The Incubus System Chapter 1349. Two Meatballs

The Incubus System Chapter 1349. Two Meatballs

My body reappeared atop the jagged obsidian throne, molten veins pulsing beneath the armrests. My wings stretched out behind me, curling into perfect form. My hands rested on the edge of the throne, posture straight, chin tilted slightly down.

Crown Prince of the Dark Realm mode: ON.

Royal face?

Immaculate.

Emotion?

Gone.

Passion?

Buried.

I was no longer the snack moan hybrid boy who got smothered in tits five minutes ago.

I was the heir of Lord Damon.

And I looked like it.

Syntyche and Nefaris blinked into their own thrones. Neither smiling. Neither giddy. Both annoyed and unsatisfied.

Which was fair.

Because if we f*ck?

I’m not doing it like this.

Not like a side quest.

Not like an appetizer before the war.

I don’t do half-assed.

If I’m going to sleep with either of them… hell, with both of them at once, it’s going to be a real one.

Not some quickie behind the snack table.

I settled back into the throne, exhaling once.

The crowd roared as fire burst from the arena below. The gates to the final battlefield for Beel’s throne were opening, black stone parting to reveal a hellscape of crimson lava, floating platforms, and jagged ruins.

I crossed my legs.

Picked up the goblet Maria had sent with me.

And whispered to myself, “Focus now. F*ck later.”

Because I may be the Lord of Lust.

But I still had a crown.

And no amount of boobs was gonna distract me from that.

Yeah…

Or so I thought.

Two hours later?

I was still here.

Still sitting on the same damn throne.

Still watching the same slow, dripping, slug-paced fight unfold on the battlefield like someone pressed snooze on Hell.

I leaned to the side, my cheek resting against my knuckles.

My spine hated me.

My wings were stiff, curled behind me like pissed-off cats refusing to stretch anymore.

And my brain? Half gone.

My eyes stayed locked on the arena below, if only because breaking eye contact felt like giving up.

“Yeah… I can do this…” I muttered to myself again. A weak little pep talk for my fried demon soul.

But no.

No, I couldn’t.

Because this?

This wasn’t war.

This was slow-cooked pain.

The two high-level warlords still clashing down there?

They weren’t even fighting.

They were... squishing.

That’s what it looked like.

Two massive, pulsating gluttony demons, both looking like someone poured melted butter over living marshmallows and then let them roll around in sewage slime, were bouncing off each other like sentient beanbags.

I swear one of them paused mid-duel to eat a small wild rat demon. A live one. An intruder.

And the other? Had snacks stored in his belly folds. Literal, steaming snacks. I saw him pull out a roasted goat leg like it was part of his skill set.

Every fifteen minutes, they just... stopped.

To eat.

To breathe heavy.

To slurp.

To rest.

The crowd?

Dead.

Even the demons who usually screamed for blood had nothing left to give.

“This is like watching two meatballs argue over which sauce to drown in,” I whispered under my breath.

Lord Beel’s throne. Of course. The Lord of Gluttony. Why did I expect anything less?

Zatan’s match was brutal. Explosions. Steel. Roaring and carnage. A vibe.

This?

This was a marshmallow massacre.

The slowest, fattest, wettest marshmallow battle of all time.

Every hit was followed by five minutes of burping. Every attack ended with “time-out” so they could “hydrate.”

And since gluttony demons are mostly parasitic and gooey? Their idea of an “epic move” was engulf and jiggle.

I almost yawned.

Held it back.

I was a prince.

I had a crown.

Yawning on the throne was how scandals were born.

I turned my head slightly and glanced at the others.

Lord Damon was still looking composed. Stoic. A masterclass in noble discipline.

But I saw it.

That flicker in his eye.

That split-second blink that lasted a little too long.

He was bored.

Deeply.

Painfully.

Still, his poker face? Flawless. I respected that.

Azrael, on the other hand, had given up.

He was sleeping.

Slumped in his throne like a passed out gladiator, his mouth slightly open, one leg hanging off the side, wings draped like a blanket.

He snored once.

Loudly.

Then muttered, “Just punch him… in the gut…” before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Nefaris had cracked.

She sat upright, legs crossed, a thick black book in hand flipping pages with the calm of someone desperately trying not to lose her mind.

Syntyche?

Knitting.

With her webs.

I didn’t know how.

Didn’t ask.

She was halfway through what looked like a black and red striped scarf with moving sigils embroidered into the weave.

It was either a winter accessory or a sentient worm trap.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t care.

I was seconds away from losing my own mind.

‘This is the same feeling I had,’ I said to myself, ‘when Celia dragged me to a romance movie about immortal werewolves falling in love with librarians.’

Three hours of love triangle angst and dramatic snow scenes.

No blood. No boobs. No plot.

Only emotions and teacups.

My eyelids drooped.

Heavy.

So heavy.

My wings shifted behind me, trying to keep me upright like support rods.

My brain? Slipping.

I stared down at the two wobbling gluttony warlords slapping each other with gelatinous fists.

One belched.

The other drooled on a pile of his own teeth.

Kill me.

Kill me now.

And then…

Finally.

The referee descended into the arena.

His voice boomed across the comically quiet stadium, echoing through the hellfire lit air.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. WE HAVE A FATAL STRIKE!”

I jerked up.

Eyes wide.

Neck cracking.

Adrenaline kicking in like caffeine injected straight into my spine.

“YES,” I hissed.

Finally.

I was reborn.

Azrael twitched. “Wha—did someone win?” he muttered, half asleep.

Nefaris looked up from her book. “Are we done?”

Syntyche paused mid-loop, looking hopeful. “Can I stop knitting?”

The referee raised one of the grotesque, goo-covered arms. “THE WINNER… LORD GRUMB HAS DEVOURED HIS OPPONENT’S CORE. THE SEAT OF LORD BEEL HAS BEEN CLAIMED!”