High Meadow looked like it had fought a war against its own good judgment and lost decisively.

  Hank Underberry stood in the rubble of the town square at precisely six in the morning, wearing the expression of a man who had surpassed irritation, circled through rage, and landed on a new emotional plane known simply as

  The sun cast gentle golden light across overturned tables, shattered chairs, dented street lamps, and at least one wooden barrel that had inexplicably ended up on top of the blacksmith’s roof. Every building had at least one broken window. Several had two. One had zero because the entire wall was gone.

  Hank inhaled deeply.

  Exhaled slowly.

  And tried to convince himself that this was technically part of his job description.

  He flipped open his clipboard.

  “Alright!” he barked at a cluster of groaning adventurers attempting to sweep debris but mostly sweeping each other. “Injured on the left! Unconscious on the right! If you don’t know where you belong, it’s the middle!”

  A dwarf staggered past wearing only one boot and half of a papier-maché dragon costume.

  A cleric vomited into a flowerpot while apologizing to the flower.

  Someone attempted to climb the statue fountain, declared themselves “King of the Barrels,” promptly fell off, and was added to the unconscious pile.

  A goat stood triumphantly atop the ruined tavern sign, chewing on what might have once been a festival banner. Every attempt to coax it down had failed. Several attempts had resulted in minor injuries.

  Hank closed his eyes.

  He counted silently.

  He made it to two.

  The city had celebrated before.

  It had thrown festivals.

  Banquets.

  Holiday feasts.

  Once even a parade.

  But nothing had ever come close to last night.

  He surveyed the carnage.

  Three separate district streets had collapsed under the weight of enthusiastic dancing.

  The fountain had caught fire.

  The roof of the guild house had caved in under the collective efforts of seven extremely drunk men trying to form a “human staircase.”

  Someone had somehow strapped fireworks to the mayor’s statue. It now looked delightedly surprised.

  A pair of mages sat nearby, heads bowed in synchronized misery, mumbling, “We didn’t mean to summon the flaming chicken. It just happened.”

  Hank wrote in his notes.

  A cleric limped past, whispering reverently to another: “I still can’t believe it. He drank him under the table.”

  Hank froze.

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  The quill stopped mid-stroke.

  The words echoed in his skull.

  He had witnessed many improbable things in his career.

  He had seen heroes, villains, monsters, demigods, disasters, and one memorable incident involving a mimic disguised as a tax collection box.

  But nothing compared to last night’s spectacle.

  Not the impossibly tall stranger.

  Not the infernal aura.

  Not the spiraling flames or booming declarations of doom.

  It was the drinking.

  The drinking had been the worst part.

  The Demon Lord fallen over backward like a felled tree after the eighteenth tankard and declared, in perfect slurred Common:

  “I am NOT tipsy! I am admirably horizontal!”

  Cletus had just said, “You done?”

  And then downed another tankard in one effortless swallow.

  Hank shut the clipboard.

  He stared into the middle distance, eyes hollow.

  “I need a vacation,” he whispered to no one in particular.

  Somewhere nearby, someone began sweeping confetti with the resigned endurance of a condemned soul.

  Hank took one last solemn look at the chaos.

  Elsewhere…

  A forest road stretched beneath the morning sun, leaves whispering in the breeze, serene and peaceful and blissfully unaware of the metaphysical tragedy unfolding within a certain enchanted vehicle.

  Kotetsu rolled along at a gentle wobble, trying its absolute best to keep the ride smooth for the slumped, groaning figure crammed in the passenger seat.

  Cletus drove, one hand on the wheel, the other cradling a cup of water.

  And beside him sat Lord Vorgath the Desolate Flame, helmet removed, hair tousled, eyes squeezed shut.

  He looked like a deity who had been forcibly unplugged from his own power source.

  He groaned. Long. Miserable. Nearly operatic.

  “Why…” Vorgath rasped, clutching his temples, “why does my skull feel as though it is being gnawed upon by several determined rats…?”

  Cletus sipped water.

  “Well, that’ll happen when ya’ drink enough alcohol to embalm a kraken.”

  Vorgath slowly lifted his head.

  “I do not understand,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wounded. “I partied in my youth. I dominated the fermented halls of Skarr’vahl. I once consumed a brew so potent it erased a full week of my life and three of my acquaintances from history. How… HOW did I fall to ?”

  Kotetsu hummed helpfully through the console.

  “Kotetsu says I got some sort of an S-Class drinking trait. Supposed to be mythic.”

  Vorgath’s eyes widened.

  “There is a CLASS SYSTEM? For INTOXICATION?”

  “I reckon so,” Cletus replied.

  The Demon Lord sank deeper into the seat, covering his face with both hands.

  “I trained,” he moaned. “I prepared. I rehearsed my victory speech. I practiced my triumphant cape swish. I ARRIVED ON A BOLT OF LIGHTNING.”

  He winced violently.

  “And now I suffer. Like a mortal. This is… ” Sudden realization forced the Demon Lord to wince inwardly. “Embarrassing?” The heat, the involuntary eye twitch, and that was the word he had struggled to remember.

  Cletus shrugged sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us.”

  A long silence followed.

  The kind of silence a man has when rethinking his life choices.

  Vorgath finally muttered, “My council will never let me live this down. Grakthul will assemble a warband and come swinging through the trees like an enraged chandelier. Sallientheria will want to immolate the entire forest. Nekrothrax will write long spoken word poetry.”

  Cletus gave him a gentle pat on the back.

  “Hang in there, big guy.”

  Vorgath made a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper.

  Cletus reached into the glove box.

  “A’right. There’s only one cure that works for a hangover this bad.”

  Vorgath lifted his head weakly.

  “What… cure?”

  Cletus held up a cassette tape.

  A slightly worn, handwritten label read:

  THE TAPE

  He slid it into Kotetsu’s stereo.

  A soft click.

  Then—

  Guitar.

  Slow.

  Mournful.

  Beautiful.

  Vorgath blinked, lifting his head as the melody washed over him.

  “What… is this?”

  Cletus smiled.

  “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

  Vorgath stared through the windshield, dazed, awestruck, and still very drunk.

  “…It is beautiful,” he whispered.

  “Just wait for the solo,” Cletus said.

  Kotetsu hummed.

  “Bonding sequence: initiated.”

  And as sunlight streamed through the trees, the Demon Lord of the Nightbound Citadel slumped in the seat of a magical pickup truck, listening to

  contemplating his first official loss in centuries.

  The forest road stretched on.

  And the two men — one human, one ancient evil — traveled into it together.