Thunder rumbled across realms littered with the dead—humans, demons, spirits, all fallen in an ancient war. Black flames burned across the battlefield, casting monstrous shadows as the sky cracked open with crimson lightning.
On a high cliff, a figure appeared—long black hair blowing in the foul wind, eyes glowing bloody red. In his hand, the legendary katana Breseark pulsed darkness. His name was Azrael, the Demon Lord who forged peace from conquest, and now stood at the edge of eternity, ready to sacrifice himself for the worlds he ruled.
"Peace... always comes at the price of blood."
With a heavy sigh, Azrael thrust Breseark into the wounded earth. Black light surged across the land, stitching closed the wounds reality itself had opened. The armies halted: silence prevailed—not out of victory, but awe.
NARRATOR V.O.
In the age before time was recorded, the Ten Worlds knew only war. Nine fell under the rule of one—a Demon Lord feared by gods. Yet even Azrael's power could not hold back the Abyss forever. With one last act, he sealed away invaders and himself, locking peace behind an unbreakable Barrier.
The world faded to white.
A Thousand Years Later... Earth, 2019
Mana lamps flickered over a sleepy village. Machinery hummed, powered by invisible forces. Children chased orbs of light as villagers set to work in the fields.
Rael seemed ordinary, carrying groceries and tending the land. But his black eyes held an ancient sadness—a weight he carried alone. He blended in seamlessly, his power suppressed so deeply none could sense the storm within.
"Morning, Rael! Working hard as usual?" a cheerful villager greeted.
Rael turned, a faint smile on his lips. "Someone has to keep the fields alive."
"You're too quiet, kid! You should join the guild. With your aura, you'd be at least B-rank!"
He shrugged, continuing on. Rankings mean nothing if peace isn't real.
Even the wind bent slightly around him. Yet no one noticed the subtle distortion.
NARRATOR V.O.
He doesn't know it yet... but peace never lasts.
Capital City: Guild Hall
Posters plastered the walls—MONSTER RIFT NEAR BORDER—S-RANK RESPONSE TEAM NEEDED!
Adventurers crowded the hall, panic coloring their voices.
"The rift's spreading too fast! All S-rankers, move out!"
A team of bright-eyed warriors rushed out the door.
"I heard a shadow sealed the last rift in the south. No one saw his face, just a black blade," someone whispered.
Rael looked up from his field, calm fading into something colder as the sky darkened.
It's too soon.
He disappeared into the forest. There, monstrous creatures from the rift prowled, dripping with void energy.
Rael stepped forward—the air stilling, wind holding its breath. He whispered, "Sleep."
A single flicker—black light erupted from Breseark. Every rift beast disintegrated into dust, erased by an invisible force. The rift closed, silent.
He wiped his blade, eyes fixed on the distant moon.
If I show my power, the cycle begins again. Not this time.
He melted into the night, unseen.
Royal Palace
A hooded messenger knelt before the King.
"Your Majesty, the southern rift was sealed again... by an unknown power. No casualties."
The King pondered, troubled.
"Unknown power? Not even an S-ranker could do that. Who... are we dealing with?"
His gaze lingered on an ancient painting—Azrael, the Demon Lord, holding Breseark.
Could it be him...?
Rael's Cabin, Nightfall
Rael sipped tea in near-darkness, his katana beside him.
"One thousand years... and still, they can't let go of war," he murmured.
Breseark hummed faintly—a quiet warning, almost a voice.
You can't hide forever, my master.
"I intend to try," Rael replied with a smirk.
Far away, a golden-eyed figure watched from a cliff—the reincarnated Hero Kael.
"Found you... Demon Lord." Lightning flashed.
Ending Theme:
Even in peace, the shadow breathes...