The Incubus System Chapter 1344. Thrones
The Incubus System Chapter 1344. Thrones
The roar hit first.
Not one scream, not one cheer… no. This was full-scale demonic stadium volume. Screams stacked on screams. Growls and battle cries echoing against obsidian walls, bouncing off stone seats and blood-soaked columns. Like thunder having a seizure while someone stabbed a war horn into a volcano.
Above us, the sky stretched in its usual "end of the world" aesthetic. No sun. Just the blood moon. Giant. Crimson. Hung in the air like an open wound. Clouds slithered around it in shades of violet, green, and something between black and bruise. Even after all this time, even after living here, I still felt like I had to recalibrate my eyeballs every time I looked up.
I exhaled. Slumped back in my throne.
Yes. Throne.
Stone-carved. No cushions. No cup holders. Just raw demonic ego pressed into architecture.
We sat in a half-circle above the stadium… me, my dad Lord Damon, his beloved wife, Lilieth. She sat sideways on his lap, drinking something blood-colored from a glass that probably wine. I guess.
To Damon’s left sat Azrael, Lord of That Guy Is Definitely Wrath Coded, bouncing slightly in his seat like a battle obsessed gym bro who just saw a weight he hadn’t punched yet.
Then Nefaris, the vampire queen, cool and elegant, but she looked bored as hell yet also still looked fancy. 10/10 style.
Then Syntyche, the spider queen. Beautiful. Terrifying. Busy using her silk to play a haunting melody on a web-harp she spun midair. No one dared to ask her to stop. Honestly? Mood music.
And finally, me.
Yeah. That one.
The one with three incubus wings. And three angelic wings.
Left eye blue like a full blooded archangel. Right eye red like a hellfire forge. The walking identity crisis that broke half a dozen metaphysical laws just by existing.
Ethan Strongheart.
Or as I was now called here in demon society. Damian Lucio Malignus.
The stone beneath me radiated faint heat. Demonic mana pulsing through the throne like a heartbeat.
We sat above the rest. Literally. There weren’t stairs. No ramps. No lifts. Just sheer height and the expectation that if you were worthy of a throne, you'd fly your ass up to it or teleport like a real lord.
Lord Damon’s idea. Because of course it was. He liked "optics."
Me? I just wanted snacks.
Sodas. Popcorn. Something to chew on while demons below tried to murder each other for a shot at Beel and Zatan’s thrones.
But no. Apparently, snacking wasn’t “lordly.”
The VIP rows behind us though? Oh they had wine. They had snacks. Trays of charred meat, demonic fruits, even bottles of black champagne with flame corks.
I watched a mid-tier warlord pop a grape into his mouth and laughed with his entourage. Bastard.
Meanwhile, I sat here like a budget medieval fantasy lord intern. My wings cramping.
All around the stadium, the crowd screamed. Demons of every rank and size packed into the stone bleachers. Flame skinned behemoths, smoke bodied sorcerers, even floating jellyfish things that vibrated to the rhythm of the cheers.
Their eyes were locked on the stadium floor… where two high-level demons fought like their entire bloodline depended on it. And yeah, it kinda did.
They had made it past the trials. Past the gauntlets. Past me.
Because yes. Before this bloodbath began, I held interviews.
Ten hours of interviews.
Me. A nineteen year old college student with a complicated ancestral history and many identity crises.
“Tell me about your leadership style,” I had asked a seven foot tall obsidian armored general whose voice sounded like two mountains grinding together.
“What makes you uniquely qualified to govern?” I asked a three headed demon whose middle head kept sneezing acid.
They roared.
I nodded.
They postured.
I wrote notes.
It was HR in Demon world.
Meanwhile, the other lords stared at me like I was doing interpretive dance. Damon watched with the expression of a man who wanted to be proud but couldn’t figure out if I was joking. So he just cringed. Badly.
Azrael fell asleep during the fourth candidate. Snored like an earthquake.
Nefaris? Gone. Left a bat behind with a note: "You handle it, sweetheart."
Syntyche played a lullaby. Upside down.
And me? I kept going. Clipboard and all.
So yeah. I survived that.
Hurray to me!
And now? Now we were at the power proof section.
But more importantly… this was also my finals.
Because before this all kicked off, Damon and I made the smart decision to hold a press conference. Just a tiny one. You know, nothing serious… just an official broadcast across all demon territories declaring that I was a Nephilim.
A hybrid.
We figured it was better to control the narrative before someone else did.
So we stood before cameras, in a room too big and too dark, and I looked into the crowd.
Damon looked like ready to kill everyone who tried to assassinate me. Or him. Or both of us.
But the demons?
They didn’t riot.
They just… stared.
Then they whispered.
Then they yelled.
Then the applause came.
Not everyone loved it. But they heard it.
And that mattered.
Now here we were.
Blood moon overhead. Deathmatch below.
And me? Still snackless.
One of the fighters below got slammed into a jagged spike. His ribs cracked audibly. The crowd roared. Someone tossed a flaming goblet into the air.
I glanced at Damon. He was whispering something into Lilieth’s ear. She giggled. Ugh. Parents.
Azrael was leaning forward now, eyes glowing, fangs bared. His wings flared slightly… he was invested.
The bat on Nefaris’s throne, her new pet, turned its head toward me. I think it winked.
Syntyche? Still playing. Now on a melody I swear sounded like the game soundtrack.
I tilted my head, watching the fight continue. The stadium pulsed with magic and heat. My wings twitched. The angelic ones flared just a bit. Still hard to control sometimes.