The Incubus System Chapter 1350. The Final Throne

The Incubus System Chapter 1350. The Final Throne

I didn’t even clap.

I was too stunned.

The arena was splattered with… whatever the hell glutton demons excrete when they fight. Acid? Butter? Souls?

Steam hissed from the ground.

Chunks of fat melted into the dirt.

The winner… Lord Grumb burped.

Loudly.

With pride.

Then started eating again.

Of course he did.

“Why…” I whispered, hands on my face, “does this arena hate me.”

Nefaris was already closing her book. “I’m going home to scrub my brain.”

Syntyche snorted. “You’ll dream of gelatin for weeks.”

Azrael stood up and stretched with a dramatic yawn. “Worst final match in history. I want compensation.”

Lord Damon finally spoke. Calm. Deep. “It was... effective.”

I stared at him.

“Dad. Please.”

He smirked.

A little.

“Shall we?”

I nodded. Got up. Rolled my shoulders. My wings cracked like dry leaves.

The tournament was over.

The final throne had been claimed.

And I had survived without falling asleep or letting my d*ck make any bad decisions.

Honestly?

I deserved a reward.

Preferably something with whipped cream.

And maybe sex.

Real sex.

Not boob-hugs and promises.

I looked toward Nefaris and Syntyche, who were already watching me again.

This time?

Different look.

Less seduction.

More… expectation.

I smiled faintly.

Later.

Because right now?

I just wanted to go back to my room.

Lie on my massive bed.

And not think about gooey demons for at least a century.

But could I?

Oh no.

Of course not.

Because this was the demon realm. And in the demon realm, nothing ends when it should end. When the final match finishes, when the crowd goes wild, when the slime-soaked warlord finishes slurping down the last of his opponent’s soulcore?

Nope.

There’s always something else.

And that something… was the coronation.

Well, something like that. Because demons don’t do tiaras and parades and little golden crowns with flowers. We do oaths. Blood. Binding contracts. A few hellflames for flair, because theatrics are mandatory. Mostly, it’s Lord Damon standing at the edge of the arena, cloaked in shadows and command, arms outstretched like a living monument of wrath.

His voice echoes like a divine hammer, rattling bone and soul alike, as he names each new demon lord. Then comes the contract. A massive obsidian tablet floats in front of the chosen, etched with runes that bleed red. They slice their palm, press it to the stone, and offer a vow in their true name. The blood sears into the runes. The contract ignites. And it’s done, sealed by sin and flame.

It’s very formal.

Very ancient.

And deeply uncomfortable.

Because we, the existing demon lords, had to stay.

We had to clap.

Smile.

Say “congratulations.”

And shake hands.

Yeah.

Shake hands.

With them.

Lord Grol was fine. Tall. Charred. Scarred. Smelled like burnt iron and ambition. His handshake was firm, respectful, almost knightly. I nodded at him. Gave him the signature royal smirk. Done.

But Lord Grumb?

Grumb.

He was... not fine.

His body jiggled as he walked.

His steps made wet noises. Like someone squeezing a sponge full of gravy.

His handshake?

Oh Holy Hell…

The sound.

The texture.

The stickiness.

My hand sank into his and then squelched back out, like I'd reached into a vat of room temperature caramel that hated me.

I kept my poker face on. Barely.

I forced a greeting, “Congratulations, Lord Grumb. May your reign be… nourishing.”

He grinned.

Multiple chins jiggled.

Then his eyes, tiny beads buried in folds, lit up as he looked past me.

“Oh my fried goat legs,” he wheezed. “It’s him!”

I turned my head, slowly, like I was in a nightmare I couldn’t escape.

Azrael.

Poor, tall, sleepy, violence loving Azrael.

He looked up from fixing his gauntlet.

“Hmm?”

Before he could blink, Grumb charged. A full speed wobble.

I barely had time to sidestep.

And then…

“OH MY INFERNAL FLAMES, I’M YOUR HUGEST FAN!”

Azrael didn’t have a chance.

Grumb wrapped his massive, gelatinous arms around him and squeezed.

There was a moist sound. A compressing sound. Like a jelly donut dying under pressure.

Azrael’s eyes widened. His mouth opened. But no words came out.

Only trauma.

I think a tear rolled down his cheek. I’m not sure if it was his or Grumb’s.

I turned away. I couldn’t witness this. For my sanity.

Behind me, there was a loud, soggy squelch as Grumb finally let go.

Azrael stumbled back half a step, arms frozen mid-air like he’d just escaped a bear trap made of wet towels. His wings twitched. His jaw clenched. His entire soul looked like it was trying very hard not to erupt in unholy screams.

He didn’t scream.

He almost did.

But instead… he gave a sound that I can only describe as a choked inhale through teeth. Like someone holding in a war cry after stepping on a slug barefoot.

Then he said, with the most strained, most pained, most obviously fake smile I have ever seen.

“C–congratulations… Lord Grumb.”

I wanted to give him a medal for bravery.

Or at least a shower.

Nefaris didn’t even pretend.

When Grumb offered her a handshake, she smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m under strict royal orders not to touch other men’s hands. Damian gets very possessive.”

Syntyche nodded quickly beside her. “And I just got my nails done. They melt under acid. So sad~”

They both looked at me with innocent eyes.

I wanted to applaud.

Instead, I wiped my hand again.

Maria walked up and handed me a towel.

A thick one.

I looked down at the towel.

Back at my hand.

It still glistened.

Like someone dipped it in cursed honey.

I wiped harder. Faster.

Ivy stepped beside her, nose wrinkled. “That smell is going to follow you for a week.”

“I already feel unclean,” I muttered.

Somehow… despite all that… everything else went smooth.

Shockingly smooth.

No one exploded. No one tried to assassinate anyone. No one summoned a void worm from beneath the arena.

The contracts were sealed.

The lords were named.

The thrones, however sticky or cracked, were filled.

And that was it.

Done.

Official.

And then…

Of course.

Before I could take one step toward freedom, one inch toward rest…

Syntyche grabbed my left arm.

Nefaris grabbed my right.

Their nails dug in just a little.

Their eyes sparkled with impish lust and determination.

“Come with us,” Nefaris said.

“To the VIP room,” Syntyche added.

“It’s time we get our own prize.”