In a realm shrouded by eternal crimson skies, upon a throne carved from the skulls of a thousand vanquished kings, lounged Azrath the Demon Lord.
He was perfection: towering horns, flowing cape of living shadows, eyes like molten rubies that could make dragons weep in terror. His legions spanned horizons—orc hordes, succubi harems, undead armies that blotted out the sun. He had conquered continents for breakfast. Literally. (Continents were crunchy with the right spices.)
No one dared meet his gaze. Except today.
His most trusted general—a sniveling boot-licker who'd spent centuries polishing Azrath's boots—chose this moment to stab him in the back. Literally again. While a pack of glowing "heroes" (prophecy-cheating cowards in shiny armor) burst through the doors chanting about "light prevailing."
Azrath rose dramatically, dark aura exploding. "Traitors! You dare challenge the eternal scourge of—"
A holy spear interrupted his monologue. Then another. And a sealing spell that looked suspiciously like divine middle finger.
He coughed blood (dramatically, of course). "This... this is but a scratch! I shall return and—"
Poof. Darkness.
Then... *BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!*
Azrath's eyes flew open to the most horrifying sound imaginable. Not the screams of the damned. Not war horns. A tiny, insistent electronic screech.
He bolted upright—or tried to. His new body was... puny. Short. Weak-armed. "What sorcery?! Where are my horns? My majestic physique?!"
The room spun into focus: cluttered desk with glowing rectangles, walls plastered with posters of big-eyed girls in frilly outfits posing suggestively. A pile of rumpled clothes that smelled like teenage despair. And on the nightstand, a half-eaten cup of... wavy yellow strands drowning in murky broth.
Instant ramen.
Azrath—no, the soul label insisted *Kaito Kurogane*—stared in abject horror. "This... this slop dares to exist in my presence? Who is the foul alchemist responsible? I shall flay them, resurrect them, and flay them anew!"
He reached for his demonic power. A flick of the wrist should summon hellfire.
...Nothing. Just a faint tingle, like a minor muscle cramp. And accidentally knocking over the ramen cup, spilling it across the desk.
"Abomination!" he bellowed, voice cracking into a teenage squeak. Perfect. Just perfect.
Stumbling to the mirror, he confronted his new form: messy black hair, average height, lean but not imposing, sharp eyes with a lingering crimson glint behind nerdy glasses. A Japanese high schooler. Seventeen. Former shut-in, apparently. The kind who hadn't left his room in months.
Kaito gripped the sink, knuckles whitening with his minor strength buff—the only mercy left. The mirror cracked slightly. "The gods mock me. From overlord of realms to... this pathetic vessel? I, who commanded succubi queens, now inhabit a boy who collects posters of animated maidens?!"
The glowing rectangle—phone, the memories supplied—blared again: "Alarm: 7:00 AM. School starts soon. Don't forget your shift at Burger Baron later!"
School? *Burger Baron*?
His eye twitched. "I shall raze this 'Burger Baron' to the ground. Grease and peasantry? Beneath me!"
He tried a mind trick on the alarm—willing it to explode. Instead, it just... stopped. Okay, small win.
Downstairs, a soft, melodic voice called: "Kaito? Are you awake, sweetie? Breakfast is ready! I made your favorite—tamagoyaki and rice!"
For the first time in centuries, Azrath the Demon Lord felt his stomach rumble. Not from conquest hunger. From... actual food hunger. And something else. A warmth. A pull.
Family. Mother. Sisters. Struggling. Bills. Abandonment long ago.
He straightened the ill-fitting school uniform hanging on the door. Cape? No. Tie? Pathetic substitute.
"Fine," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "This realm is weak, mundane, utterly beneath contempt. But it houses treasures worth protecting."
A smirk crept across his face—sharp, predatory.
"Let the conquest begin. Starting with whatever this 'tamagoyaki' dares to be."
(If it's trash, someone's getting beheaded. Politely.)