Tsuramō ran a hand through his crimson hair, the strands wild and tangled from restless pacing.
His demon cloth fluttered around him—dark, sleek, and shimmering with an iridescent sheen, like liquid midnight caught between worlds.
The fabric was woven from enchanted silks reinforced with ancient magic, clinging to his lean frame with unsettling perfection. Along its edges, intricate runes spiraled and coiled, glowing faintly in a cold blue light—symbols of his demonic lineage, yet strangely restrained.
A contradiction.
He was the son of Demon Lord Marakāru (Malakar)—a name that carried terror across realms.
And yet, Tsuramō despised bloodshed.
Unlike his father, he wielded his long, razor-sharp blade with precision, not cruelty.
Its surface gleamed coldly, etched with runes of protection and clarity—magic meant to steady the mind, not inflame it.
It was a weapon forged to end violence, not revel in it.
His eyes—deep, red—flickered with frustration.
"I don't want to stay here anymore," he muttered. "Everything here is just… nonsense."
He glanced down at his armor—black plates interwoven with crimson threads, noble and cursed all at once.
"I think I'll run away one day," he whispered. "That old man's been breathing down my neck since I gained consciousness."
The air shifted.
A shadow detached itself from the corridor.
She was tall—regal—her presence cutting like winter steel. Her obsidian skin gleamed under torchlight, polished and flawless.
Crimson eyes burned with cold authority, and elegant horns curved from her forehead like a crown carved by fate itself.
Massive violet-veined wings folded behind her as she bowed.
"Master Tsuramō," she said, voice smooth and merciless, "the Demon King awaits."
Tsuramō exhaled slowly.
"I'm coming."
She turned and vanished into the shadows.
The Demon Palace loomed endlessly—obsidian walls threaded with crimson crystal, spires clawing into an infernal sky.
Runes pulsed like heartbeats along the corridors, casting shifting shadows over statues of ancient demons frozen mid-slaughter.
Tsuramō walked in silence.
Servants bowed deeply as he passed. Demons lowered their gaze. Fear and reverence bled together in the air, thick with brimstone and power.
At last, he reached the throne.
A colossal seat of blackened gold and blood-red gems.
Upon it sat Demon Lord Malakar.
The air warped around him.
"Tsuramō," Malakar said, voice low and cutting. "You've been a disappointment."
He descended from the throne, each step heavy with authority. Jagged armor shimmered with infernal runes, flames coiling lazily around his silhouette.
His horns spiraled like a twisted crown, his crimson eyes sharp with hunger.
"I expected cruelty," Malakar continued. "The clan trains. Fights. Prepares for the day you take my place."
He stopped inches from his son.
"And yet… you remain soft."
His voice dropped.
"Do you remember what you were?" Malakar whispered. "A useless human. A pawn. I gave you power."
Tsuramō smirked faintly.
"You remind me every chance you get," he replied calmly.
Malakar laughed—a rasping, unnatural sound that echoed through the hall.
"And yet you still refuse the throne?"
"I already told you," Tsuramō said. "I won't rule this place."
"You will," Malakar snapped. "You are my eldest son."
Tsuramō folded his arms. "I don't want it. I'm tired of ancient demons barking orders like the world belongs to them."
Flames flared along Malakar's horns.
"You are half human," he growled. "The strongest among us. And I can erase you instantly."
"Then do it," Tsuramō said, eyes sharp. "But don't pretend you can."
Silence.
Malakar stared.
Tsuramō smiled—defiant, dangerous.
"I'll never rule this corrupted world," he said. "Mark my words."
The throne room trembled.
And for the first time—
The Demon Lord did not speak.
--
The throne room was empty.
Or so it seemed.
Lord Marakāru (Malakar) stood alone before the great window of obsidian glass, looking out over the infernal city below. Rivers of molten light carved through the darkness like veins, pulsing with the life of the demon realm.
His fists were clenched.
Behind him, a voice spoke—old, brittle, and layered with ages.
"So… the heir still refuses."
Malakar did not turn.
From the shadows near the pillars emerged an ancient figure—robed, hunched, face hidden behind a cracked ceremonial mask etched with forbidden sigils. One of the First Seers. A being older than Malakar's reign itself.
"He defies me openly," Malakar said. "Mocks the throne. Rejects the blood."
"And yet," the Seer replied calmly, "you have never raised your hand against him."
Malakar's jaw tightened.
"I could erase him," he said. "With a thought."
The Seer's staff tapped the stone once.
"No," the Seer corrected. "You cannot."
Silence fell heavy.
Malakar turned slowly, eyes burning. "Explain."
The Seer lifted a clawed finger and traced a symbol in the air—a sigil older than demonkind. It burned briefly, then vanished.
"Tsuramō is not merely your son," the Seer said."He is a Vessel of Continuance."
Malakar's eyes widened—just slightly.
"…Impossible."
"When you bound a human soul to demon blood," the Seer continued, "you broke a law older than thrones. The result was not an heir."
He paused.
"It was an anchor."
Malakar said nothing.
"Tsuramō's existence stabilizes the Demon Realm itself," the Seer said."Your power. The throne. The ley-lines beneath this fortress."
The Seer's voice lowered.
"If he dies… the balance collapses."
Images flashed in the air—cities crumbling, spires shattering, shadows tearing themselves apart. The throne cracking down the center.
"You are strong," the Seer said. "But even you cannot rule a realm that destroys itself."
Malakar's claws dug into the stone railing.
"…So that's why," he muttered.
"Yes," the Seer replied. "You cannot kill him."
Malakar laughed softly—bitter, restrained.
"And he knows none of this."
"He must not," the Seer said firmly."If Tsuramō learns he is the realm's lynchpin, his choice will no longer be free."
Malakar closed his eyes.
For the first time, his voice lacked cruelty.
"I wanted him cruel," he said. "So the burden would harden him."
"And instead," the Seer replied, "he became kind."
Malakar opened his eyes, staring into the burning skyline.
"…I Will Send him to Shadowreach Academy On the request of his brother," he said at last. "Let the world test what I cannot."
The Seer bowed.
Far away—
A crimson-haired boy prepared for school, unaware that the Demon Realm itself was quietly breathing because he lived.