The throne room existed in a space that shouldn't exist.
No walls. No ceiling.
Just an endless abyss swallowing light, pressing in from every direction.
A narrow path of obsidian cut through the darkness, leading to a throne carved from what looked like frozen screams—twisted faces trapped in stone, mouths open in eternal agony.
If one stared too long, it almost felt like they were breathing.
The air was wrong. Heavy. Ancient.
It slid down the throat like tar.
Lesser demons would collapse before even reaching the path, crushed by the sheer weight of existence.
Mortals wouldn't last a second—they'd forget how to inhale.
Vael stood at the edge of the obsidian path, hands lazily tucked into his pockets, expression blank.
"You are making a mistake."
The voice came from everywhere. It didn't echo. It didn't reverberate.
It simply existed.
The figure seated upon the throne remained shrouded in shadow, but the pressure of its gaze could shatter mountains.
The Demon King.
His father.
Vael's crimson eyes—cold, sharp, disturbingly calm—did not waver.
"No."
Silence.
The darkness thickened, like the realm itself was displeased.
"You would abandon your position?" The voice remained composed, yet something beneath it shifted. Something dangerous.
"You command legions. Entire territories kneel at the mere whisper of your name. You possess wealth beyond measure, women who would gladly kill for a single night at your side, humans who tremble when you breathe."
A pause.
"What more could you possibly want?"
Vael's lips parted slightly.
"Nothing."
"…Nothing?"
"I don't want anything," he said flatly. "That's the problem."
The abyss pulsed.
The oppressive presence intensified, pushing against him, probing for doubt. For desire. For greed. For ambition.
There was nothing to find.
Vael had ruled for centuries. He had conquered kingdoms before breakfast. He had broken heroes and crowned tyrants. He had been worshipped. Feared. Desired.
And he had felt absolutely nothing.
"If you leave," the Demon King said slowly, the words settling like chains, "you sever all ties to this realm. No authority. No protection. No return."
The darkness rippled like a living thing.
"This is your final chance. Will you reconsider?"
Vael turned his head toward the exit—a towering gate that had manifested behind him, ornate and foreboding, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly red.
"Yeah, yeah. It's still a No"
He walked.
Each step casually against the obsidian.
The Demon King said nothing more.
The moment Vael crossed the threshold—
The throne room ceased to exist.
No transition. No fading.
One step he was leaving the impossible void.
The next, he stood in an ordinary stone corridor.
He glanced back.
There was only a wall.
Cold. Solid.
As if none of it had ever existed.
—
His palace was huge.
Vael had never cared enough to notice.
Now he did.
Dark marble pillars veined with crimson crystal. Tapestries depicting his victories—heroes impaled, cities burning, kings kneeling in surrender. Gold filigree lined the ceilings. Chandeliers crafted from demon bone hung like ornaments of conquest.
It felt… hollow.
He'd stopped registering any of it decades ago.
His private chambers were no different.
Ornate furniture carved from ancient wood. Weapons he had once used to cleave armies displayed like museum relics.
Shelves lined with tomes of forbidden knowledge he had mastered and discarded. A bed large enough for a dozen bodies.
He had always slept alone.
Not because he lacked options.
Because he never felt the need.
He walked to a chest at the far end of the room. Inside lay enough gold to buy a kingdom—or burn one down for sport.
He scooped a handful into a small leather pouch. The coins clinked softly.
He left the rest behind.
Clothing next.
His usual attire—dark garments woven with demonic sigils—radiated authority. Power. Nobility.
He stripped without hesitation, the heavy fabric sliding from his broad shoulders. Pale skin caught the dim candlelight, etched faintly with old scars—memories of wars long forgotten by everyone except him.
He changed into simple black pants. A plain shirt. A long coat.
Something a well-off human merchant might wear.
Practical.
Unremarkable.
He stood before the mirror.
Same face. Sharp jaw. Crimson eyes that seemed to glow faintly even in shadow.
Same unreadable expression.
No excitement.
No fear.
Just emptiness.
He turned away and left without a second glance.
—
The palace courtyard was lined with servants.
Dozens of maids and attendants who had served him for years. Some for decades.
They stood in perfect formation as he descended the grand staircase.
Black-and-white uniforms tailored to flatter their figures. Aprons cinched tightly at slender waists. Stockings hugging long legs. A faint scent of perfume and polished stone lingered in the air.
Every head bowed in flawless synchronization.
Vael stopped at the final step, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"I'm leaving. A new demon lord will take this position."
That was all.
No speech.
No gratitude.
No explanation.
He turned to go.
"My Lord."
He paused.
Three figures stepped forward from the line.