Morning arrived not with a sunrise — but with the full, unholy wrath of the sun stabbing straight through their windows like an assassin hired by a vengeful god.
Velvet groaned, pulling a pillow over her head.
Ash looked like he had fought a brick wall and lost.
Seren was already up, fresh and infuriatingly cheerful, because of course she was.
Kale, despite everything, flexed and grinned...and then immediately winced because he pulled something mid-flex.
Vix?
Vix was still sighing dreamily at him across the breakfast table, where a single wilted flower had somehow manifested between them.
"Kill me," Velvet muttered, stabbing at a sad-looking piece of toast.
"After breakfast," Ash replied grimly.
After a hearty meal (and three resurrections by coffee alone), they trudged toward the central plaza, where winners were allowed to claim their rewards.
The Emberglow officials had set up a small stage — the kind that looked one dramatic gust of wind away from collapsing — and prizes glittered behind them: sealed tomes, scrolls, and locked chests practically humming with old magic.
Velvet's sharp eyes zeroed in on the chest stamped with a crimson wax seal, humming with ancient magic. The runes practically screamed Flufferbestia.
"There it is," she whispered, jabbing her finger so violently that Ash actually leaned back in case she decided to start stabbing.
"Treasure acquired?" Seren grinned.
"Treasure acquired," Velvet confirmed.
The announcer, a cheerful man who clearly woke up loving his job way too much, called out:
"Come forth, brave masters of culinary chaos!"
Ash pushed Poffin up to the stage, who stumbled forward.
The real test came afterward: choosing one prize.
The chest Velvet wanted was easy to spot.
But right beside it...
There it was.
Another ancient tome — its title practically glowing with forbidden temptation:
"The Legendary Cuts: Secrets to the Juiciest, Most Mind-Melting Steak Known to Man."
Poffin stopped dead.
He stared at the Flufferbestia archive.
He stared at the Steak Cookbook.
He stared back at the Flufferbestia archive.
His little paws visibly trembled.
"We can only pick one," Velvet said, deadly serious. "One."
Poffin looked like he was undergoing a spiritual crisis usually reserved for tragic opera protagonists. He clutched his face with both hands.
"Steak... or heritage..." he whimpered.
"Poffin," Velvet said gently, kneeling down to his level. "This could tell us everything about your kind."
Poffin sniffled.
Then he turned slowly, reverently, toward the Steak Cookbook.
"But imagine..." he whispered, "the sizzle..."
That incoherent whimper was enough for Velvet to know he's against the idea.
"No!" Velvet snapped, grabbing him by the scruff. "Focus, soldier! History first, steak later!"
Ash, dead-eyed and exhausted, just nodded sagely in the background like a man too tired to care anymore whether history or steak won.
After a moment's heavy, tearful internal war, Poffin dramatically slapped a paw on the Flufferbestia Archive chest. He couldn't stand to look up, won't.
Victory.
Barely.
Velvet immediately picked it up before he could change his mind.
Back at the inn, they gathered around the chest.
Velvet cracked her knuckles, grinning.
"Alright," she said, "time to unlock the secrets of Emberglow's lost history."
Poffin, meanwhile, quietly placed a paw on his heart, mourning the legendary steak that could have been.
"Why would there be an archive about Flufferbeasts in a cookbook?" Ash asked.
"Well, it's not exactly that... Here it's treated more of a mascot. See?"
Velvet leaned the book closer to Ash's face showing him what seemed to be an illustration of a Flufferbeast in an adorable chef attire.
"You're kidding"
"Unfortunately, I am not. It is in fact a cookbook about Emberglow Sugar, but it doubles as a historical archive of Flufferbeasts, though not just as.....detailed."
"We seriously can't find anything more....official?"
"No, this is like the only copy out there with info on the little ones. They're basically folklore years ago and even now. So yes, unfortunately our "source" is a "fun fact" inside a cookbook.
Velvet's fingers carefully turned the parchment, each page whispering with age-old dust and forgotten power. The ink shimmered faintly, hints of mana still infused in the very script.
"So?" Vix asked, drumming her fingers. "Tell us they're ancient chefs who cooked on volcanoes or something."
Poffin paused mid-lick of a jam spoon and squinted suspiciously.
"They were revered guardians," Velvet continued. "Emberglow sugar was sacred to them, yes—but not just for taste. It was a catalyst. It bonded with their mana. According to this... the sugar's fiery essence granted Flufferbeasts volatile strength. It describes a property like... magical gunpowder."
Seren leaned in. "So they ate sugar and exploded?"
"No," Velvet corrected. "They weaponized it. Their fur would store excess energy, and at the height of their power, they could release it in volatile bursts."
Ash blinked. "So you're telling me Poffin is basically a musket with anxiety and a sweet tooth?"
"He's the fluffiest firearm known to man," Kale added gravely.
Everyone leaned away.
Velvet flipped to a diagram. Ancient murals showed Flufferbeasts surrounded by glowing sugar crystal spires, tails puffed out like fireworks. One passage read:
"When the sacred spice fused with the vessel of fluff, behold—a tempest of fur and flame."
Kale whistled. "You think he's gonna blow if we don't put that jam away?"
Poffin, now vibrating with a sugar-fueled existential crisis, pointed dramatically at the mural, barking in excited squeaks.
"No, buddy," Ash sighed. "You are not allowed to become a sacred cannon."
The table sat in heavy silence. Poffin was still inspecting his tail like it might spontaneously combust, but the others... the others were processing.
"Alright," Ash finally said, resting his forehead dramatically on the table. "That explains why the little guy's fur goes off like a firecracker factory during a heatwave."
"But," Seren added, waving a hand, "how does this help us? We came here for clues, not... flammable fun pet facts."
"Yeah," Vix snorted. "Great. We now know Poffin's basically a cursed cotton ball with an explosive license. Where's that supposed to point us?"
Even Kale frowned, squinting at the parchment like maybe, if he stared hard enough, it would magically produce a treasure map.
Velvet frowned, flipping further through the archive. "Wait... there's more."
She turned the page and gasped. A weathered historical entry was tucked between the pages, handwritten like a last-minute scribble from a long-forgotten scholar.
"In the twilight of their reign, the Flufferbeasts, in unison, abandoned Emberglow. Witnesses described the sight: a parade of resplendent cotton spheres, bobbing and trotting northward with an air of great purpose. Toward the mountains… the Great Mountains of…"
Velvet stopped.
The others leaned in.
"Of what?" Seren asked.
Velvet closed her eyes with the weariness of someone reading a death sentence. "The Great Mountains of the Demon King's Lair."
Silence.
"...You're joking," Ash said.
"I wish I was," Velvet muttered, slamming the book shut.
"So..." Vix said, slowly. "To summarize: our next lead involves following a historic migration of self-propelled marshmallows straight into the backyard of the local ultimate evil overlord?"
"Classic JRPG nonsense," Kale sighed, pulling out his sword and looking way too excited about it. "Feels like home."
Velvet just buried her face in her hands.
"Why is it always demon kings?" she groaned. "Why can't ancient mysteries ever lead to, I don't know, a spa? Or a beach? Or a library with a coffee shop?"
"Maybe the Demon King has a good café," Seren offered weakly.
"If he does, he's getting five stars just for effort," Vix snickered.
Thus, with the weight of fate—and the scent of burnt sugar—hanging over them, the party realized: ready or not, their next journey was set.
Straight into the heart of evil.
Following the trail of dandy, explosive fluffballs.
Perfect.
Ash, who had been leaning back in his chair with a look of dull resignation, suddenly perked up, brow furrowing in slow realization.
"Wait a second," he said, pointing vaguely at the parchment. "Isn't... isn't that, like..." He waved his hand northward. "All the way up north?"
Velvet blinked.
The group collectively turned their heads, mentally unfolding the world map they barely ever looked at unless they were hopelessly lost — which was, frankly, most of the time.
"We're..." Seren began slowly, her voice dropping into that tight, horrified register people usually reserved for realizing they forgot their homework on the day of the test. "We're in the south. Like... the very south."
"As south as south gets," Vix added, laughing through her teeth. "Like if we went any further, we'd be off the continent and swimming."
Kale, ever the optimist, clapped his gauntlets together with a metallic clang. "Think of it as a grand journey! A legendary quest across vast lands! Trials of strength, courage, and friendship—"
"—and months of hiking," Ash interrupted dryly. "Through monster-infested forests. Freezing wastelands. Treacherous mountains. With a ticking time bomb disguised as a furball."
Velvet slumped over the table, forehead thunking heavily against the wood. "I hate everything."
"Look at the bright side," Seren said, patting her shoulder. "At least it'll be a scenic death."
"Yeah," Vix grinned, mischievous. "We'll be part of the great migration. Right after the Flufferbeasts... and directly into the jaws of doom."
The team sat there in silence, staring into the void of their future. Especially Ash, who had the face of a war weary father of six.
A future paved by cotton balls.
Fueled by ancient sugar.
Straight toward the Demon King's lair.
Truly, destiny had impeccable comedic timing.
---
The skies above the Obsidian Wastes boiled crimson as the Demon King sat motionless atop his blackened throne, a colossus carved of wrath and ruin.
The throne room stood silent.
Even the torches dared not crackle.
Before him, lesser demons knelt — trembling, unworthy, silent.
"My patience," he began, voice low and cold, "is not eternal."
His eyes, like twin eclipses, narrowed upon the trembling figure of General Malgroth, who had the unfortunate distinction of being alive.
"Which of you was in charge of Sector Nine?"
A skeletal adjutant raised a bony hand.
"Unit #47, my liege."
"Then explain," the Demon King said, "why I received a report… from Unit #48."
The skeleton blinked. "I—I didn't know there was a 48, sire."
"There isn't." A long pause. "Or there was."
He raised a finger. The skeleton combusted into ashes. Another skittered in to take its place.
"Unit #49, then?"
Another silence. Several more skeletons caught fire out of sheer anxiety.
Then… a sound. Soft, far off. Slippers slapping on stone.
"No," the Demon King muttered, eyes widening a fraction.
Malgroth fell to his knees. "M-My lord, the mortals—"
"Speak again and I'll reassign you to the magma mines personally."
A breathless hush followed. The sound of boiling blood wouldn't have dared interrupt him.
The Demon King rose. The hall dimmed with his movement.
"We are not the bumbling chaos of imps and warlocks. We are the end of all songs. The fall of all light. We—"
"DAD!"
The shrill cry echoed down the hallway.
The Demon King froze.
"…No."
Too late.
A blur of pink ribbons and joy launched into the air — and he caught her without thinking.
"DADDYYYY, I made a rock that looks like YOU!"
The entire throne room blinked.
The Demon King, the Bringer of Ash, the Doom of Empires… was now holding a giggling child upside down by the armpits.
His voice, once razors and brimstone, became something else entirely.
"Did you really? Is it extra scary like Daddy asked?"
"She gave it a flower crown," said a very tired succubus nursemaid at the door.
"...Perfect," he whispered with pride, eyes softening.
Malgroth looked around, bewildered.
The lesser demons slowly raised their heads.
"Did you miss me?" she beamed, eyes wide.
The generals gawked. The silence screamed.
The Demon King, this bringer of dread and shadow, stared at her with a defeated sigh.
"You said you were napping."
"I was! But then I got bored and drew you a war map!"
She held up a crayon disaster that looked like a blob declaring war on a muffin.
"I see," he muttered, nodding solemnly. "Very strategic."
She nuzzled into his cape.
"I'm gonna conquer the garden next."
"...Start with the tulips. They're the weakest."
The court remained frozen.
He looked at them again, now holding his daughter upside down by her horns.
"Not a word."
They all saluted. Even the ashes.
"Dad's busy at the moment alright?"
A blood-crimson orb hovered above the Demon King's outstretched palm, its surface swirling with molten visions.
"Report," he said, voice like gravel grinding through a tomb.
On the other end, the flickering face of a demon general bowed — horns chipped, apron still faintly smoking.
"M-my liege… we, ah, did not secure victory at Emberglow this year."
The Demon King blinked. Slowly. Menacingly. The orb dimmed, as if it too feared his wrath.
"We always win Emberglow."
"Yes, yes, sire, traditionally we've dominated every culinary category since the Molten Broth Massacre of Year 12, but—"
"But?"
"We... lost to a small dog...cat... thing.... A very small uhhh.. creature. They made... glazed nightmares. We were powerless."
A long, horrible silence.
Then:
"Did you idiots get careless again? What happened to General Slaughtermarsh?"
The general hesitated.
"He... choked on a muffin and is in a healing pod.... S-Sire."
The Demon King stood, shadows peeling off him like burning oil.
"First the sabotage reports from the west... now this? You dare shame this throne by failing to bring me the Emberglow Archives?!"
"It's just cookbooks, my lord—"
The orb trembled.
"JUST cookbooks? JUST? COOKBOOKS?"
He roared. Thunder cracked above the spire. Skeleton #52 exploded for no reason.
"Those archives hold the ancient flame-glaze secrets of the Deep Ovens! Do you know how long I've waited to perfect my soul soufflé?!"
The general whimpered, "W-we'll try again next year?"
"You'll try again in an hour. I don't care if you summon the sous-chef of the underworld. I want those books."
The orb fizzled out with a whimper.
The Demon King sat back on his throne. He exhaled a slow, molten breath.
The demon general gulped and raised a charred scroll-like screen into the orb's view.
"My lord... this year's Emberglow champions."
The Demon King narrowed his infernal eyes. The image came into focus.
A devastated Ash, holding a golden spoon triumphantly.
And beside him — perched proudly on a mushroom-shaped plate, was Poffin. Wearing a chef hat far too big for his head.
"...A human and his... furry meatball."
The orb's flame flared as the Demon King's aura pulsed in disbelief.
"You mean to tell me we lost to a back-alley fisticuff human and a sentient fur duster?!"
"Yes, sire. And... uh... the fur duster made the winning dish.
The Demon King clenched his fists. The floor cracked. Another random skeleton evaporated. (#61 this time.)
"This disgrace… this mockery of my culinary reign—"
Then a tiny voice pierced through the rage.
"Oooooh!"
Little clawed feet skittered across the obsidian floor. His daughter's face lit up as she peered at the orb's image.
"Daaaad, I want that! That little plushie! The floofy one with angry eyes!"
The Demon King froze.
"You want... the fluff demon? That's not a toy, sweetie. That's a—"
"PLEAAAAAAASEEEE!"
A spark of magical energy surged — not from ancient seals, but from the unstoppable force of a demon child on the verge of a Category 6 tantrum.
She inhaled.
"IF YOU LOOOOVE MEEEEEEE—!"
"Fiiine!" The Demon King's voice boomed, equal parts fury and fatigue.
He slumped back on his throne, soul cracking like an overcooked soufflé.
"I shall retrieve the creature."
"Yay!" she spun around in joy,
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"General, change of plans. Prepare the Hunt. I want that... plushie. Alive."
The Demon King's orb shimmered again, this time summoning a sleek silhouette into view. He sat back on his obsidian throne, resting his chin on a clawed hand.
"Send in... her."
From the shadows, heels clicked — a rhythmic, calculated cadence echoing like a war drum in a luxury boutique. She stepped forward, clad in a sleek black ensemble embroidered with crimson silk threads, twin daggers at her hips, each engraved with price tags she refused to remove for aesthetic.
Her eyes were like sharpened eyeliner: deadly, judgmental, and probably capable of cutting through pretension.
"You summoned me, my king?"
"Yes. There is a... target. Small. Round. Infuriatingly smug."
She raised a brow.
"A pet?"
"A fluffball menace that somehow bested our culinary forces and has now become my daughter's obsession."
She smiled. Gracefully. Dangerously.
"And you want it destroyed?"
"Captured."
"Alive?"
"Yes.. Un...shed. No shaving. No sampling. No accessorizing," he growled.
"Spoilsport."
She curtsied with a wicked smirk, her cape fluttering like boutique curtains caught in a dramatic wind.
"Consider the plushie... bagged. And if I happen to pass a clearance sale along the way…"
The orb faded. The Demon King sighed.
"Idiots..."