Lazaroth leaned back, a colossal shadow of cold, elegant authority seated upon the Crimson Throne. It was not mere stone, but an artifact carved from the calcified despair of ancient entities he had long since conquered and consumed. In five millennia, the Demon King had known no true threat, no meaningful challenge, and certainly no rest. His power was the ambient law of the Demon Realm; every molecule of air, every shadow, bent to his silent command.
He awaited his inner circle: the Seven Demon Generals. They were returning from the most recent campaign, a trivial border skirmish that had further solidified his unchallenged dominion. He was bored. Lethargic. Such was the curse of absolute power.
When the seven arrived, they did not simply walk; they moved with the tailored, deadly grace of entities who understood the delicate art of absolute loyalty. They knelt, their foreheads touching the crimson-stained floor in perfect, ritualistic reverence. They looked like devotion incarnate, led by his trusted tactician, Malphas.
Malphas began his report, his voice a smooth, articulate baritone describing the utter annihilation of the enemy. But as the words flowed, Lazaroth, the master of deceit, felt a prickle of unease. The air was wrong—too quiet, too still. The pervasive Demonic Essence of the throne room felt strangely muted, as if a great shroud had been pulled over reality.
Lazaroth began to open his eyes, a silent prelude to a question, but before his golden, vertical pupils could fully dilate, the betrayal struck.
It was not brute force. It was sudden, agonizing light—a piercing, vile luminescence that felt alien to his very core. The light was channeled through a single, horrific artifact held by Malphas: the Holy Seal. An item Lazaroth recognized instantly from the forgotten tomes of weak, desperate deities he had ignored centuries ago.
All seven Generals struck simultaneously, each unleashing a stream of power that should have been harmless—Mana, the weak, pathetic energy of mortals. But channeled through the Seal, this energy corroded the foundations of Lazaroth's power. It was not an attack on his body, but on his very essence. Each General poured forth a sliver of power stolen from Lazaroth himself—a sliver given to them years ago as tokens of unbreakable trust.
Lazaroth roared. It was a sound that should have shattered the Demon Realm, but here, it was muffled, contained by the Seal. He felt his True Devil Core—the anchor of his existence—crack and dissolve, not from external pressure, but from internal corrosion caused by his own repurposed authority.
He looked down at his chest, where seven distinct streams of energy were tearing his Essence apart. He looked up at the faces of his most trusted subordinates—Malphas, Zepar the Blade, Astaroth the Sorcerer—and saw not regret, but pure, ugly, incandescent greed.
Malphas's voice, now thick with smug triumph, sliced through the agony. "Rest now, Your Majesty. The Age of the True Devil is over. We shall divide your power and usher in the Age of the Divine. We will be Heroes."
Lazaroth's pain transformed into absolute, white-hot clarity. The Demon King was dying, but his will was eternal. He used the last thread of his magnificent consciousness to weave a curse, binding his scattering Essence to a single, terrible promise.
"Malphas... Astaroth... Zepar... You may have my power, but you will never have peace. You stole my throne, but you will wear my shackles. I will return from the dust of creation, and when I do, I will not just kill you. I will ensure your names are erased from reality itself. Your 'Divine' legacy will crumble into the filth from which it was born."
With a final, silent scream that echoed across five hundred years of history, Lazaroth's essence fragmented, shattering into countless motes of dark energy and scattering across the cosmos.
Veyr snapped awake, but the gasp was pathetic, choked, and useless.
He was in pain. Searing, human pain—a sharp, throbbing ache in his chest and ribs. The air was thin, smelling of dust and damp stone, and his lungs struggled to pull in oxygen. He was lying in a heap on a thin, straw mattress in a miserable servant's quarters.
Where is my Essence? Where are my wards?
He tried to summon the ambient Demonic power, the energy that defined his existence, but the only thing that responded was a trickle of weak, standard Mana—the pathetic energy of mortals he had long despised. He tried to move his arm; it trembled with the simple effort.
He was in a human body. A child's body, barely seventeen. Frail. Weak. Disgusting.
He accessed the host's fragmented memories: Veyr, the illegitimate son of Duke Valerius of the House of Tremaine, beaten senseless by his half-brothers for challenging them in a weak sparring match, left here for dead. He was common trash, a non-entity.
A faint, bitter voice echoed in his mind, sounding utterly exhausted and resentful.
[Mael]: "M-Master... My Lord Lazaroth... You have returned... but why are you... so disgustingly weak?! I feel faint simply being near this vessel. This… this is an insult."
The voice, belonging to the fragmented spirit of his weapon, Mael, confirmed the terrifying truth: He was alive, bound to this pathetic vessel, and his greatest weapon was reduced to a ghost.
Lazaroth's hand instinctively shot beneath the thin mattress, frantically searching for something—a weapon, an anchor, anything. His fingers brushed only against splintered wood and brittle straw. He had nothing.
The door creaked open. A burly guard, Faron, entered, his face thick with common malice. He worked for the half-brothers, ensuring the final, silent death of the 'trash.'
The guard sneered, seeing Veyr stirring. "Took you long enough to die, brat." He moved to deliver a final, casual kick to Veyr's ribs.
Lazaroth's millennia of combat instinct screamed through the human body's pathetic nerves. But without a weapon, without magic, and in this frail state, his instincts were useless. He had to rely on the host's innate weakness.
He let out a choked, terrified whimper, shrinking back against the wall, perfectly mimicking the fear they expected. The guard scoffed, satisfied by the display of pure terror, and raised his boot to deliver the kick.
"So be it," Lazaroth whispered, the sound husky and unused, locking the intent deep in his shattered core. "If this is the form I must wear to dismantle the thrones of my betrayers, then I will make this trash strong. The Demon General's reign is over. Mine has just begun."
The boot landed, and a renewed spike of human pain was all the confirmation he needed: his quest started here, on the floor, weak and empty-handed.