The first thing he noticed… was the silence.
Not peaceful silence.
The kind that presses against your ears.
Heavy. Suffocating.
He opened his eyes.
Blurry at first—
but clearing quickly.
A dark ceiling.
Stone. Cracked.
Too plain… if it could even be called that.
Unfamiliar surroundings.
Unfamiliar feeling.
"…What?"
His voice came out rough. Dry.
Not his voice.
He frowned.
The last thing he remembered was lying on his bed, phone in hand, scrolling through that same novel again—the one he'd read too many times to count.
A story beyond typical clichés… yet still filled with familiar world-building.
A world of dragons, elves, humans.
And demons.
Especially demons.
Not the final boss kind—
but the defeated ones.
A fallen race.
Once dominators of a forgotten past.
Gone were the embodiments of fear—those mighty titans.
What remained… were remnants.
Beings unaware of their former glory.
Unaware of the chaos that once flowed through their very existence.
He sat up slowly.
Pain shot through his body.
Sharp. Burning.
Like something inside him didn't fit.
"…Damn."
His hand moved instinctively to his chest—
and froze.
Black.
Not dark.
Not tanned.
Black.
Not the color of skin—something deeper. Something unnatural.
Faint veins glowed beneath it, like dying embers.
His breath hitched.
"No way…"
He scrambled to his feet, nearly collapsing as his legs gave out—before barely stabilizing.
Across the room, a broken mirror leaned against the wall.
He stared at it.
Didn't move.
"…No."
But his body moved anyway.
Step by step.
Slow. Reluctant.
Until he stood before it.
And saw—
Himself.
Or—
Not himself.
Curved horns, small but unmistakable, pushing through messy black hair.
Eyes—deep crimson, faintly glowing in the dim light.
Skin like burnt ash, cracked as if something inside was barely contained.
A demon.
A fucking demon.
His expression stiffened.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
He didn't know this face.
This wasn't his familiar face.
It was entirely different.
Disgusting.
Yes—truly disgusting.
He hadn't been particularly handsome before…
but this?
This was unacceptable—even by his own standards.
More than anything—
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why the hell did I become like this?
As his thoughts drifted—
He noticed it.
A tattoo on his left shoulder.
A shield.
With a burning sun at its center.
His pupils shrank.
"No way in hell!!"
He shouted—not out of madness—
But recognition.
He knew that symbol.
He knew what it meant.
And more importantly—
He now knew where he was.
And what kind of hell awaited him.
"…I'm totally fucked."
Because—
He had transmigrated into that very same novel.
The one he used to read.
You might think—
Here we go again.
A typical protagonist who knows the future, goes to some sacred mountain, steals a cheat, becomes overpowered, builds a harem with elves, dragons, and beastmen.
But—
His life wasn't that easy.
Not because it was a dark fantasy where everyone dies except the protagonist and his clique.
But because—
He was a demon.
A remnant of a once dominant race.
A race that nearly destroyed the world—
and was ultimately defeated by the Thrones.
For demons—
Existence itself was a dead end.
In this novel, demons were isolated everywhere they went.
Bullied.
Beaten.
Humiliated.
And eventually—
Dead.
"… "
Even named demon characters in the novel met tragic ends.
Let alone an unknown extra like him.
He stared at his reflection for a long time.
Then laughed.
Softly at first.
Then louder.
"Out of everyone…"
His voice cracked.
"You put me in this body…
you could have at least made me a named character."
There was no answer.
Of course there wasn't.
This wasn't a dream.
The pain was too real.
The air too cold.
The body—
Too wrong.
He clenched his fist.
Dark energy flickered faintly around it—
then disappeared.
"…So it's real."
He took a slow breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
His mind began to settle.
If this really was that world…
Then the timeline—
He turned his head.
On the wall, crudely scratched into stone, were markings.
Numbers.
Dates.
Countless lines tracking days.
He stepped closer.
"…Lunar Ascension is soon."
His eyes narrowed.
Right.
That part of the story.
Where all races gathered.
Where "peace" was taught.
Where demons—
Were tolerated.
At best.
His lips curled.
"Tolerated…"
Memories surfaced.
Not his own.
This body's.
Fragments.
And they were unbearable.
Pain.
Mocking laughter.
Hands pushing him down.
Voices—
"Demon trash."
"Should've been wiped out with the rest."
"Know your place."
His fingers tightened.
The cracks along his arm glowed faintly—
then dimmed.
An unfamiliar sadness… and hatred… flooded his chest.
The alien feeling faded.
In its place—
A bone-chilling coldness filled his eyes.
"…So that's how it is."
The war had ended.
But the hatred hadn't.
Not even close.
He turned away from the mirror.
Sat down slowly.
Thinking.
In the novel, the Lunar Ascension was where everything began.
The heroes met.
The story moved.
Future legends were born.
And extras like him—
Were crushed beneath them.
He exhaled again.
Long.
Slow.
"…Alright."
His voice was calm now.
Too calm.
"If I'm here…"
His gaze dropped to his hand.
To the faint, dying glow beneath his skin.
"…then I'm not dying like the rest."
He didn't care about justice.
Didn't care about revenge.
Didn't care about proving demons weren't evil.
That wasn't his problem.
Survival was.
If the world saw him as a demon—
Then fine.
He'd be one.
But not the kind that gets stepped on.
His eyes lifted toward the door.
Beyond it—
A world that had already decided what he was.
His lips curved slightly.
Cold.
Sharp.
"Let's see…"
A faint pulse of dark energy flickered in the room.
"…who regrets it first."
The silence returned.