Allen's blade cleaves through Malgetha, the Demon King of Gluttony, with a wet crunch. Her bile-green flesh splits like overripe fruit, spraying him with blood that sizzles where it touches his skin. She collapses, her bloated body deflating into a pool of pus and maggots. The Rotborn—her plague-twisted followers—screech and writhe as her death unravels their cursed forms.
Allen wipes her filth from his eyes, his breath ragged. The obsidian sword in his hand thrums with stolen power, its edge glowing faintly with the same sickly green as Malgetha's veins. One down, six to go. Though he won, this victory seemed hollow.
"You would never be able to get what you want," she rasped as her body slowly turned to goop.
Allen moved closer to her body and stabbed her heart. His blade thrummed, absorbing the heart and her power along with it. "At least I'm not the one dying in my own juices," he muttered.
He severed her head and, with it in hand, walked to the balcony of the huge castle. Looking down on the demons and half-demons in servitude of Malgetha, he yelled, the head raised for all to see. "Your queen has fallen. Long live the Demon King, Allen!"