1. The Philosopher’s Stone

Not the worst place to bleed out.

The throne still stood; the wall behind it also survived. The rest of the throne room was blasted away, and bodies—both human and demon alike—covered the remains of the floor. The air smelled of iron and ozone. Outside, the world was dark. The sky was shrouded in ominous clouds, and purple lightning occasionally lit the world around him.

Adolin would have preferred a more peaceful place. In a field of flowers, or in his own home, at the right age. But he couldn’t complain; he had seen worse. Far worse.

The hero’s party journey was over. Adolin had killed the Demon King. His party lay dead around him. His gaze drifted upward.

The Demon King sat on the throne, watching him.

Well… he was still dying.

Adolin quickly looked away. He hoped the Demon King wouldn’t try to talk. With everyone dead, it was finally quiet. He wanted to keep it that way.

“Mage,” the Demon King said, his voice strained.

Why.

Adolin ignored him.

He was used to it. A decade-long journey, and not a single one of them had taken the hint. Why would the Demon King be any different? He wanted to teleport away, to spend his last moments alone. But he didn’t have any mana left. What little remained was already being used to numb the pain and keep his head clear.

A quiet chuckle broke the silence.

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“Mage,” he repeated, “you don’t have to talk. Just listen.”

Maybe pain would be better. If it hurt enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to hear him. No. He didn’t like pain either. It wasn’t much of a choice. If he broke the spell, he wasn’t sure if he could cast it again.

“You and I are the same,” the Demon King continued. “I see that clearly.”

They weren’t the same. If they were, he would’ve shut up already.

The Demon King chuckled again. “Your… social reserves are empty,” he said.

Adolin decided that he didn’t like him. He was the only one who had taken the hint and then apparently decided to ignore it. Adolin started humming loudly.