The Demon King extended his right hand to the side, causing the space around his hand to distort as he extracted a colossal greatsword.

The magnificently beautiful yet monstrously horrifying greatsword took a moment to fully materialize before the king, whether due to its inherent nature or his desire to torment me with a creeping sense of dread. I suspected it was the latter that held true.

This colossal weapon loomed over me; considering my height among other mortals, that was no small feat.

As I examined the features of his sword, the sense of dread overwhelmed me.

Each second I stood there examining the sword, one thought bounced in my already filled mind: to run as fast and far as mortally possible. Was there a chance for me to escape? Absolutely none, yet the fear stayed with me.

It was a sword adorned in a furious combination of black and red. The blacksmith who forged the weapon appeared to strike at it with a frenzied intensity, as if driven mad by the visions of unspeakable horrors that this single weapon and its wielder would unleash upon the realms.

Nahemah was adorned with sharp, jagged spikes and menacing curves crafted from a mystical metal, each ending in a treacherous point. The countless lives claimed by the pair were so vast that mere words could hardly capture their numbers.

I observed movement on the blade as sentient blobs of darkness tried to detach themselves from it. These dark-colored blobs bore a hellish twist, resembling balloons.

By enhancing my vision with mana, I could tell that these blobs were actually small faces.

As they multiplied, the faces displayed expressions of agony and sorrow, emerging from one another's mouths. Horrified, I took a step back, realizing that the sword held captive souls within it.

Vile crept up my normally muted face, threatening to explode outward.