bite. It was surprisingly good—creamy and sweet, with a hint of spice I couldn’t identify. Cinnamon’s evil twin, perhaps.

“This is excellent,” I said between bites. “My compliments to Chef… what was his name?”

“Head Chef 001 Ramsay,” Azrael supplied, watching me eat with an intensity that was slightly unnerving. Like a hawk watching a particularly juicy field mouse. “He will be most pleased that you approve, though perhaps confused by your… unusual tastes.”

I nearly choked on my porridge. Head Chef 001 Ramsay?

That name actually stuck? I remembered creating it during a three a.m. gaming session while binge-watching cooking competitions, my bleary eyes barely able to focus on the character creation screen.

“Name your royal chef,” the prompt had said, and my sleep-deprived brain had thought “Chef Ramsay… but make it sound official… with numbers!” was absolutely brilliant.

And Tray 15—good Lord. I’d named all the serving staff after their functions plus random numbers because I couldn’t be bothered to come up with actual names for NPCs I’d barely interact with.

“Tray 1 through 50, report for duty!” I’d declared, cackling at my own efficiency while shoving microwaved pizza into my mouth.

I’d given about as much thought to those names as I did to picking socks in the morning, and now actual living beings were walking around with them, apparently for centuries.

“Everyone has their quirks. Even Dark Kings. Especially Dark Kings,” I managed, trying to sound like this was all intentional. “Quirks are what make us… dark. And kingly.”

Azrael’s lips twitched again in that almost-smile. “Indeed, my lord.”

As I ate, I considered my options. I could try to maintain the facade of the terrifying evil overlord that everyone seemed to expect, or I could be honest about who I really was—a confused call center employee who had somehow ended up in his favorite video game.

The first option seemed safer. If these demons thought I was some kind of impostor, who knew what they might do?

But pretending to be someone I wasn’t—someone apparently feared and possibly hated—didn’t sit well with me either.

Customer service had taught me many things, but “how to be an effective tyrant” wasn’t one of them.