Bathilda's jaw ached, a testament to the teeth-grinding frustration that had taken root within her. It wasn't the arduous trek through the mountain, a labyrinth of twisting, winding tunnels, that had her so incensed. Nor was it the lingering dampness that clung to her skin. No, the source of her ire was far more specific, far more infuriating: Florence.

  Florence, the celestial equivalent of a gossiping magpie, a being who flitted in and out of Bathilda's life with the regularity of a poorly timed monsoon, always bearing catastrophically unhelpful information. A celestial courier of confusion, a purveyor of preposterous pronouncements. And now, Florence had outdone herself.

  The mission, as Florence had relayed, was straightforward, if brutal: eliminate the Demon King, a being of immense power and malevolent intent, a scourge upon this unsuspecting world. But the reality, as it so often did, deviated wildly from Florence's abridged description.

  After a second, grueling traverse of the mountain, a journey that felt less like a simple hike and more like a descent into some verdant, sentient maw, Bathilda finally stood before her supposed adversary. And what she saw was… pathetic.

  The Demon King, a title that conjured images of towering infernal majesty, was a weeping, blubbering child. His cerulean hair, a shade of vibrant blue that seemed almost luminous in the light, was plastered to his forehead with tears and mucus. His equally blue eyes, wide and brimming with terror, were fixed on Bathilda and Florence with a desperate, pleading gaze. Miniature horns, barely more than bumps, protruded from his scalp, a comically underwhelming display of demonic power. His regalia, a scaled-down version of what one might expect a full-fledged Demon King to wear, hung loosely on his diminutive frame, a testament to his premature ascension.

  The moment he registered their presence, the already small figure seemed to shrink further, his shoulders hunching, his whimpers escalating. It was a spectacle of utter, abject fear.

  "The Hero!" he wailed, his voice a high-pitched tremor. Bathilda even turned as he did so. Not that she needed to since he was pointing at her.

  It took a considerable amount of time, patience, and soothing words, a task that felt profoundly absurd given the circumstances, but Bathilda finally managed to calm the distraught child. His story, when it finally emerged, was a tangled web of bewilderment and innocence.

  He was Bob.

  Bob, the Demon King.

  And, as if the universe had decided to play a particularly cruel joke on her, Bob was a reincarnation, courtesy of the very same "philanthropic asshole" who had sent Bathilda to this world: God.

  "Why are they trying to make me kill him?" Bathilda muttered, her voice a low growl that echoed through the silent forest. The absurdity of the situation pressed down on her, a suffocating weight of confusion and suspicion. This wasn't a battle against a monstrous tyrant; it was an execution of a frightened child.

  "It doesn't make sense." The pieces didn't fit. The narrative was fractured, the motives obscured. There was a deliberate, malicious intent lurking beneath the surface, a puppet show orchestrated by unseen hands. Florence's shit information, Bob's unexpected innocence, the divine intervention – it all coalesced into a suspicion as sharp and cold as a winter wind.

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  Shenanigans.

  That was the only word that adequately described the situation. But what kind of shenanigans? What was the purpose of this elaborate charade? Bathilda didn't know, but she would find out.

  "So you know Florence then?" she repeated, her voice a low, dangerous purr. The Demon King offered a quick nod. Bathilda's eyes, however, didn't waver from him, but rather seemed to bore through him, seeking the truth hidden beneath his placid exterior. "And what exactly," she continued, each word laced with her growing annoyance, "did she say to you?"

  The Demon King recounted his bizarre journey with a surprising lack of dramatic flair. He had, as he put it, "kicked the bucket" on Earth, a victim of his own insatiable appetite for digital escapism. After a week-long marathon of a newly released virtual reality game, his heart, strained beyond its limits, had finally given out. He found himself, much to his bewilderment, in a place described as Paradise, a realm of ethereal beauty and serene tranquility.

  There, amidst the shimmering clouds, the hot tubs, and gentle whispers of eternal bliss, he was presented with a choice, a choice eerily similar to the one Bathilda had faced: remain in the idyllic embrace of Paradise or embark on a new life, a random reincarnation in a world brimming with the promise of magic.

  The allure of wielding arcane power, the very concept of magic, was too potent for the young, game-obsessed Bob to resist. He eagerly chose reincarnation, his heart pounding with the anticipation of fantastical adventures. Completely missing the part where they explained he had no say in the process.

  However, his enthusiasm was swiftly extinguished upon his arrival. A cold, mechanical voice, the "system" as it called itself, informed him of his new, rather inconvenient, title: Demon King. His assigned task, the purpose of his reincarnation, was nothing less than the utter destruction of the world he now inhabited.

  He was only twelve.

  The Vampire's face contorted with a rage that seemed to emanate from the very depths of her soul. "I'm going to murder her," she hissed, her voice a low growl that resonated with raw fury. "I know she's already dead, but just you wait till I see Florence." Her words hung in the air, a chilling promise of retribution.

  Little did she know, in a sunlit corner of the ethereal realm, the catalyst of her ire was engaged in a giggling gossip session with God, sharing "hilarious" stories of mortal confusion.

  Bathilda, if she had been granted the title of Demon King, would have undoubtedly used that power for good, to protect the innocent and vanquish evil. The thought of such power being wasted on a reclusive gamer filled her with a frustrating mix of exasperation and determination. She resolved to guide Bob, to mold him into a force for good, a protector rather than a destroyer. Like she had with Flo.

  This, however, was a daunting task. Bob, in his previous life, was a quintessential NEET, a recluse whose existence revolved around the glow of a computer screen. His understanding of the world was filtered through the lens of fantasy games and online forums. The concept of leadership, of responsibility, was as foreign to him as a sunny day in a cave.

  Bathilda knew that persuading Bob wouldn't be hard. It was going to be harder to get him back to her cabin than have him give up world domination. The young boy being outside averse.

  But the seed of her wrath had been planted.

  The mere mention of Florence ignited a fire within her. If she discovered that Florence was the architect of Bob's predicament, the instigator of his destructive destiny, then the ethereal realms would witness a storm unlike any they had ever seen.

  If the process wasn't random?

  The gossiping magpie would learn the true meaning of thunder, the devastating power of a woman scorned, a woman who had seen the darkest corners of existence, and who would not tolerate being manipulated from beyond the veil.