STAW Vol 1. pt. 1 (Patreon)

((I edited some of what there was before and added about 1.2k or so onto this, so here is--I think--the finalized version of the first upload of STAW!))

I don’t want to be summoned into another world. No, really. I don’t. 

Cats. Pineapple on pizza. “Don’t be a prickly pineapple!” Mondays. Humans. These are just some of the things that I hate. Yes, the water may be rising around me and I am likely going to die because of an idiotic hurricane not knowing how hurricanes are supposed to work – seriously, how did it make such a sharp turn and manage to hit me directly? It does not matter if there were warnings and evacuation notices. The evacuation notices were not mandatory, so by all means, I should be fine right now instead of dealing with water up to my chest. Anyways, my point is that all of those things I mentioned first are creatures, phrases, and concepts that I hate more than the fact that I am most likely going to die a horrible death by drowning or being swept away in a torrent of water.

There is only one thing I hate more than all of those. There is – yes, I know this may be hard to believe, but there is actually something worse than my manager’s favorite phrase and humanity in general. Fantasy. Not fantasies, but the literary genre of fantasy. It was good originally back when we had Tolkien and Lovecraft writing unique works, but since then, everything is more or less just a slightly modified version of stories that have already been written.

Oh, look, elves. Let me guess, they are hippy tree-huggers with pointed ears and are exceptionally good with bows and animals. Oh, look, dwarves. Let me guess, they are short and sturdy creatures fond of drink and industry with large beards and Scottish accents. Oh, look, dragons. Let me guess, they are wise and powerful beings who once more or less ruled the world because nothing could defeat them, but they have now dwindled in numbers to the point where they are either extinct or on the verge of extinction until somebody comes along and finds the last one who, for whatever reason, decides to befriend the main character or entrust them with an egg bearing their child.

Oh, look, a bad guy. He is probably going to make utterly idiotic decisions such as not killing his enemies as soon as he possibly can, monologuing for just a long enough duration to give somebody the chance to act to his detriment, is going to make his henchmen wear all black and dress like they are Roman or Nazi soldiers, and he never makes his legions practice aiming with whatever ranged weaponry they employ.

Fantasy is as dreadfully repetitive as that whole rant was. Yet, every year, imbeciles will mindlessly consume whatever fantasy literature is tossed in front of them as if they are ravenous babies starving for their mother’s tit. 

Let me make this clear to you right now: no matter how much I may despise cats and their inferiority to dogs, no matter how much I may hate my manager who acts overly friendly and playful to people who really just want him to go away and leave them alone, and no matter how much I may hate Monday and humanity for creating the concept of Monday, there is nothing I hate more than the tired clichés of fantasy.

Not even my former wife and her poisonous ability to turn my daughter against me could compare to my hatred for fantasy. Yes, I would rather never see my own daughter again than have to consume fantasy in any format.

It isn’t like she would ever want to see me again in the first place.

Between Gandalf being hit by a truck last month, my daughter hating me and replacing me, a job in middle management that is more soul-draining than listening to daft fools non-ironically argue that Earth is flat, and now likely facing a violent death that involves getting wetter than my ex-wife when any man with a bald head would look her direction, I realize that – yes, I do not mind dying.

This must be what it means it to be at peace with death. I have regrets, but I fail to find any reason to care. There are things that I still want to do, but what is the point to doing anything when nothing truly lasts? I am not getting any flashes of my life before my eyes or anything like that either despite the water now being up to my neck.

All that I have now are my internally-monologuing thoughts regarding my hatred, the creaking and shaking walls of my one-story house that I am renting for more than this piece of junk is worth, and a lifetime supply of floodwater.

Finally, I am one step closer to being free of this world full of pathetic authors incapable of creating original fictions, women sexually obsessed with bald heads, and annoyingly-friendly middle managers as the walls of my house give in which allows the torrential floodwaters to sweep me away.

You know, as “at peace with dying” as one may be, being tossed against a bunch of drifting debris and choking on filthy water--which likely has shit and piss in it considering that the sewers are all flooded--is not a very pleasant way of leaving this world.

As the water carries me down streets that once used to be full of annoying children playing “hoops” as they call it these days, it becomes increasingly difficult to be at peace with dying. The closer I get to death, the more my damned instinctual desire to live kicks in. My mind may be at peace with dying, but my body is not.

I kick and flail, desperately trying to grab onto anything that could support me and hopefully let me stay above water, but there is no support that lasts.

Eventually, enough water floods into my throat that I turn my focus to trying to cough it out and frantically flailing about.

I hate this. In the end, I can’t even die peacefully. I just have to go out of this world desperately trying my hardest to survive.

Oh, I can see my solution to this pathetic attempt at survival coming up.

The water is carrying me directly toward a massive pileup of vehicles and debris that should, hopefully, at least knock me unconscious if I hit it at the speed that I am being carried.

Here’s to hoping.

I am but inches away from slamming headfirst into the jagged end of a broken telephone pole when everything goes black, just like how I like my coffee.

As for why I am still able to make such stupid, dry attempts at humor, I do not know. I would have thought that dying meant no more thinking at all. Are these the final thoughts of a dying brain that has lost its ability to connect to the rest of my body? Am I going to just eternally… think? Is there an afterlife now? Spoiler alert: there isn’t. Things like that don’t exist. An afterlife is just as fantasy as – well, fantasy. 

“Can you hear me?” a feminine voice calls out to me.

Why is there another voice in my head with my thoughts, and why does it have to be a girl? Am I really going to spend my death with a woman? Couldn’t it be a dog or something instead? I want to hear “woof,” not some girl asking if I can hear her.

I groan and answer her with a question, “Who are you?”

“My name is Lilith of the Crimson Horn tribe!” she answers, her voice sounding full of excitement.

She sounds annoying already.

“Am I dead?” I ask her.

“Of course not! If you were dead, then how would you be talking to me? Geez, Milord, have you hit your head in there?”

Unfortunately, I think me not hitting my head is the problem here.

So, let’s get the “facts” straight. I am only calling them “facts” right now because it is all I have to go with.

One, I am apparently in a black space of nothingness with no movable body, yet I am capable of thought and speech.

Two, I am not dead. Unfortunately.

Three, the girl speaking to me is “Lilith of the Crimson Horn tribe,” and she is calling me her lord.

Oh god. Please, please, please do not tell me that this means what I think it means. This is going to be a fate worse than gaining immortality and forever working a nine to five job! This is going to be worse than my coworkers trying to set me up on blind dates with their morbidly obese “oh but she’s really nice” friends! This is going to be worse than continuously giving examples of what this is going to be worse than!

“Milord, Milord, are you there? Can you still hear me? Milord?” Lilith asks like an annoying brat asking their parent if they’re there yet. 

“Yes, I am here,” I say followed by a groan. Part of me is tempted to just not reply and see if she’ll leave me alone eventually. Maybe then I will get to die and not have to deal with what I am fearing is the worst-case scenario.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, Milord, but the most important thing is that I’m summoning you to my world!”

Please, no.

“It is time for the six great devil families to summon candidates to choose who the next dark lord is, and you have been chosen as the Crimson Horn tribe’s candidate!”

Oh, god.

“I am able to grant you one power of your choosing that you believe will help you—”

“Death. I want death.”

“Milord! You must take this seriously! I will admit that it is a funny jest, but you must take this seriously!”

I’m getting too old for this.

“Ahem! Now, as I was saying, Milord, I will grant you one power that you wish for. You may wish to become a powerful beast, you may wish for such strong magic that you can annihilate mountains with a simple flick of the finger, or something else! Whatever you wish for, I will grant it—”

“Death. I already told you that.”

“Milord!”

My non-existent face further twists into a permanent state of cringing every time she calls me that.

“Fine, I want my old body back.”

“You – Milord, are you sure? Your previous body was weak and fragile. We have a new body prepared for you if you do not wish to choose an exceptional one as your power. You could have the body of a ferocious minotaur! Or a demonic dragon! Or a—”

“I refuse to parade myself around as anything as horridly cliché as those. Give me my old body. That is all I want. I do not want some insane power, I do not want to live my life as some cliché fantasy creature that has been done a million times over already, and I do not want to be asked if I am sure. Give me my old body – my normal, real, human body, and that is an order.”

“Mi—Milord… you are so demanding! Your dominant personality will surely lead to you being chosen as the new dark lord!”

She sounds far too excited about being ordered around.

Is this punishment for firing that underperformer last week? What about that time I refused to give a new mother extra time off? I was only doing my job! At least I wasn’t as horrible as Moby from the HR department.

Now that I think about it, there was that crazy “new age” spiritualist girl who played with dolls and pins, and she did tell me that she was going to curse me so that I spend an eternity suffering in Hell after I fired her for bringing those creepy dolls into the office despite being told not to. It made the other workers uncomfortable when she’d giggle to herself as she’d stick pins into the dolls’ eyes after every customer service call she handled. 

Wait, shouldn’t I ask for something such as an encyclopedia, a copy of Wikipedia, or internet access and a laptop? If I’m being summoned into some pathetic fantasy world, then would it not be best for me to go in with as much advanced knowledge as possible?

No, wait. Doing that would be cliché. Characters are always summoned into these sorts of worlds and make wishes for things such as that. Let’s be realistic here: just because I have access to information does not mean that it will be applicable in a fantasy world where the very laws of nature may be fundamentally different and where all of the materials and chemicals could be new. Essentially, the only information that I could realistically take advantage of is already common sense to me.

Besides, there have already been stories about protagonists who would bring over such vast reserves of knowledge with them. It is an overdone trope.

Even if it means being at a disadvantage, I refuse to become a cliché.

You know what isn’t cliché? Being a middle-aged middle manager who hates clichés and refuses to use any, even if it means being at a disadvantage.

A few seconds later and I am given my previous body. Now, when I speak, I am actually moving my mouth instead of just making noise without any physical vessel.

I look myself over. Two arms, two legs, a cock, two feet – I feel my head. I still have a head full of hair. I feel my face. I still have my goatee. Wait… I am going to become the dark lord and have a goatee?

Alright, that is one cliché that is acceptable but only because I promised my ex-wife that I would never shave my facial hair no matter how many bald men she threatened to cheat on me with.

Let’s face it: shaving wasn’t going to stop her.

“I have one more demand. I need a suit,” I tell the annoying girl.

“I already fulfilled one request of yours, Milord, but since it was such a simple and disadvantageous one, I believe that it would be allowed to satisfy this new request as well!” she answers.

A moment later and I’m wearing some long, flowing red and black dress that exposes too much of my chest and feels too airy at the crotch.

“I said a suit. Not some nonsensical looking dress.”

“That is a suit, Milord! Is it not to your taste? That is the fashion of high devils in our society.”

I bring my palm to my face. There is going to be a lot of work for me. Wait, why I am even accepting any of this? It is not like I have to agree to being some new demon lord or whatever the position is. Jobs work both ways: they must be offered, and they must be accepted. It has been offered, but I do not need to accept it.

“Why should I agree to be your candidate? What do I get out of it?” I ask her.

“I – ummm, uhhh… ah… you… get to umm… maybe be the dark lord and rule over all of the underworld?”

“And?”

“A-and? You – if you become the ruler then you can do whatever you want, have whatever you want, and… that’s it, Milord! Is that not enough for you? There is not a single denizen of the underworld who would want more than that!”

“I’m not convinced. What are the benefits? The pay?”

“A-ah… I – whatever you want?”

“Do I have to report to anybody? Is there anything like shareholders? Am I the one in ultimate control of everything, or is there still somebody above me?”

“I umm… I don’t…”

“Am I going to have to deal with pesky heroes wishing to ‘slay’ me to ‘save the world?’”

“W-well, probably…”

“This sounds like a horrible job position. Not only are you incapable of giving me all the details regarding it, but I am not even assured that I will become this ‘dark lord’ of yours, and my life will likely be in danger from the moment that I enter your world.”

“That’s – that’s why I was offering you a better body, Mi—”

“Are you saying that my current body is unsatisfactory to you?”

“N-no! Milord, I would never say th—”

“Then what are you saying?”

“U-umm, ah, uuu…hawawa…”

“Uuu? Hawawa? What kind of generic, cliché Chinese cartoon sound effects are those?”

“Milord! Please stop bullying me! I don’t even know what Chinese is!”

She sounds like she’s about to cry.

Ugh. I hate this. I hate everything. I hate myself. I just - I hate.

“It’s not like I have much choice here, so fine. I will be your candidate, and I will show your world what it means to truly be evil. I will show them all what it means to be a proper dark lord, and I am going to subvert every single damned trope that this world tries throwing at me. Do I make myself clear, Lilith of the Crimson Horn tribe?” I ask. I would rather not be stuck floating in nothingness, I doubt she is willing to send me elsewhere, and I am sure that I will not be able to live some peaceful life ignoring plot devices in whatever setting I am about to be summoned into.

“Milord!” She sounds like she’s going to cry again. “Yes, Milord! And I will help you as much as I possibly can! I will do anything you ask of me!”

“Then to start with, stop being so predictable. Do not do everything I ask of you because that makes you a generic, two-dimensional character whose only importance is being a plot device to me. Where is the character development if you start off so willingly doing every possible thing for me?”

“I’m – I’m not sure that I understand, Milord, but I will try my best!”

“Next, give me a proper suit. If you were able to give me my body then I am sure you can give me a suit.”

A moment later and the ridiculous thing I am wearing gets replaced by a properly-fitted, pressed, black suit with a white shirt and burgundy tie.

“Good. Now then, how do I enter your world?”

“Just grab my hand and I will pull you through!” she says, reaching her hand out through a sudden portal of swirling energies.

I take a deep breath and groan one last time before submitting to my new fate.

Reaching forward, I grab her hand and allow her to pull me into my new personal hell.

((The new stuff starts here if you've already read the first version of this.))

Apparently, my personal hell is soft, large, and bouncy.

“A-ah! Milord! I – I accidentally…”

At least she smells nice.

“Don’t sniff me!”

I take my face out from her bosom, stand up, and brush myself off before taking a good look at the girl sprawled out on the ground from my summoning resulting in crashing directly into her.

Short with a black bob cut that covers all of her forehead aside from where two red horns stick up and out from her forehead, eyes as red as crimson, pale skin as flawless as can be, and the sort of body that makes me think that I have been summoned into some basement-dwelling virgin’s erotic fantasy. With thighs as thick as they are and a bust as prominent and on display as hers is, she reminds me of how every male author just has to go and make every demoness look like some busty sex thing.

“How old are you?” I ask, looking down at her. Her face is one of those cute ones where she could either be a teenager or in her twenties.

“I – I’m one hundred and ninety-seven!” she answers me.

“Going by the fact that your face looks barely legal, I am going to assume that you act the same way rather than like somebody whom is one hundred and ninety-seven. Am I correct?”

“I act my age! I think…”

“No, you seem to not understand how this works. Somebody who looks young is going to act young no matter how old they are. Can you truthfully tell me that you carry yourself in a way befitting of somebody over one hundred years old?”

“N-no…”

“That is what I thought. Now then, why aren’t you up yet?”

She looks at me with confused eyes as if she is expecting something.

“I’m not helping you up. You are the one who caused me to knock you over in the first place, so you can get up on your own,” I explain to her.

She pouts and finally gets up. Now that she is standing up, it is even easier to see just how sexualized her body is. “Don’t those oversized things cause you backpain?” I ask, pointing at her chest.

Her conflicted, blushing expression tells me that she cannot tell whether to cover her chest and shout at me not to look, or proudly thrust it forward and brag about it.

She does both as she crosses one arm over her cleavage while trying to speak proudly of it, “M-my mother told me that these will be my greatest assets! And a devil would never suffer from something such as back pain!” she declares.

“So, your own mother told you that your chest is your only useful quality?” I ask.

She looks as if her entire reality is crashing around her. “I’m… only good for my chest…” she dejectedly confirms.

“For what it is worth, they are powerful tools against most men and some women. Some people are into oversized lumps of fat that are useless outside of breastfeeding for a few months.”

Her shoulders slouch even more as her skin goes paler than it already is. If I look closely enough, it’s as if I can see her spirit leaving her body.

“Lilith.”

“I’m… only good for oversized lumps of fat…”

“For now, yes.”

“For now?” she asks, lifting her head to look at me.

“Correct. Right now, you have no redeeming quality other than being something nice to look at. However, if I am to become this place’s dark lord, I am going to need an assistant. Because somebody only good for looking at will not make a satisfactory assistant in the slightest, I am going to have to teach you.”

“But… wouldn’t you rather teach somebody better than me?”

“You are the most trustworthy person I know right now. You are the one who has brought me to this world, and I can already tell that you are not going to be the cliché, hidden antagonist who is manipulating me without me ever realizing it. Your intentions are naïve, but pure. That makes you trustworthy enough. So, Lilith of the Crimson Horn tribe, will you be my assistant?”

“Mi-Milord!” she cries as she lunges at me with open arms.

The palm of my hand to her forehead keeps her from getting too personal. “This is a business relationship. I am now your boss, and you are my servant. Servants do not hug their bosses. Do I make myself clear?”

She looks annoyingly happy still as she looks up at me with teary eyes. “Yes, Milord!”

“Now then.” I look around at my surroundings. It appears that I am in some sort of small cave only dimly lit by a few torches on the walls. What looks like a circle that some Satanist goth girl would draw in her high school notebook instead of taking notes is beneath me and Lilith, and aside from that, there is nothing else. “Where are we?”

“This is the sacred ritual cave beneath my tribe’s manor that we have used for summoning candidates ever since… well, ever!” she answers me.

“So, we are in your manor’s basement?”

She looks dejected again. “Y-yes…”

As cliché as landing face-first in her breasts was, at least I’m not in some random forest, town, or on an altar.

I am in a basement.

A dark, cold basement.

“Alright, assistant, I am hungry. Almost dying made me realize that it has been a while since I have last enjoyed a hamburger, so your first task is to acquire a hamburger for me. In addition to that, I am going to need coffee. Black. Understand?” I ask, turning around to look at her.

She looks utterly clueless.

“Ha-hamburger? Coffee?”

I have a lot of work to do.

((Picture references!

Lilith: https://imgur.com/a/r1kxS

MC (the best thing to try and make him in was MHW): https://imgur.com/a/0wCR0 ))