Jean sat on what was apparently his "Throne of Shattered Realms" a massive obsidian chair that looked uncomfortable on purpose, inside a war tent that was bigger than his old studio apartment. He was trying very hard not to have a full-blown panic attack while a dozen terrifying subordinates stared at him like he was the second coming of Genghis Khan on steroids.
His new body kept doing things on autopilot. Like right now: one leg crossed elegantly over the other, fingers steepled under his chin in the universal pose of "I am plotting something evil." He hadn't chosen any of that. The muscle memory was just there.
The demon general, whose name Jean had learned was Varak the Unyielding, stood at attention, holding a glowing holographic map of at least seven different realities.
"My Lord, the 8th Realm's resistance is already crumbling. Their Oracle keeps having visions of a 'crimson shadow that devours hope.' We believe she's describing you. Should we accelerate the invasion or let them marinate in fear for another week?"
Jean's internal monologue was screaming.
Accelerate the what now!?! I just want to go home and finish writing my slice-of-life story about a depressed accountant!
Outwardly, he tilted his head slightly. The motion made every officer in the tent lean forward in anticipation.
He tried for a neutral response. What came out was a velvet-smooth, slightly hoarse drawl:
"…Let them… marinate."
Varak's grin widened. "Brilliant as always. Psychological warfare before the blades. The men will love this."
A sleek woman in dark armor—probably Jan's spymaster or assassin lieutenant—stepped forward. Her name was apparently Lirael, and she had knives where normal people had opinions.
"Lord Harris, there's also the matter of the prisoner from the 7th Realm. The Hero's little sister. She keeps demanding an audience. Shall I bring her in… or shall I make her disappear creatively?"
Jean's eyes widened in genuine horror. "No! Don't— I mean…" He caught himself and tried to recover. "…Bring her. I wish to… see her despair personally."
Despair?! I meant tea and a calm conversation!
Lirael bowed deeply, looking positively giddy. "As you wish. I'll make sure she's properly terrified before the meeting."
As the officers filed out to execute his completely misinterpreted orders, Jean slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.
"This is fine," he whispered to himself. "I'm just going to gently steer this warmongering empire toward… peace? Or at least fewer genocides. Yeah. I can do this. I've played strategy games. How hard can it be?"
Outside the tent, he heard soldiers cheering.
"Lord Harris is already planning something diabolical!"
"Did you see that smile? Pure evil!"
"I would die for that man. Repeatedly."
Jean groaned. His body even made that sound intimidating.
He had a feeling this was going to be a very long, very bloody comedy of errors.