Black. Utter, complete, and profoundly silent. The absence wasn’t just of light, but of the familiar, oppressive hum of the Nakatomi Corp office, the distant city rumble, the frantic thumping in his own chest. It was a void, absolute and unnerving. Kenji Tanaka existed, he thought—or perhaps, had existed—in that void, a disembodied point of weary consciousness clinging to the final, fragmented thought: Balance...

How long did the blackness last? Seconds? Millennia? Time, like everything else, seemed to have dissolved. Then, slowly, sensation returned, creeping back like thawing frost. First, a feeling of pressure, of lying on something that wasn't his desk, nor the worn carpet of the accounting floor. It was… soft? Plush, even, yielding slightly beneath his weight. Wrong.

Then came scent. Not the sterile blend of old coffee, toner dust, and microwaved regret that defined his workspace. This was… sharp. Acrid, like struck matches mixed with something metallic, ozone perhaps, and underneath it all, a dry, ancient dustiness. Wrong again.

Sound followed. A low, rhythmic crackling, like a poorly maintained fire. Not the steady hum of servers or the whine of aging fluorescent tubes. Utterly, fundamentally wrong.

With a groan that felt dredged up from reserves of exhaustion he didn't know he possessed, Kenji forced his eyelids open. They felt glued together, heavy as lead shutters. The light that greeted him wasn't the harsh, even glare of office lighting. It was dim, flickering, casting exaggerated, dancing shadows.

He blinked, trying to bring the scene into focus. He was in a room. Or perhaps, a cavern pretending to be a room. The ceiling soared upwards into an oppressive darkness, far higher than any practical construction required. The walls were fashioned from enormous blocks of dark, polished stone – obsidian, maybe? – intricately carved with shapes that seemed to writhe just at the edge of perception. Grotesque faces, impossible geometries, scenes of stylized torment… Kenji’s analytical mind tried to categorize them, failed, and filed the input under ‘disturbing and inefficient decoration.’

Torches, actual flaming torches held in ornate, claw-like sconces, provided the unstable illumination. Their smoky trails snaked upwards towards the invisible ceiling, doing little to dispel the gloom but likely contributing significantly to heating costs and air quality issues. The sheer scale of the place was absurd, the grandeur undercut by its impracticality. A draft, cold and smelling faintly of sulfur, snaked across the floor, chilling him through his standard-issue Nakatomi Corp suit – which, he noted with a detached sense of surprise, he was still wearing. It felt grimy, but intact.

He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. He was lying on a large, divan-like piece of furniture upholstered in some kind of dark red, velvety material that felt unnervingly like dried blood might under different lighting. He swung his legs over the side, his sensible dress shoes landing silently on the cold stone floor.

Where was he? This wasn't a hospital. The décor screamed ‘cult headquarters’ or ‘over-the-top themed restaurant with severe fire code violations.’ Had he been kidnapped? Why? He was an accountant. His most valuable possession was a slightly used laptop, and his bank account was perpetually locked in a desperate struggle against his rent and instant ramen expenses. He possessed no skills useful to kidnappers, unless they needed complex tax forms filed under duress.

A sudden wave of dizziness hit him, and the memory of the searing pain, the collapsing world, surged back. Had he… died? The thought hung there, cold and stark. Was this the afterlife? It certainly didn't match any descriptions he’d ever encountered. If this was Heaven, the interior decorating budget needed serious review. If it was Hell… well, the inefficiency was certainly hellish, but he’d expected more overt torment, perhaps eternal audits or presentations to perpetually unimpressed demonic stakeholders.

"Ah. The asset stirs."

The voice boomed, echoing unnaturally in the vast chamber. It wasn't just loud; it carried a weight, a resonance that seemed to vibrate in Kenji’s very bones. It was deep, laced with boredom and an undercurrent of immense, barely restrained power.

Kenji froze, every nerve ending screaming. He slowly turned towards the source of the voice.

Seated on a throne – because of course, there was a throne, enormous and carved from what looked like solidified lava and jagged black crystals – was a figure that defied easy description and instantly confirmed Kenji’s dawning horror.

He was huge, easily filling the ridiculously oversized chair. Clad in elaborate, dark armor that seemed fused with shadow and embers, highlighted with veins of pulsing crimson light. Jagged horns, like shards of obsidian, curved back from a broad, intelligent brow. His skin had a dusky, ashen tone, and his eyes… his eyes glowed with the intensity of banked furnaces, radiating malevolent amusement. He rested one massive, clawed hand on the throne's armrest, tapping a single talon rhythmically against the crystalline surface. The sound echoed the crackling torches.

This wasn't a cult leader. This wasn't an actor in a themed restaurant. This was… something else. Something powerful, ancient, and decidedly not human.

Demon Lord. The term sprang, unbidden, into Kenji’s mind, likely sourced from countless manga and games consumed during rare moments of downtime. It fit. It fit terrifyingly well.

Kenji’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the steady tap-tap-tap of the demon’s claw. His meticulously organized mind struggled to process the input, to formulate a response, to calculate the probability of survival. The numbers weren't looking good. Option A: Panic, scream, die horribly. Option B: Remain calm, analyze, potentially die horribly but with slightly more dignity. Option C: ???

He instinctively defaulted to the closest thing he knew to deference in the face of overwhelming power: corporate etiquette. He executed a stiff, awkward bow, a movement learned for greeting visiting executives, feeling utterly ridiculous even as raw fear urged him to prostrate himself.

"G-good morning… Sir?" Kenji managed, his voice a pathetic squeak. "Kenji Tanaka, Nakatomi Corporation, Accounting Department. There seems to have been… a mistake?"

The Demon Lord chuckled, a low rumble like shifting tectonic plates. "Mistake? Perhaps. Your arrival was… abrupt. Zaltar’s summoning matrix is proving less precise than promised. Again." He waved a dismissive hand, the movement leaving trails of flickering shadow. "No matter. You are here. An accountant, you say? From… Nakatomi?" He pronounced the name with disdain, as if it were a particularly unpleasant type of fungus.

"Y-yes, Sir. A Senior Associate Accountant." Kenji offered the clarification uselessly. Rank meant everything at Nakatomi. Here? Probably less than nothing.

"Hmph. Accountants." The Demon Lord leaned forward slightly, his glowing eyes fixing on Kenji, making him feel like an insect under a magnifying glass. "You deal with numbers. Tallies. Holdings. Value."

"Well, yes, Sir. Financial statements, budget analysis, variance reports, audits…" Kenji trailed off, realizing how utterly irrelevant his skillset sounded in this context.

"Variance!" The Demon Lord slammed his fist onto the armrest. The crystal groaned, cracking slightly, and a shower of crimson sparks flew. Kenji flinched violently. "Variance is precisely the problem! This entire damnable kingdom runs on variance! Expenses exceed projections – always! Income streams dwindle! Heroes encroach, demanding costly countermeasures! My legions complain about inadequate soul rations! My grand designs – monuments to my glory, instruments of terror – are constantly delayed due to 'resource shortfalls'!" He spat the last words like curses.

He slumped back, glowering. "It's infuriating. I wield power enough to shatter mountains, command legions that could swallow nations whole, possess arcane knowledge that would drive lesser minds mad… yet I cannot seem to acquire enough damned Darksteel Ingots to finish the third Spire of Agony without some sniveling quartermaster whining about the 'budget'!"

Kenji stared, dumbfounded. This… this impossibly powerful entity, this literal Demon Lord, was complaining about budget overruns and resource allocation issues? It was like hearing a typhoon complain about its inability to correctly file weather reports. The sheer, cosmic absurdity of it momentarily short-circuited Kenji’s fear.

"So," the Demon Lord continued, his fiery gaze locking onto Kenji again. "You. Accountant. Tanaka." He pointed a claw sharp enough to skewer a boar. "Your insignificant corporation no longer requires your services. Your previous existence has been… terminated. Consider this a lateral transfer. Effective immediately, you will manage my resources. You will track the expenditures. You will eliminate the variance. You will ensure my coffers overflow and my legions march fully supplied towards glorious conquest." He gave a predatory grin, revealing far too many sharp teeth. "In short: Fix it. Or become decorative." He gestured vaguely towards a particularly gruesome carving on the wall.

Kenji’s mind reeled. He’d died. He was almost certain of it now. And his afterlife, his eternal damnation or reward, was… middle management? For the forces of darkness? He was being headhunted by Hell itself to be their CFO?

"Sir… Lord Valthor," Kenji stammered, hazarding a guess at the name based on sheer fantasy trope probability, "I… appreciate the offer? But my expertise is in Japanese Yen, GAAP principles, corporate tax law… I have absolutely no experience with Darksteel Ingots, soul rations, or Spire of Agony construction budgets. My skills are entirely non-transferable to…" He gestured helplessly at the oppressive, gothic surroundings. "...this."

Valthor waved a dismissive hand again. "Details. Numbers are numbers. Waste is waste. Find it. Eliminate it. Make the resources flow to me. That is your function now. Succeed, and you might even find this existence preferable to your former, grey little life. Fail…" He let the threat hang, punctuated by another tap of his claw.

Kenji swallowed hard. His options remained limited and generally unpleasant. But Option C was starting to crystallize: Play along. Apply his skills, however mismatched they seemed. Survive. It was the only logical path.

"I… understand, Lord Valthor," Kenji said, forcing a measure of steadiness into his voice. "I will require access to all relevant financial records, expenditure reports, income statements, asset inventories…" He was already mentally outlining the data points he’d need for a preliminary analysis. Old habits died hard, even after actual death.

Valthor looked bored again. "Fine, fine. Tedious details. Lyra!"

A figure detached itself from the deep shadows near one of the massive pillars flanking the throne. Kenji hadn't even noticed her there. She moved with a silent grace that was unnerving in its own way, stepping into the flickering torchlight.

She was humanoid, relatively speaking. Slender, with pale skin that seemed to absorb the light. Long, dark hair was pulled back into a severe but practical bun. Small, elegantly curved horns, like polished obsidian, swept back from her temples, framing a face that was strikingly beautiful but held an expression of utter professional neutrality. A long, thin tail with a spade-shaped tip swayed gently behind her, the only sign of impatience or perhaps mild boredom. She wore attire that was surprisingly business-like, albeit tailored from dark, expensive-looking fabrics – a high-collared blouse, a fitted jacket, and a long skirt. If it weren't for the horns and tail, she could almost pass for a highly efficient, slightly intimidating executive assistant back at Nakatomi.

"My Lord?" Her voice was calm, melodious, a stark contrast to Valthor's booming pronouncements. It held a note of professional deference, but also a hint of weariness, as if she’d explained budget shortfalls to toddlers one too many times.

"This… asset," Valthor gestured towards Kenji with a claw, "Tanaka. The new numbers-cruncher. He requires… records. Give him whatever dusty scrolls and blood-pacts pass for our accounting system. Assign him quarters. See he doesn't get eaten by the lower-level functionaries before he proves useful. Or useless, as the case may be."

Lyra’s gaze swept over Kenji, cool and appraising. There was no malice in it, just… assessment. Like he was a new piece of office equipment she needed to integrate into the workflow.

"Understood, my Lord," she replied smoothly. She then turned her full attention to Kenji. "Kenji Tanaka, I presume? I am Lyra, senior aide to Lord Valthor. Welcome to the Infernal Dominion, specifically the Obsidian Citadel. If you'll follow me, I will escort you to the administrative wing and provide you with the preliminary financial archives."

Her composure was almost more jarring than Valthor's overt power. She spoke of dusty scrolls and blood-pacts as if they were standard spreadsheets.

Kenji nodded numbly, his mind still struggling to reconcile the impossible reality. Died from overwork balancing books. Reincarnated to balance the books for a Demon Lord. Lateral transfer, indeed.

"Th-thank you, Lyra-san," he managed, defaulting to Japanese honorifics out of habit.

A flicker of something – surprise? amusement? – crossed Lyra’s face for a fraction of a second before her professional mask was firmly back in place. "Just Lyra is sufficient. This way, Accountant Tanaka. Try to keep up. And do avoid straying from the designated paths. Unscheduled interaction with Citadel fauna can lead to… significant personnel attrition."

As Lyra turned and glided towards a massive, arching doorway Kenji hadn't noticed before, he took one last look back at the imposing figure on the throne. Lord Valthor had already lost interest, idly examining the crack Kenji had noticed him make in the throne's armrest, probably contemplating the repair costs.

Kenji squared his shoulders, adjusted his slightly askew tie – a pathetic gesture of normalcy in an utterly abnormal situation – and hurried after Lyra. His mind was a whirl of terror, confusion, and the dawning, dreadful realization of the task ahead. He had to audit Hell. He had to balance the budget for world domination.

And his first horrifying thought wasn't about the demons or the magic or his own likely impending doom. It was: Do they even use double-entry bookkeeping here?

The real work was about to begin.