The sky was painted in fire.
Not the warm orange of a sunset, but the chaotic blend of magical explosions and broken aircraft raining down like dead birds.
Craters ruptured the earth with every clash. Crystal weapons and shattered relics stuck out of the scorched ground like thorns. The battlefield was buried in bodies—humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin—no race had been spared.
The great city of Valenhold, jewel of the Human Dominion, was now nothing more than smoke, ash, and memory.
At the heart of it all stood a man who twisted the world simply by existing.
His long black hair flowed like liquid shadow, and his eyes were endless void—pitch-black, with no whites. His armor was ancient and regal, etched in crimson runes that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
Vorthas vel Azriel, The Demon Prince
He stood still, silent, his gaze fixed on the two dying men before him.
One lay face-down in blood and rubble. His golden hair, once radiant, was drenched in crimson. His blue eyes still burned, even as life faded from them.
Marcus Ardent, the People's Hope.
Beside him, another man lay broken. His body was mutilated—his left arm severed, both legs gone. Black flames crawled over his body, eating away at him, stopping even regeneration.
Daelen Vorcrest, Blade of Judgment.
Together, they had stood at the top of the Allied Forces—legends who had killed vampire lords, defeated werewolf kings, and slain demon generals. They were the strongest of Rank 9.
And yet, they had fallen.
Behind them stretched absolute ruin. The high-tech spires of humanity's proudest cities—vaporized. The core reactors of the floating skyships—exploded. The sacred trees of the elves—burnt to cinders. The beastkin's fortress temples—buried in ash.
The entire human continent was gone.
⸻
Marcus gritted his teeth, coughing up blood.
"…Why?" he whispered. "Why didn't you use that power earlier?"
Vorthas tilted his head. His face betrayed no emotion. Then, softly:
"You misunderstand, Marcus Ardent."
A thin smile formed.
"I hadn't reached Rank Ten before. I broke through… just now. In the middle of our fight."
Marcus's eyes widened.
He wanted to scream "Liar!", but he couldn't. Deep inside, he knew it was true.
He and Daelen were considered unmatched—the youngest Rank 9s in human history, each with combat experience equal to armies. They could defeat five Rank 9s alone. Together, they were unstoppable.
And still… they'd been surpassed.
By someone even more talented.
Daelen's eyes narrowed.
"…Vorthas," he said, voice trembling. "You're not the Demon Emperor ."
He looked up, blood dripping down his chin.
"The Demon Emperor name is Azaroth vel Azriel…"
"So who the hell are you!?"
Vorthas's smirk widened. The space around him distorted from the sheer malice radiating off him.
"You know of Azaroth?"
"Well… allow me to answer you, Daelen Vorcrest."
He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately.
"Azaroth… was my father."
"And as his beloved son, I simply carried out his will."
Daelen's breath caught in his throat.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her.
A girl's body lay in the ruins—her red hair spread like a halo, her blue eyes dull and lifeless.
The one he loved.
The one Vorthas had taken from him.
"…You… bastard…"
Daelen's entire body shook with rage. His dying core flared one last time. Energy spiraled out from his broken form.
"VORTHAAAAAAS!!"
His aura turned pure white—a detonation at its peak. He poured every last drop of mana into his core.
Marcus: "DAELEN! DON'T!!"
But it was too late.
Daelen exploded in a final suicidal blast. The light consumed everything.
Buildings. Bodies. The very air.
Marcus, too, felt his body begin to turn to dust.
And yet—at the center of it all—stood Vorthas.
Unharmed.
Unmoved.
Unshaken.
The world trembled.
The detonation spread outward like a world-ending ripple. Mountains shattered. Oceans boiled. The continent cracked.
This is how it ends, Marcus thought, fading.
If I had one more chance…
If only…
A single name flashed in his mind.
Ezra Celestrian…
If you were here… maybe none of this would've happened…
End of Volume 1
Comments Section – Online Novel "Reincarnated as a Minor Villain"
[New Chapter: 1002 – "The End of All Things" uploaded]
Immortal_86:
WTF??? Marcus and Daelen are DEAD??? Who TF is Ezra!?
Zenith_Heaven:
WAIT—Marcus remembered EZRA? OUR GOAT IS COMING BACK!! EZRA RETURN CONFIRMED??!!
Carefree_Reader:
How did Vorthas become Rank Ten mid-fight and NO ONE noticed? Plot armor demon king??
NG_the_GOAT:
Screw you, author. You killed my fav. You deserve HELL.
Cr7_is_best:
This isn't plot development. It's a plot massacre. You killed the whole novel, dude. WHY!?
Shivam lay sprawled on his bed, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone.
He had just finished the final chapter of the novel he'd been religiously following for over two years—"Reincarnated as a Minor Villain."
And his mood? Absolutely ruined.
His thumb hovered for a second, then he began to type furiously:
What kind of bullshit is this? Fucking hell, the author completely ruined the whole damn novel. And what the hell does Ezra have to do with anything now? The guy's already dead! And even if he was alive, what the fuck would he have done anyway? The author's just writing random crap now. Bro, at least think about the readers when you're writing. Whether we like it or not, you're just throwing garbage at us. Absolute fucking nonsense.
He hit send without a second thought.
Then tossed the phone aside with a frustrated grunt.
"Fucking waste of time," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He turned to glance at the wall clock.
2:00 AM.
"Two in the goddamn morning… and I stayed up for this shitty ending," he groaned. "Screw it. I'm sleeping. Gotta get up for work anyway."
Pulling the blanket over his head, he turned to his side and closed his eyes.
The room went silent.
Almost peaceful.
Then—
Ping.
He didn't notice.
The phone lit up again. A new reply blinked on the notification bar.
[AuthorOfTheEnd]: Dear reader… change the story if you want.
The screen began to flicker—once, twice—then pulsed with an eerie glow. Not white. Not yellow.
Blue.
And then—
The room changed.
A soft humming noise echoed from the phone. Thin lines of light stretched from the screen, like glowing vines, spreading across the bed… the walls… the ceiling.
The air itself began to shimmer.
The posters on the wall warped and bled ink. The lightbulb sparked. The edges of the room cracked like glass under pressure.
And still, Shivam slept.
The phone lifted itself off the table, floating in mid-air.
The blue light flared—blinding.
The entire room was swallowed whole.