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The king of BlackDale

KrazzyKokur
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Synopsis
Gusoyn was the Demon King—the kind of guy who could sneeze and level a kingdom. Heroes from every corner of the world tried to take him down. None succeeded… until his own son showed up and literally stabbed him in the back. Next thing he knew, Gusoyn woke up as a baby in a strange new world—no swords, no dragons, and worst of all… no mana. Just cars, smartphones, homework, and people arguing about taxes. So, he did the unthinkable: he lived a normal life. Now known as Elijah Everstone, he went to school, learned how to use a microwave without burning the house down, and eventually grew kind of fond of this peaceful world. Then one day, everything changed. Mana suddenly came back. People started turning into mages. Animals became monsters. And of course, wannabe world conquerors popped up like mushrooms after rain. But Elijah? He had more important things to deal with—like finishing his chemistry assignment before midnight. Because being a former Demon King is hard. But being a high school student might be harder. A story about second chances, magical chaos, and one ex-Demon King just trying to live a normal human life.
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Chapter 1 - The Fall of Demon King Gusoyn

The battlefield reeked of death and ruin. Before the blackened, blood-soaked gates of his shattered citadel lay the bodies of countless heroes—warriors from every kingdom, summoned champions from distant worlds, and even apostles blessed by the gods themselves. They had all come to claim his life.

Now, every last one of them lay dead.

Demon King Gusoyn stood victorious—but at what cost?

His once-mighty army had been reduced to a fraction of its strength. More than half had perished, and those who remained had scattered like vermin when the tide of battle turned grim. Cowards. He had watched them flee as his wounds worsened, abandoning their king the moment his invincibility faltered.

Gusoyn himself was a ruin. His left arm was gone, his right leg severed. Half of his face had been blasted away, and his body was pierced and torn by a dozen mortal wounds. Throughout the long, brutal conflict, he had been slain multiple times—each time brought back by his regenerative magic. But the heroes had anticipated that. In one final gambit, they performed a desperate ritual, sacrificing one hundred virgin High Priestesses to seal away his regeneration forever.

Only then did they begin to truly wound him.

But still, he endured. Still, he triumphed. When the dust settled, he alone remained standing. A broken king... but a living one.

He gave credit where it was due—the heroes had fought with unshakable will. Not one of them fled, not even at the end. They had battled with honor and fury, facing death without blinking. He could not say the same for his own kin.

The castle that once stood as a monument to his dominion was now a smoldering wreck. The halls were rubble, the towers in ruins, the great gates shattered. Yet amidst the destruction, his throne—the ancient obsidian seat of his rule—remained untouched, defiant against the storm.

Dragging himself forward with the aid of his twisted staff, Gusoyn limped toward the throne. Every movement was agony, but he pressed on. Blood oozed from his wounds. Bones ground beneath torn flesh. At last, with a grunt of effort, he collapsed into the throne, exhaling a breath that sounded like thunder rolling over a dead plain.

"I will survive," he whispered. "A few thousand lesser demons... perhaps even my traitorous generals. Their essence will be enough to restore me. I will rise anew."

Then the world spun.

No—not the world.

His vision shifted, tumbled, rolled. He saw the world from the ground. Saw his own body still seated on the throne, slumped in majesty and defiance.

And behind it stood a familiar figure—his son.

Gosuyn.

The boy—no, the traitor—clutched the demonic sword Discardio, still humming with dark power. Blood dripped from its jagged edge. Gosuyn's laughter echoed through the throne room, shrill and hysterical.

Gusoyn's severed head rolled to a stop, his eyes still open, fixed upon the face of betrayal.

His vision dimmed. The shadows grew deeper.

And in those final moments, one last bitter thought clawed its way to the surface of his fading mind:

"I should never have seeded that treacherous whore."

Oooo

Void.

Emptiness.

Silence deeper than death.

How long had it been? Days? Centuries? An eternity?

Demon King Gusoyn could no longer tell. Time did not exist here. There was no sun to rise, no moon to fall. There was no sky, no earth, no heartbeat, no breath. Nothing but the hollow remnants of a once-mighty will drifting alone in an infinite sea of shadow.

He had no body. No limbs, no eyes, no voice. Just a fractured consciousness—adrift and unanchored. A spark of defiance floating in an ocean of oblivion.

And so he thought.

With nothing else to do, no distraction or tormentor, his mind wandered. It drifted first to the grand chapters of his life—his rise to power, the campaigns of conquest, the day he claimed the title of Demon King. He remembered the battles, the sieges, the endless rivers of blood that carved his name into the bones of the world. He remembered the final war, the heroes, the betrayal. Gosuyn...

And then, his thoughts turned inward—to simpler things.

He chuckled, or rather, the thought of a chuckle echoed inside his formless self. 'The food at my castle… gods, it was awful.' Boiled bone broth, raw meat with blood still steaming, fungus wine that tasted like rot and iron. Once, out of curiosity, he had disguised himself as a traveling merchant and dined in a small human tavern. A meat pie, some roasted vegetables, spiced mead...

'It was divine.'

He had devoured it with tears in his eyes, though none had seen behind the glamour. Compared to that, the cuisine of the underworld was a punishment.

His mind drifted again.

'And the clothes...' Robes woven from demon-silk, adorned with bone and flame—intimidating, yes, but stiff and scratchy. Not even a stitch of comfort. He remembered once watching human nobles dressed in velvet, wool, even enchanted fabrics that breathed with their bodies. Soft. Functional. Comfortable.

'Why?' he wondered.

'Why do they, the weaker race—short-lived, fragile, foolish—create such wonders while we destroy?'

They invented magic to warm their homes in winter and cool them in summer. To light fires with a snap. To clean their bodies, soothe their pains, mend their clothes, even preserve flowers. All this, while the demon realms—vast and majestic—were scorching in the summer, freezing in the winter, and filled with howling wind and stifling darkness.

'They build while we break.'

'They dream while we conquer.'

'How is it that those who live mere decades can imagine more beauty than those who've walked the world for centuries?'

His mind grew quiet for a time, the question echoing through the void like a scream swallowed by fog.

And then... something changed.

A ripple. A pull.

A tear appeared in the darkness.

A fissure of light cracked open in the distance—a radiant wound in the black, spilling golden brilliance into the abyss. It pulsed, beckoning, like the heartbeat of a newborn god.

Gusoyn felt something stir within him. A flicker of instinct. A desperate hope.

'This is it.'

'My chance.'

He willed himself toward it, the formless essence of his being stretching, yearning, clawing toward that single shard of escape. The closer he drew, the more the darkness trembled around him, as if protesting his return. The void had grown fond of him.

But he did not stop.

He surged forward, dragging the weight of his soul through the ink of eternity.

And then—

Light.

Blinding. Pure.

A new beginning... or another trap?

He did not care.

Anything was better than the silence.

Oooo

The first sensation that returned to him after the blinding white was weakness—a frail, limp, and unsettling vulnerability that clung to him like a second skin. His once-mighty form, sculpted from war and hardened by centuries of conquest, was gone. In its place was something soft, slimy, and helpless.

'What… is this?'

Before Gusoyn could gather his thoughts, he became aware of enormous hands cradling his small body. A giant. A human. The realization hit him like a dagger to the pride.

Then came the horror.

He tried to summon his voice, to unleash a command that would melt flesh and crush bones.

"Unhand me, you miserable wretch!" he tried to declare.

But all that came out was a pathetic, breathy gurgle.

The human—tall, broad, wrapped in white cloth stained with sweat—glanced down at him and mumbled something in a language Gusoyn did not understand. It sounded simple. Crude. But filled with concern.

"The child is not crying," the human said, turning Gusoyn over with maddening gentleness.

'Child?' the Demon King thought with creeping dread. 'What nonsense—'

SLAP!

A sharp sting erupted across his bare backside.

It wasn't pain—he knew pain. He had once been cleaved in half during the Siege of Eldford and had not uttered a single scream. He had endured molten iron through the chest and merely laughed. He had been torn apart by celestial swords and clawed his way back from the grave.

But this?

This was humiliation.

The human struck him again, firmer this time.

SLAP!

He wanted to roar. To curse. To burn the world to ash.

SLAP!

That final indignity was too much.

And so, for the first time in countless years, the Demon King Gusoyn let out a scream.

Not of rage.

Not of pain.

A high-pitched, squalling wail.

"There you go," the human said, smiling as if he had performed some noble feat. His voice was gentle, even soothing, as he handed Gusoyn's body—his body!—over to a woman with weary eyes and soft features. She cooed at him as if he were some helpless infant.

And that's when it hit him.

He was an infant.

A baby.

Reincarnated. Reborn.

Powerless.

Naked.

Slapped.

As the humans fussed and wrapped him in cloth, Gusoyn stared at the ceiling with wide, furious eyes, his tiny fists clenched with what little strength he had.

'You wretched beasts may cradle me now…'

'But I am no ordinary child.'

'I am Gusoyn, King of the Abyss, Lord of the Ninth Hell.'

'And I swear—by blood, by fire, by the shattered throne of my past life…'

'You will pay for this disgrace.'