The chamber was silent.
A reddish light, filtered through crystals embedded in the black stone walls, bathed the room in a dark, flickering glow. Ancient symbols were carved into the walls—remnants of a power that had endured through the ages. The air was heavy, saturated with stagnant energy, as if even time itself hesitated to move forward. Thick, dark curtains hung on either side of a massive bed carved from obsidian rock, draped with heavy sheets steeped in a metallic scent.
This was the chamber of a sovereign.
The chamber of a being who stood above countless others.
And yet, lying at the center of the room was someone: Almus Zaksus, the Demon Emperor.
Had he lost consciousness? How could such a thing have happened? And above all… why was he bleeding—he, the Demon Emperor?
Something was wrong.
When he opened his eyes again, he was still in his chamber. The familiar walls surrounded him, yet his body refused to respond. Every attempt to move failed, as though his limbs were nailed to the bed. Even his voice was denied to him; no sound escaped his lips.
An oppressive sensation weighed on his chest—heavy, suffocating. A pain he had not felt in centuries, long forgotten, surged back into him.
Then he remembered.
He had attempted the impossible: to fuse the Seven Deadly Sins and attain a power never before achieved. But his greed had betrayed him. Instead of a glorious awakening, he had doomed himself. In the end, it was neither an enemy nor a god that defeated him, but his own desire for greater strength.
The pain intensified with every passing second, devouring his body slowly, methodically. His consciousness began to unravel, and his eyelids finally closed.
He died.
Then came disjointed sensations.
Hunger—violent, primal hunger—and a strange pain, not centered in his heart, but spread throughout his entire body.
When he opened his eyes once more, it was no longer his chamber.
He was lying beneath a miserable tent made of torn fabric and filthy tarps. The ground was nothing but a mixture of mud and stagnant water. Rain poured down relentlessly, seeping in everywhere and turning the place into a nauseating mire. The air was cold, damp, and thick with the stench of rot.
This place looked more like a shelter for rats than somewhere fit for humans.
None of it made sense.
As his thoughts raced, he caught his reflection in a puddle of water. What he saw froze him to the core.
That was not him.
In his place stood the image of a frail child who appeared to be thirteen or fourteen years old—a small boy with pale skin, messy white hair, and a thin, visibly malnourished body. Nothing remained of the imperial presence that once made entire worlds tremble.
Confusion gave way to rage.
"Who dares inflict such humiliation upon me? I am Almus Zaksus," he said, seething with anger.
For a moment, he considered the intervention of a god—but dismissed it immediately. Even the gods feared him. None would have dared.
So what was this?
Before he could think any further, a brutal blow struck him from behind. His light body was sent flying out of the tent, straight into the pounding rain. The pain was immediate—far more intense than it should have been.
How could a simple shove hurt this much?
He turned around with difficulty and saw his attacker: a young boy, barely older than the body he now inhabited.
"Hey, you piece of trash! Always spacing out!" the boy sneered mockingly.
Almus tried to stand, but his legs trembled violently. No strength answered his call. The weakness disgusted him.
At last, after a tremendous effort, he managed to get back on his feet and staggered into the tent, his body shaking from the cold.
Pain. Hunger. Cold.
Sensations he had not experienced in an eternity.
A living hell.
His gaze fixed on the boy. By pure reflex, he extended his hand, ready to crush the boy's skull with magic.
Nothing happened.
Emptiness.
His magic was gone.
Shock replaced confusion. Before he could react, the boy drove a hard punch into his stomach. The air knocked out of him, Almus nearly lost consciousness.
"Am I dreaming, or did you just try to hit me?" the boy spat angrily.
The situation was absurd.
He who had ruled the Seven Infernal Realms.
He whose name alone spread terror across the human, underworld, and celestial planes.
He who commanded armies willing to leap into lava at a single order.
And yet, he was being beaten by a child.
Pathetic.
The boy continued striking him until a voice rang out:
"That's enough. You're disturbing me."
Instantly, the boy's attitude changed. His arrogance collapsed, replaced by nearly visible fear.
"S-Sorry, boss…" he stammered.
Not long after, the rain stopped. Silence returned, broken only by distant moans. An hour passed. The sun finally broke through the clouds, allowing a pale light to seep into the tent.
That was when Almus saw the man who had spoken earlier.
He was bald, his face marked by a wide scar running across his left eye. His clothes were filthy and worn, little different from a beggar's rags. The man stood up, stepped closer, and spoke in a harsh tone:
"Go. And this time, bring me proper results. I could have sent you out into that rain, but I chose mercy. Don't disappoint me. Otherwise, you won't just get beaten… you'll lose your thumbs instead."
His breath was foul, reminiscent of a demonic beast.
Almus did not fully grasp the meaning of his words, but he understood one thing: this place operated under rules he did not yet know.
He walked off in a random direction.
"Not that way," the boy called out, pointing down another path.
Almus followed the indicated route.
After a long walk, his body on the verge of collapse, he finally realized where he truly was. A wretched slum, worse than the lowest districts of the infernal realms. Emaciated figures wandered aimlessly, alive in name only.
He sat down in a corner, utterly exhausted.
Where had he ended up?
As his thoughts grew darker, a message appeared before him, floating in the air.
"Master Almus."
He jumped to his feet.
No one had spoken.
In the foul, damp air of the slums, a message hovered before him, as if words had been carved into the void itself. The letters were sharp, motionless—impossible to mistake for a hallucination.
Almus straightened immediately.
"Daark."
"Yes, Master," came the curt reply, directly inside his mind.
Daark was no ordinary entity. It was a living relic of indeterminate age, one whose true origin even the infernal realms did not know. Almus had discovered it long ago, buried deep within the depths of hell. At the time, it had taken the form of a strange book, covered in symbols no known language could fully decipher.
This relic possessed a unique ability: it could fuse with the soul of its host. Once the bond was established, the host gained access to all of its information—stats, abilities, capacities—without any concealment. Absolute transparency.
It was largely thanks to Daark that Almus had reached the pinnacle. Through it, he had become the being feared by all worlds.
And yet, Daark was here.
With him.
"Where have you been all this time? And what is happening to me?" Almus asked bluntly.
The answer came at once.
According to Daark, this was neither an illusion nor a spell. Almus was truly dead. His original body no longer existed. His heart had been destroyed during the failed fusion.
However, his soul had not vanished. It had transmigrated, finding itself within this frail, miserable body without any rejection. An abnormal situation—nearly impossible.
Almus fell silent for a moment.
It was difficult to accept.
"Are you certain of what you're saying?" he asked, his voice hardening.
"Yes. I felt your death. Normally, I should have been automatically severed from your soul when you died. But that was impossible. Instead, I sensed it within the human world. I apologize for the delay."
They were communicating telepathically. In the past, Daark had required a physical form to speak. Now, bound directly to his soul, it spoke within his mind—a constant presence.
"Do you have any idea who could have caused this?" Almus asked.
The answer was no.
No one had interfered.
"Then this can only be the result of the failed fusion of the Seven Deadly Sins," Almus concluded.
"Likely."
He set the matter aside for the moment. His body hurt too much to think further. Every movement was an ordeal, and in his current state, staying here meant a slow death.
"For now, we leave this place."
He paused, then added:
"Daark. Show me my profile."
He remained seated, waiting.
Nothing happened. Silence followed.
"Daark? What's wrong?" he asked, a trace of concern in his voice.
"Well… how should I put this…" Daark replied hesitantly.
That hesitation alone put Almus on edge.
Then, suddenly, something appeared before him.
A screen.
His profile.
What he saw struck him head-on. His abilities were gone. His skills as well.
Even what had once defined him no longer existed.
Profile: Myrn Avlord
Level: 0
Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Endurance: 2
Mana: 2
Unique Title: Demon Emperor
Unique Ability: Authority of Chaos
Passive Abilities: Resistance E
Skills: None
His gaze froze.
Even his name had changed.
He immediately demanded an explanation.
"What… what happened?" he asked.
Daark answered plainly. Instead of his soul taking possession of this body, as it should have, the two had fused completely.
This was not possession.
It was rebirth.
In other words, Almus Zaksus was dead, and Myrn Avlord had just been born.
In his previous life, his unique ability had been demonic energy absorption. It had vanished without a trace. In its place was a new ability—unknown, without a displayed rank, without a clear description.
Even Daark knew nothing about it.
It should have shaken him to his core.
Yet one thing remained untouched.
His will.
He did not know how to name what was happening to him—transmigration, rebirth, punishment. It did not matter. His objective would never change. He would become the strongest again, in this life or another, and no one would stop him.
He stood up with difficulty, his stomach hollow with hunger.
"But for now… we need to leave this place. And find something to eat."