When the Pharaoh fell before him at last, shortly followed by his friends, rivals, and the scattered playing pieces that still remained on the board, Zorc grinned, quietly. The demon let his darkness, the Shadow Realm's darkness, seep out into the world in earnest.

Whether it was a habit picked up from the thief who shared his soul or the host that, no longer, held their spirits, the lord of darkness didn't feel like ending the world in a blink. A snap of the fingers, a snuff of the candle, would be far too quick for all the time he'd spent endeavoring for the Shadow Games to begin again.

No, he'd draw out this victory, savor it like a rare steak. And what better way, the demon thought, than by letting the humans do the majority of his work for him? In all his years observing, plotting, scheming, he'd found that every human being, no matter where they lived or how, all had one thing in common.

They all played games.

Therefore, all games would be their downfall, just as they had been for so many of the Pharaoh's opponents.

The shadows softly crept in.

Zorc realized fairly quickly that an element of chaos was best—if all games killed them at all times it wouldn't be fun, which was yet another thing he'd learned from his long wait. The shadows set in variables, randomness, and as the first slow, dawning realization set in—fresh, raw terror—the demon smiled.

(A first.)

Two girls, playing a fighting game together after a long time apart. One character got in a hard hit, and the first player groaned in good-natured frustration.

"I'll kill you," she joked, but it's a joke no longer when she rallied and won the match and her opponent collapsed to the floor.

She didn't think to blame the game, when it happened, though the media certainly did when more cases involving the same game were made public.

Copies were investigated, banned, scrutinized from every angle. In the end there was a recall, and stories about the fighting game that killed people became Internet urban legends. Its infamy became a draw, an attraction, and the humans let themselves look back, some fondly, some with horror, some cursing that they never got to play it.

But for the most part, they breathed a sigh of relief now that the source of their trouble—so they thought—was gone.

And then it happened again.

(A second.)

Mancala was the oldest type of game in the world, though not nearly as old as Zorc himself. Moving stones or marbles around the board, capturing your opponent's pieces through math and strategy, the game inspired many variations and had many names, with its original name being a classification, not a singular game. Many people played it across the ages, in many countries and continents.

And today it would cause many deaths, both in Africa and the world at large.

The shadows snickered at the thoughts that games, so old, could be played in so many modern ways.

They spread wherever it was played, and since there were Internet mancala tables, official tournaments and ones played for fun, and so many delicious versions of the game, the Shadow Realm had quite a few new residents that day.

(A third.)

A team of researchers, temporarily bored in the cold of the Arctic, sat down to a game of cards. It was a quiet, intimate space, suitable for discussion and secrecy, and Zorc watched with dark delight as one of the men cheated to win.

The Pharaoh had once wrought vengeance on cheaters in Shadow Games, but where his were karmic punishments, tailored to the victim, this would be a bonus prize.

Slowly, the shadows ate away, nipping at their souls like a rare confection, and by the time the game ended they all lay prone, bodies soulless and eyes forever unseeing.

The cheater, of course, was saved for last.

(An interlude.)

Zorc found himself, however briefly, at a loss when a young mother engaged her toddler in the childish game of peek-a-boo.

There was no losing condition to speak of, nor a winning condition, and with slight consternation he watched as the shadows spared their souls.

But he contented himself with the thought that there would be a next time.

There would always be a next time.

(A fourth.)

Multiplayer games weren't the only way to play, of course. There were card games like solitaire, too many single-player video games to count, small challenges and tests made up on a whim. An entire industry, he noted, revolved around defeating the very best.

Zorc watched with interest as people challenged world record holders in games, making their playstyles ever faster and smoother in an attempt to beat the champ.

Of course, some would fail and therefore die (some at the very last, which he found delightfully cruel with its glimmers of hope), but what would he do with those who won?

Then a thought came, and the demon grinned.

If others won, the previous record holder would, by definition, lose.

(A fifth.)

Then there were games that were already dangerous.

For some it was a childish bet, done with no comprehension of the danger involved in swimming out as far as you can.

For humans such cases would be tragic but preventable, but for Zorc it was like winning a lottery—which, he noted, was now also enshrouded in shadows.

Underground Russian Roulette games and other cases like those proved that at times, there was no need for the Shadow Realm's magic.

Zorc claimed their souls regardless.

(Another interlude.)

Some games weren't played with just humans. Some were with animals, and Zorc found himself wondering what gave humans the right to call them games at all.

A human and their dog played fetch until they grew tired and stopped, and the demon growled at another scenario where no one had won or lost.

Still, like before, there would be other times.

Humans were nothing if not predictable.

(A sixth.)

He savored the lonely games, the introverted, the bored. A simple toss of a coin had sealed this one's fate; she was deciding what sort of food to bring to a party and called heads.

The coin had landed on tails, and her screams echoed in the empty room.

That fulfilled, Zorc moved onto the party. Gatherings were equally fun, for different reasons—musical chairs and similes and word games, games that had once brought such mirth, now brought utter terror.

He considered whether to kill them all, just one, or only half, and Zorc let the Shadow Realm decide for him.

It chose all, for it was always hungry.

(A seventh.)

But it was in Domino, where games reigned supreme, where Zorc found the most pleasure in what he had done. Here his powers were concentrated, amplified by the magic that had once concentrated here, and here, like nowhere else, all games were lethal at all times.

The city had once been full of life and games of all sorts—Capsule Monsters, Dungeon Dice Monsters. Duel Monsters. Its people loved their games, and the games, magic artifacts aside, seemed to love them in return.

But those times were over. Now the people cowered, afraid to play, afraid to move, afraid to do anything that would invoke the wrath of the strange, sudden game-related deaths. The majority shuffled around in a daze, wishing to relieve tedium but knowing, too well, the risks. Some did regardless, and all paid the price.

Very few knew what he had done, and that, Zorc thought, was the beauty of it. For them it would be an enigma, an unsolvable puzzle much like the one Yugi had labored on for eight years, and he could think of no better irony than games within games.

And for those that did know, and had the will to fight, well—those that were left would be ground down. All the Ishizus and Dukes and Mais and Mokubas could not stand against his power, not when he had hundreds of thousands of souls to send to fight them. Should they prevail against his emissaries, the vessel he was using would die, and if they lost the consequences were plain to see.

Zorc would win either way.

He always won.

(An eternity.)

It didn't matter how long they watched and waited. In the end Zorc's greatest ally was boredom.

The games would begin again.

It was inevitable.

Rock-paper-scissors?

Yes, or no?

Heads, or tails?