You died under the wheels of Truck-Kun like every other cliché isekai protagonist.

One moment the headlights. The next — nothing.

Then air.

Cold. Dry. Thick with the scent of ash, old blood, and something darker, like ozone after a lightning strike mixed with hot iron. Your eyes opened to a ceiling of black stone carved with writhing runes that pulsed faint crimson. You were lying on a massive obsidian desk in the centre of a vast office that could have swallowed a cathedral whole. Tall windows of stained crimson glass looked out over a burning horizon of jagged spires and rivers of lava. The air itself felt heavy, charged with magic that pressed against your skin like invisible hands.

Five figures stood around the desk.

At the head of it, seated in a throne of fused bone and black iron, was the Demon King himself.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

He was enormous — taller than any human had a right to be, broad-shouldered and carved from violence. His armour was a masterpiece of nightmare: plates of darkened bone and blackened steel etched with screaming skulls, the classic bone-coloured skull motif burned into the breastplate and pauldrons like a brand. A heavy, horned helm shaped like a bleached skull covered his head, leaving only glowing, molten-amber eyes visible through the sockets. Black demonic horns curved back from the temples of the helm. A long, spaded tail of dark scale and bone rested over one arm of the throne. When he spoke, the voice that came out was pure gravel and smoke, layered with something inhuman.

“—the eastern legions are still lagging on the tribute quotas. I want the commanders replaced by dawn or I want their heads on the wall.”

Four other demons stood in a loose half-circle before him.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish was the most restless of them. His armour was lighter, more mobile — dark leather and segmented black steel with blue-grey demonic runes that flickered like trapped lightning. Two short, curved horns jutted from his forehead, and a long, whip-like tail with a barbed tip flicked behind him. His eyes glowed a bright, electric blue. The mohawk was still there, but it was mixed with short black horns that grew through it.

Captain John Price stood solid and immovable in heavier plate of dark bronze and iron, a thick demonic cloak of living shadow draped over one shoulder. His classic cigar had been replaced by a slow-burning ember of hellfire held between sharp teeth. Two heavy, forward-curving horns framed his weathered face, and his eyes burned a steady, dangerous amber. A thick, powerful tail ended in a blunt, mace-like tip.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson was quieter, almost blended into the shadows. His armour was matte black and tightly fitted, covered in chitinous plates that looked half-insect, half-demon. Multiple smaller horns crowned his head in a jagged crest, and extra pairs of smaller, translucent wings — like a dragonfly’s — folded against his back. His eyes were solid black with tiny pinpricks of green light. A long, segmented tail ended in a wicked stinger.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick completed the group. His armour was clean, precise, dark steel with silver-edged demonic etchings. Two elegant, swept-back horns rose from his temples. His eyes glowed a clear, focused silver. A sleek, powerful tail swayed slowly behind him. He looked the most controlled of the four — until his gaze locked onto you.

All five of them had been mid-conversation.

Then they saw you.

The office went silent.

Five pairs of glowing demonic eyes fixed on the human suddenly occupying the Demon King’s desk.

Ghost’s molten gaze dragged over you slowly, from the top of your head down to your toes and back again. The air temperature in the room spiked. His tail lashed once against the side of the throne with a sharp crack of bone on stone.

“…What the fuck.”

Soap was the first to move. He stepped closer, nostrils flaring, blue eyes wide with something that was equal parts disbelief and pure, immediate lust. “Is that— is that a real human? An actual, living, breathing human? In the flesh?” His voice had gone rough. The front of his armoured trousers was already tenting hard. “I’ve only ever seen drawings. And the corpses the raiding parties bring back. This one’s warm. I can smell it from here.”

Price exhaled a slow stream of hellfire smoke, eyes never leaving you. “First one in three hundred years that didn’t arrive already dead or half-mad.” His heavy armour shifted as he adjusted his stance, the thick bulge between his legs becoming obvious. “King?”

Ghost rose from the throne.

The full height of him was intimidating even before the demonic aura rolled off his armour in visible waves of heat and shadow. He walked around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he stood directly over you. One massive, clawed gauntlet reached down and tilted your chin up so those glowing amber eyes could look straight into yours through the skull helm.

“A human,” he said, voice low and hungry. “In my office. Uninvited. Unclaimed.” His thumb — tipped with a black claw — dragged over your lower lip. “Do you have any idea what a living human is worth in the lower circles? What the scent of one does to demons who have only ever fucked each other or lesser spawn?”

Roach had gone very still, but his extra wings twitched with barely restrained interest. Gaz’s silver eyes were dark with open want, one hand already resting on the bulge in his armour.

Soap laughed, short and breathless. “We’re not sending this one to the markets, are we, LT?”

Ghost’s answer was to reach down with both hands, grip your clothes, and tear them open down the middle in one brutal motion. Fabric shredded. Cool air hit bare skin. Five pairs of glowing eyes locked onto every newly exposed inch of you.

The reaction was instant and feral.

Soap was on you first, climbing onto the desk, armour already half-unbuckled, thick demonic cock springing free — flushed dark, ridged along the underside with faint glowing blue veins, the head already leaking. He shoved your thighs apart and rubbed the hot length against your skin with a groan. “Fuck, it’s soft. It’s so fucking soft—”

Price moved to the side of the desk, heavy armour opening just enough. His cock was thicker, heavier, the same dark bronze tone as his armour with a blunt, flared head. He wrapped a clawed hand around your wrist and pinned it above your head while his other hand stroked himself slowly, eyes locked on your face.

Roach circled to the other side, stinger-tipped tail curling possessively around your ankle as he freed himself. His cock was leaner, slightly curved, with a series of small, flexible ridges along the shaft. Gaz simply climbed onto the desk near your head, silver eyes burning, and guided the head of his cock against your lips without a word.

Ghost remained standing at the foot of the desk for a moment longer, watching his four strongest demons already staking claim on the first real human any of them had seen alive. Then he reached up, unlatched the lower part of the skull helm just enough to free his mouth, and spoke in that ruinous, gravel voice.

“Hold them open.”

Soap and Roach obeyed instantly, gripping your thighs and spreading you wide. Ghost freed himself from the heavy armour — his cock was massive, thick and dark, the head flushed almost black, a series of bone-like ridges running along the top side, already dripping with precome that steamed faintly in the cool air of the office. He lined up and pushed in with one long, relentless thrust that forced every inch of that ridged length inside you until his hips were flush against yours.

The sound he made was pure demon.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked into you hard and deep, the bone ridges dragging against sensitive walls with every stroke, while Soap leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth with sharp teeth, sucking hard. Price’s thick cock pressed against your cheek. Gaz’s pushed past your lips. Roach’s ridged length rubbed insistently against your other thigh, waiting for any opening.

The Demon King’s office filled with the wet, filthy sounds of a human being claimed by five of the most powerful demons in the realm.

Ghost’s glowing eyes never left your face as he drove into you again and again, armour plates clanking softly with every powerful thrust. His voice came out rough and absolute between thrusts.

“Welcome to the underworld, human. You’re not leaving this desk until every one of us has filled you. And maybe not even then.”

Soap groaned against your skin. “Sharing is caring, LT—”

Price’s low chuckle was dark with lust. “For once, MacTavish, I agree.”

And around you, the four strongest demons of the Demon King Ghost Riley closed in, already hard, already hungry, already determined to ruin the first real human any of them had ever touched.