Long before legends twisted his name, Azrael was born into the royal clan of the demons—descendant of Dracula, his father the realm's formidable second-in-command. Even in the womb, Azrael's coming reshaped fate. The mana saturation grew so immense around his mother that, by birth, her mana pool surpassed that of the former Demon King.
The moment Azrael was born, the universe shuddered. Mana whirled and thickened, warping reality; only the reigning Demon Lord and Azrael's own father could dare approach the newborn, the air around him sizzling with raw power. Even as an infant, his gaze glowed with ancient intelligence.
By his teenage years, Azrael could shatter planets with a stray surge of his mana. At fourteen, legend says he watched stars tremble at his awakening. But power invited enemies. The demons' first true war came with the arrival of the Angels of Death, led by the fearsome Angel of Death himself.
The demon hosts faltered, certain of their doom—until Azrael strode onto the blood-soaked battlefield. Without raising his voice, with a mere flick of his wrist, he annihilated the angelic armies. But when the Angel of Death himself descended, Azrael found an adversary worthy of effort. Their titanic clash shook worlds, every blow threatening reality itself. Only Azrael's restraint spared the universe from oblivion.
In recognition, the great Demon King Deablo abdicated, crowning Azrael as the new Demon Lord. Under his reign, the demon nation prospered, but not by conquest. Azrael conquered worlds—eight in all—yet brought them peace rather than ruin. He saw that humans and demons alike perished in senseless wars and believed, through unification, the bloodshed might end.
One fateful day, Azrael stood atop the obsidian parapets of his castle. Beside him were Nemar, Conjur, and Lina—his most loyal SS-rank lieutenants. Together, they gazed across the worlds, hopeful for peace at last.
Messengers arrived: a human had been chosen by the Mighty God, granted the Hero's destiny and a legendary blade, and tasked to kill Azrael and return the worlds to human hands.
Conjur's fist clenched. "Should we strike first, my lord? End this threat?"
Azrael shook his head, eyes calm as a midnight sea. "No. This is a rare opportunity—perhaps, at last, we can talk. If the new hero will meet us face to face, we can offer a peace treaty and stop these endless, foolish wars."
His subordinates nodded, trusting in Azrael's vision. Envoys were sent with gifts of peace and words of truce.
But when Azrael arrived on the battlefield to greet the Hero, horror met his eyes for the first time in over a century. His envoys' heads lined the ground—bodies covered in unnatural golden light.
The Hero stood among the corpses, radiant blade in hand, creating soldiers of light not from magic, but from the twisted, stolen life of the slain. Azrael's anger—dormant for ages—blazed anew.
"Why do you kill your own people?" he demanded, struggling to control his fury.
The Hero replied coldly, "They are under your rule, not mine. If they survived, they must have pleased their king."
Azrael closed his eyes, voice raw. "They never called me king, only feared me. Still, that does not make their lives yours to take."
The Hero's eyes shone, unrepentant. "They breathe because you allowed it. Now, their purpose is to become my army. Light chooses the worthy."
As golden soldiers of the Hero's design filled the field, Azrael steeled himself for the coming storm. For the first time in centuries, war would not be stopped by words.
The battle that would echo for a thousand years began—not for glory, but to decide whose truth would shape all worlds.
End of Chapter 4