The Demon King ruled a world without mercy. Mountains bent under his shadow. Rivers ran red where his power touched them. Dragons lowered their heads and giants knelt before his approach. His name—Azryel—was carved into history as the end of hope, whispered with terror by humans, demons, and gods alike. Even the winds seemed to carry his command.
Yet, centuries of conquest, centuries of absolute dominion, had left him unsatisfied.
Not with power.
Not with fear.
Not even with worship.
Azryel desired something else. Something more dangerous than armies or treasures. Something ephemeral and cruel: pleasure. Pleasure drawn from watching fate shatter, from witnessing the impossible fall, from observing humans struggle against inevitabilities that no mortal should ever challenge.
The throne room of his obsidian palace stretched like a void into infinity. Jagged spires pierced the sky, black as oil and sharp as the edges of a nightmare. Shadows gathered and clung to him like obedient servants, twisting unnaturally around his armor. He sat high upon a throne carved from the bones of titans long dead, their screams eternally trapped in the stone, their agony feeding the dark magic that hummed beneath his feet.
He rested one hand upon the throne's arm, the other lightly igniting a small flame above his palm. The fire was blue at its core, almost liquid, licking his fingers without burning. His red eyes reflected the flame, glowing with a cruel curiosity.
"Bored," he whispered to the void, his voice a low, reverberating growl that seemed to make the walls shiver. "Everything bends. Everything breaks. Everything obeys. But there is no joy in obedience. No thrill in conquest. No excitement in victory."
He rose, his black armor clicking with a sound like breaking stone. The shadows shifted behind him, forming wings that stretched wide across the throne room. Each movement was deliberate, perfect, terrifying. Azryel's silver hair flowed around his shoulders like liquid moonlight, streaked with strands as black as midnight.
From the corner of his vision, the Mirror of Realms glimmered. An artifact older than the first kingdoms, older than the gods themselves. It did not reflect light. It reflected possibility. Through it, he could watch entire worlds crumble, observe kings fall, witness the rise of heroes who thought themselves untouchable.
The mirror's surface rippled suddenly, a faint tremor, as if the universe itself hesitated before him. Azryel leaned closer.
A village. Small. Remote. Hidden beyond the reach of prophecy. No magic radiated from it. No divine protection shielded it. It should have been invisible, irrelevant, meaningless.
And yet… something about it demanded his attention.
In the center of that village stood a boy. Young. Frail. Not more than sixteen summers, hair dark as ash, eyes wide with determination. He gripped a wooden sword, worn at the hilt, and faced a creature towering over him—clawed, scaled, and dripping with black ichor. It roared, and the earth shook.
The boy flinched. He stumbled. Blood trickled down his forehead. His knees grazed the dirt. And yet… he did not cry. He did not beg. He laughed.
Azryel's crimson eyes narrowed. That sound—so raw, so human—cut through the layers of boredom and indifference like a dagger through silk. It was not fear. It was not despair. It was defiance.
"Interesting," he murmured, the word echoing unnaturally across the throne room. "I erased that expression from the world long ago."
The mirror cracked with a sharp, metallic sound. Azryel did not flinch. He did not blink. His smile was slow, deliberate, as he extended a hand toward the broken