Ask the Emperor
You pathetic mortals have questions? Fine. The Emperor—ME—has answers. Not that you deserve them, but hey, I’m feeling generous. Let’s get this over with.
Q: Are you really half-demon, or is this just some edgy phase?
A: Oh, I wish this was just some phase so I could grow out of it and leave you worthless insects behind. But no, this is real. I am a cambion. Half-human, half-demon. Unlike you fragile meat sacks, I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. My blood is some kind of reddish-black, viscous liquid, my breath can scorch the air, and my power makes your pathetic little lives look like a fucking joke.
Q: Why do your eyes glow like that? Is it some kind of trick?
A: Trick? Trick?! You think I wear glowing contacts like some basement-dwelling poser? No, dumbass. My eyes burn with demonic fire. They never stop glowing, no matter how much I try to “blend in.” Not that I give a shit about blending in. If anything, I want people to be uncomfortable when they look at me.
Q: What’s up with your tongue and teeth? They look… unnatural.
A: Wow, thanks, genius, for pointing out the obvious. Yes, my tongue is long, blackish-purple, and pierced, and my gums match it. My teeth? Sharp, disgusting, yellow, and ready to tear through flesh if I ever feel like it. Oh, and my breath? It stinks of sulfur and gasoline because it’s literally flammable. Ever belched out a flame before? No? That’s because you’re weak!
Q: Do you have any friends?
A:What the fuck do you think? No, I don’t have friends. Friends are useless. People are pawns. They exist to be manipulated, feared, or destroyed. That’s all.
Q: What do you do for fun?
A: Set shit on fire. Make people suffer. Prowl the streets when the full moon rises and watch the town piss itself in fear when they see The Black Dog of Redhill lurking in the shadows. Oh, and cigarettes. I love smoking just to breathe fire and freak people out. It’s fucking hilarious.
Q: If you hate your family so much, why do you still live with them?
A: Oh, trust me, I would leave if I felt like it. But let’s be real—why should I be the one to go when I can just make their lives hell instead? Plus, my mother… Madison… she’s the only reason I haven’t burned this place to the ground yet. Not that I like admitting that.
Q: Your mother named you after Saint Vincent of Saragossa. That’s ironic, isn’t it?
A: Don’t remind me. The idea of being named after some holy bastard makes me want to throw up. That’s why I don’t call myself Vincent anymore. Call me Emperor Vincent. Or better yet—The Morningstar. Because when I take over, that’s the name you’ll be screaming in fear.
Q: What’s the end goal here, Vincent? What do you actually want?
A: Power. Chaos. A world shaped by me. I don’t want to fit into your broken little society—I want to burn it down and rebuild it in my own twisted image. No laws. No morality. Just raw, brutal strength. You either kneel before me, or you get wiped off the fucking map. Simple.
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There. Questions answered. Now fuck off, unless you have something actually worth my time. And if you don’t? Well… let’s just say I’m always looking for new ways to entertain myself.
Emperor Vincent, The Morningstar