Darkness was the first thing Kylen remembered.
Not the soft, harmless kind that came with sleep. Not the gentle black behind closed eyes.
This darkness was alive.It crushed. It screamed without sound. It clung to him like wet cloth in winter, seeping into his lungs, into his skull, into places that had never known fear before. His chest felt wrong—hollow and bloated at once, as if something invisible had taken root inside him, pushing and pulling, tearing without leaving a mark.
Then—
A pulse.
Not a heartbeat.
Something else.
Something slower. Colder. Ancient.
When Kylen opened his eyes, the world didn't belong to him.
Above him stretched a ceiling of black stone carved with symbols too sharp to be decoration. The walls glowed faintly red, as if veins pulsed beneath the rock. The air tasted like rust and smoke. There were no torches—only blood-colored crystals sunk into the walls, burning softly like open eyes.
Kylen sucked in a breath.
It came heavier than it should have. Denser. As if the air itself carried weight.
He pushed himself upright and froze.
These weren't his hands.
They were too pale. Touched with gray and blue like old bruises. His fingers were longer than they should have been, his nails slightly darkened. Veins ran beneath his skin like thin threads of shadow. When he pressed a hand to his chest, he felt it immediately—
Muscle.
Dense. Hard.
Not his.
He slid off the bed on unsteady legs.
The floor beneath him wasn't stone.
It was glass.
Black, flawless glass.
Obsidian shaped into a mirror.
And the face that stared back at him was not human.
White hair spilled down his shoulders like bone dust. His eyes were red—not glowing, not bloodshot. Just red. Like that had always been their color.
Two small shapes rose from his forehead. Horns, barely more than curved shadows beneath the skin. Unfinished. Waiting.
There was no scar.
No mark.
No trace of the life he'd lived before.
And stranger still—
There was nothing else.
No warmth. No pressure. No sense of anything burning beneath his skin.
An empty house.
A laugh cut through the silence.
Low. Amused.
"Look at him," a voice said behind him.
Kylen turned.
Three demons filled the doorway. Tall. Thick-horned. Dressed in dark armor that looked more grown than forged. Their eyes glowed yellow with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"He's breathing like livestock," one of them said.
Kylen felt something settle over him then.
Not fear.
Awareness.
The way one becomes aware of a knife on a table.
He wasn't being looked at like an enemy.
Or even like a person.
He was being looked at like an object.
Then a fist came out of nowhere and slammed into his face.
Kylen hit the wall hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.
Another blow followed.
Then another.
Laughter filled the room.
"Get up, Third Prince," one of them sneered. "Your body's not soft enough to die yet, is it?"
The words hurt more than the fists.
Useless.
The word dug into him like a blade and twisted.
And then memories hit him.
Not gently. Not in fragments.
They crashed.
Images. Names. Faces.
A childhood that wasn't his but burned in his skull like it was.
He remembered the name.
Kylen.
The third son.
The discarded one.
The mistake.
The Demon King's shame.
And then another name surfaced.
Dekill.
King of demons. Tyrant. Conqueror. A crown made of silence and bone.
This wasn't his world.
This was Althing.
A world carved into five territories and ruled not by maps—but by blood.
Five continents.
Five powers.
No peace.
No mercy.
The Human Kingdom, ruled by King Asmon, protected by Gods who demanded worship like payment. Their streets gleamed. Their knights prayed. Their faith burned anything that didn't fit.
The Beast Kingdom, broken into five clans—Lion, Wingman, Wolf, Dragon, Bear. A land of instinct. The weak weren't spared.
They were eaten.
The Necromancer Kingdom, led by the Undead King. Where death worked and life paid rent.
Skeletons walked.
The living begged for the same privilege.
The Insect Clan, ruled by Spider Queen Resol, her cities made of silk and bone. Loyalty taught through venom. Love replaced with hunger.
And finally—
The Demon Kingdom.
The western empire.
Dekill's throne.
Built on fear.
Kept alive by it.
Dekill didn't rule by defense or ambition.
He ruled by ego.
Cities burned because he was bored.
Nations crumbled because they hesitated.
Blood flowed because he liked the way it looked.
He carved his name into the world and called it history.
And now—
Every kingdom was watching.
Waiting.
Calculating.
They would form an alliance.
Kylen knew it.
And when they did, the Demon Kingdom wouldn't be defended.
It would be erased.
The guards dragged him through endless black corridors.
No ceremony.
No dignity.
He was thrown into the throne room like trash.
The hall was vast beyond reason. Pillars fashioned from demon bone rose until they disappeared into darkness. A black flame burned behind the throne, devouring light instead of giving it.
And sitting above it was Dekill.
He wasn't enormous.
He wasn't monstrous.
He didn't need to be.
His presence alone made the air heavy, like standing at the bottom of the sea. His eyes were empty red rings that swallowed light whole.
Two figures stood beneath him.
Kylen's brothers.
Darien.
The firstborn.
Built like war itself.
Scars lined his body like trophies. His horns curved ahead like drawn blades. Gold burned in his eyes. Soldiers followed him for no reason other than instinct.
The Sword Demon.
Then Kaisen.
Second son.
Tall. Lean. Smiling like he was always in on a joke the world wasn't allowed to hear. His horns curved back elegantly, like a crown. Black robes clung to him, stitched with symbols that whispered if you stared too long.
The Schemer.
The Whisperer.
Deals died in his mouth.
Kings bled from his voice.
And then there was Kylen.
Standing empty.
Dekill stared at him.
Not with anger.
Not with hatred.
With nothing.
"You're late."
Kylen bowed his head.
"I… was summoned."
Dekill studied him for a moment longer.
Then waved him away.
"Leave."
Darien laughed.
Kaisen smiled thinly.
"Father," Darien said, "don't you even want to test him?"
Dekill's eyes flicked toward his eldest.
"Test what?" he said calmly. "He has no presence. No strength. No value."
The words were simple.
Final.
Something inside Kylen went very still.
This man would never care.
Never see him.
Never protect him.
When war came—
He would be the first to be thrown into it.
Kylen spoke before he realized he was going to.
"What will you do when they unite against us?"
Silence.
Dekill's attention sharpened.
"They?"
Kylen's throat tightened.
"The other kingdoms. They're afraid of you. They hate you. They will band together."
Dekill let out a soft, dry laugh.
"Let them."
Kylen lifted his head.
"And when they succeed?"
Dekill's eyes hardened.
"They won't."
Kylen's voice dropped.
"They will. You've killed too freely. Burned too much. Soon, the only thing left worth killing will be you. And when fear grows large enough, even kings begin to cooperate."
Darien snarled.
"Careful, mutt."
Kaisen stepped forward, voice silky.
"You suddenly think you're wise?"
Dekill rose from his throne.
The pressure hit Kylen like gravity tripled.
Then—
Stillness.
Dekill stood in front of him.
"You think you see the future?"
Kylen shook slightly.
"No."
Dekill's voice lowered.
"You see weakness. Because you are weak."
He turned away.
"You'll die in the first wave… like all the useless."
And that was it.
He was dismissed.
Not as a son.
Not as a prince.
As refuse.
The abuse never stopped.
Every hour found a new form.
Darien shattered his ribs during training and laughed.
Kaisen twisted words into nooses and placed them around Kylen's neck just to watch him choke.
Servants forgot him.
Guards tripped him.
His sister wouldn't look at him.
At night, he bled alone.
By morning, he rose to do it again.
Until one night—
Something inside him broke.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Pain became… distant.
Not gone.
Observed.
Then came the thought.
Not violent.
Not sudden.
Certain.
This kingdom is already dead.
Not because of war.
Because of the man on the throne.
Then another.
I either die with it…
…or I change it.
But kingdoms like this didn't change.
They rotted.
And rot was not cured.
It was cut out.
Kylen whispered into the dark:
"I will destroy this throne."
Not for power.
Not for revenge.
For survival.
For the unseen.
For the soldiers who died for nothing.
For the children born into cruelty as law.
For himself.
He wouldn't inherit this kingdom.
He would erase it—
And from the broken crown, build something new.
Not a demon empire.
A nation beyond such names.
Where power served something greater than hunger.
Where strength meant shelter.
Where death was not spectacle.
And if the world called him monster—
So be it.
Better a monster who built somethingthan a king who rotted everything.
Kylen closed his eyes.
And the darkness did not take him.
It answered.
Not as a cage.