I was a god among mortals. Now, they see me as nothing.

Power. Fear. Obedience.

For centuries, the world bowed before me. I was Azareth, the Demon Lord, the Tyrant of the Black Throne, the Master of Chaos. My armies burned cities to the ground, and even the gods feared my name.

And yet, as all great rulers do, I fell.

The betrayal came from the one I trusted most—Vaelin, my strongest general, my right hand. The one I had lifted from the dirt and forged into an unstoppable warrior. I had given him everything—power, purpose, a place at my side.

And in return, he plunged a holy sword into my chest.

I remember the pain—the first real pain I had felt in centuries. Holy magic burned through my veins, ripping me apart from the inside. My own castle, my own throne room, became my tomb.

The last thing I saw was Vaelin standing with the heroes of humanity, his blade dripping with my blood.

I cursed them all.

And then… I died.

Or so I thought.

---

When I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong.

Gone was my towering form, my armor of obsidian and blood. Gone was my power—the unshakable presence that had once made entire armies kneel in terror.

I lay on a soft bed, my body frail, my limbs weak. My breathing was ragged, my fingers trembling. I felt small. Human.

Panic surged through me as I forced myself upright, my muscles screaming in protest. A large mirror sat across the room, its golden frame adorned with royal engravings.

I looked into it—and what I saw made my blood run cold.

A boy.

Pale skin, sickly, silver hair dull and lifeless. His body thin, fragile. His violet eyes held no authority, no power—just exhaustion and despair.

This was not my body.

And yet, the boy staring back at me… was me.

Memories that were not mine flooded my mind. The name Lucian Everhart surfaced. Third prince of the Everhart Kingdom. The weakest son of King Aldric Everhart. A failure in the eyes of the royal family.

My hands clenched into fists. No. No.

How had I gone from ruling an empire of demons to… this?

It was humiliating.

I tried to call upon my magic, to summon even the faintest flicker of my power. Nothing. Not even a whisper of the abyss that once answered my command.

I had not just been reborn—I had been stripped of everything.

But the gods had made a mistake.

I was still here.

And as long as I lived, I would not remain weak.

If they thought they had destroyed me, they were wrong.

If this kingdom thought I was useless, they were blind.

I would rise from the shadows, claw my way back to power, and make them all regret ever underestimating me.

And when the time came, I would find Vaelin. I would carve his betrayal into his bones, make him suffer in ways no hero ever had before.

They thought they had slain the Demon Lord?

They had only created a monster far worse.

Betrayal does not come from enemies—it comes from those closest to you.

The air in my throne room reeked of blood and treachery. The once-glorious obsidian pillars, carved with runes of my conquest, were shattered. Fires raged in the distant halls, casting flickering shadows across the fallen bodies of my elite guards.

I stood at the center of the carnage, my breath heavy, my armor cracked. My fingers trembled as I tightened my grip on Doomfang, my greatsword, its cursed blade pulsating with the souls of the countless warriors I had slain.

Before me, the so-called heroes of humanity stood in a formation of righteousness and arrogance.

The Holy Knight, clad in gleaming silver armor, his sword radiating divine energy. The High Priestess, her golden staff pulsing with holy magic meant to purge my existence. The Archmage, an elder wizard whose eyes burned with arcane wisdom.

And at the front of them all—Vaelin.

The man I had once called my right hand. My most trusted general. My brother in battle.

Now, he stood against me, his blade drawn, his crimson eyes filled with grim determination. He wore the armor I had forged for him, the demonic sigils now burning away under the influence of the holy magic that surrounded him.

I clenched my jaw. "You, of all people." My voice was hoarse, but it still carried the weight of centuries of command.

Vaelin didn’t flinch. “Your time is over, Azareth.”

I let out a slow, cold laugh, despite the searing pain in my chest. "I raised you from nothing," I whispered. "I made you into a legend. And this is how you repay me?"

His grip on his sword tightened, but he said nothing.

The Holy Knight stepped forward. "Surrender, Demon Lord. Your reign ends tonight."

Surrender?

I almost pitied them for their foolishness.

With the last reserves of my strength, I lunged forward.

Doomfang howled as I swung it, its cursed steel cutting through the air. The Archmage barely raised a barrier in time, my blade colliding against it with a deafening explosion. The ground beneath us cracked, dark energy rippling outward.

The Holy Knight charged at me, his sword aimed for my chest. I twisted, dodging his strike, and slammed my fist into his ribs. His armor dented, and he staggered back, coughing blood.

But then, Vaelin struck.

His blade, infused with divine energy, pierced my side. Agony shot through me, the holy magic burning like molten fire in my veins. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

Vaelin twisted the blade deeper. "You were once unstoppable," he murmured. "Now, you're just a dying relic of the past."

Bastard.

I summoned the last remnants of my magic, shadows swirling around me. If I was to fall, then I would drag them all into hell with me.

I roared, unleashing a catastrophic surge of dark energy. The palace shook, the very foundations crumbling under my wrath. The ceiling collapsed, sending stone and debris raining down.

The heroes scrambled back, shielding themselves. But Vaelin… he stood firm.

With one final, decisive thrust, he drove his blade into my chest.

Pain. Blinding. Consuming.

My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges.

I refused to die like this. I was Azareth, the Demon Lord! I was eternal!

But fate had other plans.

The last thing I saw was Vaelin’s face, his crimson eyes—once filled with loyalty—now filled with resolve.

And then… everything faded.

---

I awoke gasping.

Not in the ruins of my throne room. Not surrounded by the bodies of my fallen soldiers.

But in a soft bed, beneath silken sheets, in a chamber filled with golden light.

I sat up too fast, my body betraying me. A sharp ache spread through my limbs. My fingers were thin, fragile—nothing like the powerful hands I once had.

My breath was shallow. Weak.

This wasn’t my body.

Panic surged through me as I stumbled out of the bed, catching sight of a mirror across the room.

The reflection staring back at me was not Azareth, the Demon Lord.

It was a boy.

Pale. Small. Sickly.

Memories flooded my mind, foreign yet familiar.

A name surfaced.

Lucian Everhart.

Third prince of the Everhart Kingdom. A weak, insignificant prince, overshadowed by his elder brothers. Mocked. Ignored. Discarded.

I gritted my teeth, my hands curling into trembling fists. No. No!

How could I, the most feared being in existence, be reborn in this pathetic form?

I called upon my magic, desperate to summon even a flicker of my former power.

Nothing.

Not even a shadow.

I exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the vanity, my knuckles turning white. This had to be a nightmare. A cruel joke.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

I had died.

And now, I was reborn into the body of a prince who held no power, no authority—no respect.

The realization settled like poison in my gut.

This kingdom… these people… they would look down on me. Mock me. Underestimate me.

A slow, bitter smirk curled my lips.

Good.

Let them think me weak. Let them turn their backs on me, forget me.

I would rise from the shadows, unseen, unnoticed—until it was too late.

I would reclaim my power, no matter the cost.

And when the time was right… I would find Vaelin.

And I would remind him what true fear felt like.

---

I had faced warriors who could shatter mountains with a swing of their blades. I had crushed kingdoms under my rule, bent mages, assassins, and warlords to my will.

And yet, as I sat at the grand dining table of the Everhart royal family, forced to endure the scornful gazes of my so-called kin, I realized something:

I had never before suffered such blatant humiliation.

The Everhart royal palace was a symbol of power—tall spires of white stone, golden chandeliers reflecting light off polished marble floors, walls adorned with banners depicting the king’s crest.

But the people who ruled here?

They had no idea who now sat among them.

At the head of the long table, King Aldric Everhart—my "father"—sat with a dispassionate gaze, as if I barely existed. His beard was streaked with gray, his frame still strong, but his eyes were void of warmth.

To his right sat Cyrus, the crown prince, the kingdom’s perfect warrior—golden-haired, blue-eyed, the very image of a noble hero. Arrogant, disciplined, and born to lead armies.

Next to him was Darius, the second prince, the kingdom’s political mind. He was more refined, with sharp eyes that analyzed everything. If Cyrus ruled the battlefield, Darius ruled the court.

And then there was me.

Or rather, Lucian Everhart—the prince no one wanted.

"You're late."

Cyrus was the first to speak, his tone flat but carrying undeniable contempt.

I had arrived on time. But to them, it didn’t matter. The weak were always "late" in a world ruled by strength.

"Forgive me, dear brother," I said, keeping my voice calm, unreadable. "My weak body moves slowly."

A chuckle rippled through the nobles seated nearby. I counted at least six minor lords, all watching with amused expressions, enjoying the spectacle of the useless prince.

Cyrus sneered. "At least you recognize it."

I merely smiled.

They thought me pathetic. Insignificant. A boy barely worth their attention.

Good. Let them think that.

Because I had already decided—I would not fight them on their terms.

I would play the part of the forgotten prince, a shadow they dismissed. I would learn their weaknesses, their secrets, their ambitions. And when the time came, I would strike from the darkness—swift, merciless, and unstoppable.

The first course of the meal was served—roast venison glazed with honeyed herbs. My fingers twitched instinctively, craving the feel of a blade, the weight of magic at my command.

Instead, I picked up my fork and played the pathetic prince they expected me to be.

"Lucian," King Aldric spoke for the first time. His tone was distant, uninterested. "I heard you collapsed again yesterday."

The whispers around the table grew louder, laughter hidden behind wine cups.

Ah. So that was the story?

It wasn’t a "collapse"—I had been forcing my body to the brink, trying to awaken my old power. But to them, I was just the weakling prince who couldn’t even stand properly.

"I apologize for causing concern, Your Majesty," I said, bowing my head slightly, masking my expression. "My health remains… delicate."

Aldric barely nodded, already dismissing me. "We will arrange a marriage for you soon."

My fingers stilled.

Cyrus smirked. Darius arched a brow, studying me. The nobles murmured in interest.

A marriage? So soon?

I expected the king to shove me into some meaningless noble alliance, a way to rid himself of his useless son. Perhaps to a minor house desperate for status—a girl with no standing, nothing of value.

That suited me just fine. I had no intention of remaining a pawn in their games.

But then Aldric continued.

"You will be betrothed to Princess Evelyn of Aurelia."

For the first time since arriving at this wretched table, I felt true surprise.

Aurelia. A rival kingdom, smaller than Everhart but known for its dangerous political games. A kingdom of secrets, assassins, and power-hungry nobles.

And Evelyn?

She was no forgotten noblewoman. She was their crown princess.

Why would the king waste her on me?

Cyrus frowned. "Father, are you certain? Evelyn is—"

Aldric raised a hand, silencing him. "The alliance with Aurelia is important. And they asked for Lucian."

My pulse slowed.

They asked for me?

Something was wrong.

I forced a smile, ignoring the tension in the room. "How… fortunate."

The nobles scoffed. "Fortunate?" As if I had just been handed something I didn’t deserve.

Let them laugh.

Inside, my mind raced.

A marriage proposal from a rival kingdom? No one valued me here. Everhart saw me as worthless.

So why would Aurelia want me?

I needed to learn why. And I needed to decide if I would accept it—or use it to my advantage.

Because one thing was certain.

If they thought this marriage would control me…

They had no idea what kind of monster they had just invited into their kingdom.