The world learned how to break humans long before Aren learned how to speak.
It began with chains.
Chains that dragged across blackened stone every morning before the sun fully rose. Chains that rattled like dying prayers in the throats of men and women who had forgotten what praying meant. Chains that bit into flesh, into bone, into generations of memory until even pain became ordinary.
In the lands ruled by demons and beasts, chains were not symbols of oppression—they were proof of order.
Aren walked barefoot among three hundred other humans through the narrow streets of Ashveil Pit, a slave town carved directly into the corpse of an ancient volcano. The ground beneath his feet was warm, perpetually heated by magma veins far below. Ash drifted endlessly from the sky like gray snow, settling into hair, lungs, and open wounds. The air smelled of sulfur, sweat, and blood that never fully dried.
He had lived here his entire life.
Sixteen years measured not by birthdays, but by survival cycles. Sixteen years of labor, hunger, and watching people disappear into the depths of the mines, never to return. Sixteen years without a surname.
Humans did not have surnames.
Not in demon lands.
Names implied lineage. Legacy. Worth. Humans possessed none of these. A single name was more than enough for slaves—something to shout when issuing orders, something to scratch into a registry before erasing it forever.
Aren
That was all he was allowed to be.
The line of slaves halted abruptly.
Iron collars around their necks pulsed faintly, responding to the presence of authority. A massive shadow stretched across the cracked stone street, swallowing dozens of humans at once. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on lungs and hearts alike.
A demon overseer had arrived.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carved with ritual scars that glowed faintly like dying embers. His skin was the color of dried blood, his horns swept backward like blades polished over centuries. Golden eyes with slit pupils scanned the line with detached disinterest, the way one might examine faulty tools.
"Slow," the demon muttered, voice deep and lazy. "Humans grow weaker every cycle."
No one answered.
No one ever did.
A whip snapped through the air, splitting it open with a sharp crack that echoed off the stone walls. A boy two rows ahead screamed as the leather tore into his back, blood spraying across the ash-covered ground. He collapsed instantly, twitching, breath coming in wet gasps.
The demon did not even glance at him.
Aren's fingers curled slowly into fists.
He kept his head down.
Looking up was dangerous. Meeting a demon's gaze invited punishment. Showing emotion invited death. The rules were simple, carved deeply into every surviving human: obey, endure, and hope to die quietly.
Yet inside Aren's chest, something twisted.
Not anger. Anger burned too fast.
This was something colder, heavier—like a stone sinking deeper and deeper into water.
The line began moving again, shuffling toward the towering black obelisk at the center of the square: the Soul Weighing Pillar.
Once every cycle, humans were tested.
Not to elevate them—but to measure how much more could be taken.
The pillar was etched with crimson runes that pulsed faintly, alive with demonic cultivation energy. It probed flesh, blood, and spirit, searching for any sign of resonance. Humans with even the slightest potential were dragged away for reassignment: deeper mines, experimentation chambers, or arenas where demons entertained themselves.
Those without potential were discarded slowly.
Aren stepped forward when his turn came.
The demon overseer didn't even bother to look at his face.
"Hand," he commanded.
Aren placed his palm against the cold stone.
The moment his skin touched the pillar, agony tore through him.
It was not pain of the flesh, but something far worse—an invasive sensation that ripped through marrow and spirit, prying into places that should never be touched. His vision blurred, teeth clenched, knees nearly buckling as invisible forces searched for something buried deep within him.
Seconds stretched into eternity.
Then—
Nothing.
The runes dimmed.
The demon snorted.
"Empty," he said dismissively. "No bloodline echo. No spiritual core. Barely alive."
He waved his hand. "Mining Row Seven. If he collapses, mark him as waste."
The collar around Aren's neck pulsed once, locking the command into his flesh.
Aren stepped away without protest.
But something inside him cracked—not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way glaciers fracture before entire mountains collapse.
Mining Row Seven lay far beneath Ashveil Pit, where the heat grew oppressive and the air thin enough to burn lungs with every breath. Crimson crystal veins ran through volcanic stone like exposed arteries. These crystals—Infernal Ember Shards—were priceless to demons, refined into cultivation fuel and military resources.
For humans, they were a death sentence.
Aren swung his pickaxe again and again, muscles trembling as the tool struck the unyielding crystal. Every impact sent vibrations up his arms, numbing fingers already split and bleeding.
Around him, humans worked in silence.
Some coughed blood into the dust. Some limped, dragging useless legs behind them. Some stared blankly at nothing, minds broken long before bodies failed.
Aren worked until his breath came in ragged gasps, until sweat soaked his tattered clothing and stung his eyes. His arms screamed, but he raised the pickaxe again.
Clang.
The crystal resisted.
Clang.
Pain flared through his shoulders.
Clang.
The sound changed.
The pickaxe shattered.
Metal fragments flew, clattering against stone. The sudden silence that followed felt deafening.
Aren froze.
He knew what came next.
Torches flared at the tunnel's mouth as the demon overseer strode forward, boots crunching over crystal dust. His presence pressed down like a physical weight, forcing nearby humans to bow their heads instinctively.
"Well?" the demon said, voice smooth with boredom. "Explain."
Aren swallowed, throat dry.
"The tool failed," he said carefully. "I—"
The whip struck before he finished.
Pain exploded across his back as he was hurled against the tunnel wall. The collar tightened instantly, constricting his airway, crushing his throat until stars burst behind his eyes.
"Tools don't fail," the demon said calmly. "Humans do."
Another strike.
Then another.
Each lash tore flesh, blood splattering against the rock. Aren collapsed to his knees, gasping, vision dimming as darkness crept in from the edges.
Around him, no one moved.
Fear nailed them in place.
The demon crouched, gripping Aren's chin with clawed fingers, forcing his head up.
"You know," the demon murmured softly, "I sometimes wonder why your race hasn't gone extinct."
Aren's hearing faded, replaced by a roaring in his ears.
Then—
Something stirred.
Deep within him, far beneath flesh and bone, where the Soul Weighing Pillar had found nothing, a warmth awakened.
It was not power.
Not yet.
It was memory.
His mother's voice, soft and trembling, whispering to him while hiding beneath a collapsed forge long ago.
Names are anchors, she had said. Without them, people drift. But one day, you will choose your own.
The warmth flared violently.
The iron collar sparked.
The demon froze.
"What—"
Aren's heartbeat thundered like war drums.
For a single breath, the world slowed.
He felt his blood—not thin, not weak—but compressed, restrained, as though something immense had been sealed inside him since birth. Pain sharpened into clarity. Fear burned away.
A sharp crack echoed through the tunnel.
A hairline fracture split the collar.
The demon staggered back, eyes widening.
"Impossible," he snarled.
The collar exploded.
Metal shards tore into Aren's neck and shoulders, but he did not feel them. A surge of raw, unrefined energy blasted outward, hurling ash and dust through the tunnel. The ground trembled violently, crystals rattling loose from the walls.
Humans screamed.
The demon roared in fury. "Kill him!"
Aren collapsed.
Darkness claimed him.
He dreamed.
He stood in an endless void beneath a sky of shattered stars. Countless human figures knelt before towering silhouettes of demons and beasts, their backs bent, faces blurred by centuries of despair.
Then the ground split open.
Blinding white light erupted upward, tearing through the darkness like a blade.
A lone figure rose—uncrowned, unnamed, standing straight where all others knelt.
When the figure turned, Aren saw his own eyes staring back at him.
A voice echoed, ancient and immeasurable.
"Heaven records emperors. History remembers names.
If the world denies you one—forge it."
Aren screamed—
And woke.
He lay on cold stone, body wrapped in rough cloth. Pain throbbed everywhere, but he was alive. Weak. Shaking.
An old human woman knelt beside him, eyes darting toward the shadows.
"You should be dead," she whispered. "They think you are. I hid you."
Aren forced himself upright.
"Why?" he croaked.
She smiled bitterly. "Habit. Or foolish hope."
She stepped aside. "You must leave now."
"Leave?" Aren asked softly.
"Beyond Ashveil lies the Scorched Expanse," she said. "Beasts roam freely. Demons hunt without restraint. Humans do not survive."
Aren stood, swaying.
"Then I'll die there," he said quietly. "Not here."
The woman studied him, something uneasy flickering in her gaze.
She moved aside.
Aren stepped toward the exit, each step heavy, each breath uncertain. At the threshold, he paused.
"I don't have a surname," he said.
"But I will."
He stepped into the red-lit wasteland beyond Ashveil Pit.
Behind him lay chains, ash, and silence.
Ahead lay a world that had never permitted a human emperor.
Aren smiled faintly, blood staining his lips.
"Then I'll be the first."
Far above demon thrones and beast domains, the heavens trembled—not in fear—
but in recognition.
__________________________________________
Author's Note
Dear Readers,
Welcome to HOLY HUMAN EMPEROR.
This is a brand-new novel, a long-form epic that I am fully committed to writing to the very end. This story is not a short experiment or a rushed project—it is a carefully planned cultivation fantasy built to span hundreds of chapters, with deep worldbuilding, powerful characters, and a slow-burning rise from absolute despair to supreme domination.
In this world, humans are the lowest race—nameless slaves crushed beneath demons and beasts. There are no shortcuts, no easy victories, and no hollow power-ups. Every breakthrough will be paid for with blood, willpower, and sacrifice. The journey of Aren is meant to be painful, inspiring, and unforgettable.
I promise you:
Consistent updates
Long, detailed chapters
Clear power progressions
Strong villains and meaningful allies
A story that respects your time and emotions
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Let us witness the rise of the first Human Emperor—from chains to the heavens.
— SENATOR DANIEL