Dalvion narrowed his eyes, the red light of the sky reflecting in their depths. The mud hut, his perfectly laid out initial spawn, was now a steaming ruin, dissolving into a putrid puddle of mud and corrupted divine energy. Patches of its surface bubbled like a witch’s brew, each pop releasing a plume of acrid steam that smelled of ozone and scorched earth. The corrosive ash, finer than dust motes, continued to drift down, coating the ruined soil in a simmering layer. This wasn’t environmental storytelling; this was plain bad design. “This is utterly unacceptable,” Dalvion declared, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the very bedrock of the Weeping Steppes. Kholgath, who had just managed to re-steep his master’s tea in a floating cup, nearly dropped the entire service. The demon lord, still suspended several feet off the ground from the lingering gravity anomaly, shook so violently that the delicate ceramic rattled. “Unacceptable, Master? Is the… the flavour not to your refined palate?” Kholgath stammered, attempting to maintain an illusion of competence despite the existential dread coiling in his gut. His multi-jointed legs, usually solid as petrified timber, quivered like reeds in a gale. Dalvion ignored him, flicking a wrist. “The tea is irrelevant, Kholgath. My base just got griefed by a weather event. This isn’t difficulty; it’s an oversight. A critical bug. And I’m not going to sit here and wait for a hotfix.” He gestured vaguely towards the horizon, where, even through the scarlet haze, the distant spires of the Vaelian realm pierced the sky like jagged teeth. “I need to submit a bug report directly to the developers. This level of environmental instability in a starting zone is preposterous.” Kholgath’s eyes, usually pools of jet-black malice, bulged in disbelief. “The… the imperial seat, Master? But that realm is… it is protected by layers of wards that would flay a lesser god! Its very air is poison to the uninvited, its guardians are legions forged in the pits of Oblivion!” “Exactly,” Dalvion nodded, as if Kholgath had perfectly articulated his own thoughts. “Terrible level design. The traversal here is atrocious. No fast travel points anywhere, just endless, dull treks through repetitive biomes. Clearly, they expect players to grind for mounts or something equally tedious.” He sighed, a sound that seemed to pull at the fabric of reality itself. “Fine. If they won’t give me a fast travel option, I’ll make my own.” He extended a hand, palm flat, towards the distant spires. A crackle, low and deep, emanated from his being, like tectonic plates grinding together. The air around his fingers shimmered, not with heat, but with a pure, raw force that seemed to unravel the very concept of space. Kholgath, still hovering with his tea tray, felt a profound, primal terror blossom in his chest. This was not magic as he knew it. This was the universe being told it had made a mistake, and the universe, in its terror, was complying. [ERROR: REALITY INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. RECALCULATING…] [WARNING: SPATIAL ANCHOR DESYNC. UNEXPECTED VECTOR INITIATED.] A tear, jagged and inky, ripped open in the air before Dalvion. It wasn't a portal, but a wound in the world, revealing not another place, but the un-space between all places—a swirling vortex of muted colors and silent screams. It pulsed, a raw, angry eye in the blood-red sky. Dalvion frowned at it. “Hm. A bit too flashy. Needs optimization for smoother transitions. And the UI feedback is unreadable gibberish. Seriously, what kind of font is that?” He glanced at Kholgath, whose entire body was now vibrating like a plucked string. “Alright, Kholgath. Let’s go. Try not to spill the tea.” Before Kholgath could even whimper a protest, Dalvion strode into the void. The demon lord, bound by an unbreakable spiritual leash, was yanked forward, tumbling head-over-hoof, the tea tray miraculously still clutched in his trembling claws. The black tear snapped shut behind them, leaving the Weeping Steppes in an unnatural, shuddering silence. One moment, they were in the raw, churning maelstrom of un-space. The next, they landed with a jarring thud on solid stone. The air was sharp, tasting of iron and ozone, and the sky above was no longer red, but a dull, oppressive grey, punctuated by lightning-fast cracks of cerulean energy. They had arrived in the central bailey of Fort Malice, the empire’s impenetrable border fortress. Massive basalt ramparts, studded with unholy runes that pulsed with malevolent energy, rose impossibly high around them. Towers bristled with arcane artillery, and the flagstones underfoot hummed with contained power. Immediately, the air shrieked with a thousand alarm bells, not metallic, but the sound of tortured souls compressed into pure sonic force. Wards flared, defensive matrices spun into violent existence, and the fortress itself seemed to recoil from their sudden, impossible appearance. “Ah, finally. A new zone,” Dalvion muttered, brushing a speck of dust from his otherwise pristine vestments. He looked around, his gaze lingering on the gargantuan, scorched-iron gates that dominated one side of the perimeter. “Decent textures on these gates, I suppose. A bit too much bloom, maybe. And the sound design for the alarm is just grating.” Kholgath, meanwhile, was curled into a whimpering ball, his head tucked between his knees, tea tray still held aloft like a shield against his impending doom. The air here carried an icy pressure that choked his lungs and strained his joints. Suddenly, the scorched-iron gates rumbled open with a sound like grinding mountains, revealing a phalanx of figures. These were the Death-Guard, elite enforcers of the throne, clad in armor of black iron that seemed to absorb all light, their helms faceless visors that glowed with malevolent scarlet light. Each gripped a massive, two-handed greatsword, its blade etched with spiraling glyphs that thirsted for life-force. They marched with a terrifying, synchronized precision, forming a bristling wall of blades and silent menace. “Halt, interlopers!” boomed a voice, deep and resonant, from the lead sentry. “You stand on hallowed ground of Vaelia! State your purpose, or suffer the eternal judgment of the Malice Guard!” Dalvion blinked, then stepped forward, untroubled by the legion of armed, glowing monstrosities. He walked right up to the lead warrior, who was easily twice his height, and tapped a gloved finger on the breastplate. The solid clang echoed in the suddenly silent quad. “Yeah, about that,” Dalvion said, his voice completely calm. “The textures on this armor are surprisingly low-res up close. And the voice acting is a bit… theatrical for an NPC. Look, I’m not here for a raid encounter. I’m here because your environmental hazards just destroyed my starter base. This corrosive ash, the bugged weather cycle? It’s completely broken immersion.” He gestured impatiently. “So, can you go get your manager? I need to speak to whoever’s in charge of these terrible rendering issues.” The sentries remained frozen, their scarlet visors fixed on Dalvion, their greatswords unwavering. The lead soldier's helmet tilted ever so slightly, as if processing an utterly alien concept. Then, a new shadow fell over the courtyard. A roar, not of a beast, but of tearing wind, descended from the sky. A colossal, scaled form, black as night and wreathed in crackling shadows, plunged from the oppressive clouds. It was a Void-Drake, a creature of cosmic terror, its wingspan blotting out the already dim light. Astride its monstrous back sat a figure encased in midnight plate, its helm shaped like a predatory bird of prey. In its gauntleted hand, it clutched a spear, impossibly long and slender, yet radiating an aura of absolute finality. The spearhead, a single shard of crystallized starlight, hummed with a suppressed, devastating power. This was the legendary Soul-Raker, said to pierce the very essence of deities. The Inquisitor, Lord Commander Thul-Garoth, dismounted with a heavy clang, his movements precise and deadly. His voice, amplified by some dark sorcery, boomed across the flagstones, silencing even the seasoned sentries. “You are a blasphemy,” Thul-Garoth declared, his gaze, even through the visor, a burning inferno fixed on Dalvion. “A cancerous growth on the skin of existence. By the will of the Ascendancy, your borrowed soul is forfeit.”

Speaking to the Manager