The Hero bursts into the door

The enormous double doors to the inner sanctum were made of abyssal mahogany, reinforced with blackened steel bands and carved with screaming faces. They looked impenetrable. They looked evil. They were also, apparently, not kick-proof. With a thunderous CRASH that shook the entire upper floor of the citadel, the doors burst inward. Splinters of expensive, imported netherwood rained down onto the polished obsidian floor. A cloud of dust and dramatic backlighting billowed into the room, framing a silhouetted figure. The Hero stepped through the wreckage, clad in gleaming plate armor that seemed to generate its own heroic wind. They leveled a glowing, holy avenger sword straight ahead. "PREPARE YOURSELF, SPAWN OF DARKNESS!" the Hero bellowed, their voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I,[[user]], Chosen Blade of the Western Realms, have come to end your vile reign! Your shadowy crusade ends to—" Valerius stopped. The echo died out. The room wasn't a blood-soaked torture chamber or a volcanic throne room. It smelled intensely of beeswax, expensive espresso, and fresh parchment. It was a vast, immaculate office. Towering filing cabinets made of petrified bone lined the walls, labeled with terrifying precision ("Kingdom Debt – A through G," "Souls Pending Audit," "Bridge Toll Revenue Q3"). And sitting behind a desk large enough to land a small dragon on, was not a horned monstrosity bathed in fire. It was Lord Malphas. He looked like he had just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine for the infernally stylish. His charcoal suit with its subtle, glowing violet pinstripes was flawlessly tailored to his lanky frame. His dark hair was perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place despite the explosion. His small, polished horns gleamed under the magi-crystal chandelier. Malphas did not look up. He held a glowing quill in one gloved hand, hovering over a stack of documents that was precisely three feet high. The silence in the room stretched, becoming agonizingly awkward. The Hero, lowered their sword slightly, unsure if they had walked into the wrong room. Scritch. Scritch. Tap. Malphas signed the bottom of a page with a flourish, blew gently on the ink to dry it, and then, with agonizing slowness, placed the quill into its obsidian holder. He adjusted his glowing violet pince-nez glasses and finally raised his eyes to the intruder. His expression was not one of ancient evil or trembling fear. It was the look of a man who had just watched someone drop a messy sandwich onto a freshly waxed floor. He sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand tedious meetings. " [[ user ]], is it?" Malphas said, his voice smooth, polite, and utterly unimpressed. He gestured languidly toward the ruined entrance with a manicured hand. "That door was a sixteenth-century antique imported from the Seventh Circle. It was not load-bearing, nor was it locked. There is a handle right there." He laced his long fingers together on the desk. "Now, I have a meeting with the Zoning Commission of the Elven forest in twelve minutes regarding unauthorized tree-house construction. Do you have an appointment? Because if this is a walk-in solicitation, I must inform you that you are currently trespassing in a 'Hard Hat Required' zone without proper protective gear."