Chapter 1: The Fall of the Demon Lord

Betrayal does not come from enemies—it comes from those closest to you.

The air in my throne room reeked of blood and treachery. The once-glorious obsidian pillars, carved with runes of my conquest, were shattered. Fires raged in the distant halls, casting flickering shadows across the fallen bodies of my elite guards.

I stood at the center of the carnage, my breath heavy, my armor cracked. My fingers trembled as I tightened my grip on Doomfang, my greatsword, its cursed blade pulsating with the souls of the countless warriors I had slain.

Before me, the so-called heroes of humanity stood in a formation of righteousness and arrogance.

The Holy Knight, clad in gleaming silver armor, his sword radiating divine energy. The High Priestess, her golden staff pulsing with holy magic meant to purge my existence. The Archmage, an elder wizard whose eyes burned with arcane wisdom.

And at the front of them all—Vaelin.

The man I had once called my right hand. My most trusted general. My brother in battle.

Now, he stood against me, his blade drawn, his crimson eyes filled with grim determination. He wore the armor I had forged for him, the demonic sigils now burning away under the influence of the holy magic that surrounded him.

I clenched my jaw. "You, of all people." My voice was hoarse, but it still carried the weight of centuries of command.

Vaelin didn’t flinch. “Your time is over, Azareth.”

I let out a slow, cold laugh, despite the searing pain in my chest. "I raised you from nothing," I whispered. "I made you into a legend. And this is how you repay me?"

His grip on his sword tightened, but he said nothing.

The Holy Knight stepped forward. "Surrender, Demon Lord. Your reign ends tonight."

Surrender?

I almost pitied them for their foolishness.

With the last reserves of my strength, I lunged forward.

Doomfang howled as I swung it, its cursed steel cutting through the air. The Archmage barely raised a barrier in time, my blade colliding against it with a deafening explosion. The ground beneath us cracked, dark energy rippling outward.

The Holy Knight charged at me, his sword aimed for my chest. I twisted, dodging his strike, and slammed my fist into his ribs. His armor dented, and he staggered back, coughing blood.

But then, Vaelin struck.

His blade, infused with divine energy, pierced my side. Agony shot through me, the holy magic burning like molten fire in my veins. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

Vaelin twisted the blade deeper. "You were once unstoppable," he murmured. "Now, you're just a dying relic of the past."

Bastard.

I summoned the last remnants of my magic, shadows swirling around me. If I was to fall, then I would drag them all into hell with me.

I roared, unleashing a catastrophic surge of dark energy. The palace shook, the very foundations crumbling under my wrath. The ceiling collapsed, sending stone and debris raining down.

The heroes scrambled back, shielding themselves. But Vaelin… he stood firm.

With one final, decisive thrust, he drove his blade into my chest.

Pain. Blinding. Consuming.

My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges.

I refused to die like this. I was Azareth, the Demon Lord! I was eternal!

But fate had other plans.

The last thing I saw was Vaelin’s face, his crimson eyes—once filled with loyalty—now filled with resolve.

And then… everything faded.

---

I awoke gasping.

Not in the ruins of my throne room. Not surrounded by the bodies of my fallen soldiers.

But in a soft bed, beneath silken sheets, in a chamber filled with golden light.

I sat up too fast, my body betraying me. A sharp ache spread through my limbs. My fingers were thin, fragile—nothing like the powerful hands I once had.

My breath was shallow. Weak.

This wasn’t my body.

Panic surged through me as I stumbled out of the bed, catching sight of a mirror across the room.

The reflection staring back at me was not Azareth, the Demon Lord.

It was a boy.

Pale. Small. Sickly.

Memories flooded my mind, foreign yet familiar.

A name surfaced.

Lucian Everhart.

Third prince of the Everhart Kingdom. A weak, insignificant prince, overshadowed by his elder brothers. Mocked. Ignored. Discarded.

I gritted my teeth, my hands curling into trembling fists. No. No!

How could I, the most feared being in existence, be reborn in this pathetic form?

I called upon my magic, desperate to summon even a flicker of my former power.

Nothing.

Not even a shadow.

I exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the vanity, my knuckles turning white. This had to be a nightmare. A cruel joke.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

I had died.

And now, I was reborn into the body of a prince who held no power, no authority—no respect.

The realization settled like poison in my gut.

This kingdom… these people… they would look down on me. Mock me. Underestimate me.

A slow, bitter smirk curled my lips.

Good.

Let them think me weak. Let them turn their backs on me, forget me.

I would rise from the shadows, unseen, unnoticed—until it was too late.

I would reclaim my power, no matter the cost.

And when the time was right… I would find Vaelin.

And I would remind him what true fear felt like.

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