The throne room was vast and hollow, its black stone walls swallowing sound. Torches burned with crimson flame, their glow warping shadows into monstrous shapes that crawled across the floor. In that silence, every breath felt deafening.
At the far end sat the Demon King. His throne of obsidian stretched high, jagged like a crown carved from the earth itself. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark, fixed on the small boy who stood before him.
"Asura," his voice rumbled, deep enough to shake the pillars, "did you awaken the Abyssal Behemoth?"
The words hit harder than any sword.
Asura stood at the center of the hall, golden eyes flickering wide, his hands curling and uncurling. The emptiness of the chamber magnified every sound, every silence, until his own heartbeat thundered in his ears. He forced a laugh, too sharp, too nervous, rubbing the back of his head.
"M–Me? No way! I'm just a kid, Grandfather. I don't even know what a Behemoth is!"
No reaction.
The Demon King didn't move, didn't blink, but his presence swelled. An oppressive aura rolled from his throne like a wave, pressing the air heavy against Asura's chest. His knees buckled, but he fought to stay standing.
The silence grew suffocating.
Asura's grin faltered. His stomach churned, fear whispering that he could keep lying, keep pretending, slip away. But another voice—a deeper, sharper one—burned in his chest.
Lies wouldn't change what happened. Lies wouldn't erase the image of the Behemoth's blazing eyes. Lies wouldn't make him stronger.
His fists clenched. His golden eyes hardened.
"…Fine."
The single word cracked the silence.
"Yes," Asura said, louder now, each syllable sharp. "It was me. I fought it. I hurt it. But…" His small hands trembled, nails digging into his palms. "…I couldn't win. I had to run."
The admission rang through the hall like a bell tolling for war.
For a long, suffocating moment, the King said nothing. His aura pressed harder, daring Asura to regret the truth.
Then, slowly, the Demon King rose. His massive frame loomed like a storm given flesh, each step down from the throne shaking the ground. He stopped before Asura, towering over him like a mountain.
"You faced a World Boss," the King rumbled, "at four years old." His lips curled into a dangerous grin. "And you lived to tell me so."
Asura's chest tightened. He couldn't read the King's expression—was it fury, disbelief, or something far worse?
But when the King placed a clawed hand on his grandson's shoulder, the weight was not punishment. It was recognition.
"You are reckless. Foolish. And arrogant beyond measure," the King growled. His golden eyes burned brighter. "…But you are also my blood."
Asura's breath hitched.
"To stand before the Abyssal Behemoth and leave a scar upon it…" The King's grin widened, sharp as fangs. "That is no weakness. That is proof of strength."
"You're… not angry?" Asura whispered, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.
The Demon King's laughter shook the chamber, booming like thunder against the walls. "Angry? No. I am proud." His claws tightened slightly on Asura's shoulder. "You carry fire in your veins, boy. Defiance in your eyes. That is the mark of a true demon."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low growl that vibrated through the stone.
"Remember this, Asura. Weakness is not in losing. Weakness is in refusing to rise again."
Asura's golden eyes widened, his chest swelling with something that burned hotter than fear. A fire he couldn't name, but one that felt like destiny.
The King's laughter echoed once more as he turned back toward his throne, his voice carrying like a decree:
"One day, you will not flee from monsters."
He looked over his shoulder, golden eyes blazing.
"One day, monsters will flee from you."
And for the first time, Asura dared to believe him.
✦ Selene's Worry
The castle corridors whispered like restless ghosts.
Everywhere Selene passed, voices clung to the walls—maids murmuring behind half-closed doors, knights speaking in hushed tones, officials exchanging worried glances as if the very air might betray them.
"…The prince has been summoned privately."
"Only him? Not even the generals were permitted inside?"
"They say His Majesty questioned him… about the Behemoth."
The name alone sent shivers through the hall. Behemoth. Even whispered, the word carried dread.
Selene's steps faltered, the tray in her hands rattling softly against its edge. She steadied it quickly, bowing her head as she passed the gossiping servants, her face schooled into calm. But her heart beat like a war drum.
So. It has already come to this.
She quickened her pace, though she could not have said why. The Demon King's summons was absolute. No one entered the throne room unbidden. Yet the thought of Asura standing alone beneath that vast ceiling, with those golden eyes burning down upon him, clawed at her chest.
Her slippers whispered across the stone as she reached the great doors of the throne hall. The guards stood like statues, halberds crossed, eyes fixed ahead. Selene slowed, pretending to adjust the tray, her violet gaze flicking toward the heavy obsidian panels.
Not a sound escaped. But she did not need to hear the words to imagine the exchange.
She saw it in her mind: the boy standing at the foot of the throne, golden eyes darting, lips curling in a nervous smile as he tried to bluff his way out of judgment. She could almost feel the King's aura pressing down on him, suffocating, daring him to break.
Her chest tightened.
She remembered too vividly the night she had carried him back from the ruins of the courtyard. His body had been small and fever-hot in her arms, his breath ragged, his golden glow flickering like a candle in the wind. He had murmured in his sleep, words that chilled her even now. Stronger… next time.
That night, she had sworn silently: she would protect him, not just as her master, not as heir, but as the boy who stubbornly laughed even when bruised and broken.
Now the Demon King himself was testing him against monsters.
Selene closed her eyes, fingers tightening around the tray until her knuckles whitened.
The world would call Asura genius. They would call him heir. One day, they might call him calamity. But she had seen the boy who smeared jam on his face and declared his sword a "pillow." She had seen the child hiding behind innocence, even as his golden eyes glowed with impossible resolve.
If His Majesty sees him only as a weapon… then I must be the one who sees him as a child.
Her breath trembled, but her expression never shifted. She bowed slightly as a group of nobles swept past, their whispers following like trailing shadows.
"The prince has defied fate itself."
"Perhaps he is dangerous…"
"Or perhaps… he is our salvation."
Selene kept walking. She did not look back.
For all their whispers, only she had carried him in her arms. Only she had seen his tears. Only she knew the warmth of his fragile heartbeat against her chest.
And so her silent vow crystallized as she moved through the shadowed halls.
If the world sees you as calamity, I will still call you Asura. If your grandfather sees you as a weapon, I will still guard your humanity. And if you fall—whether from pride, power, or despair—then I will be the one to catch you.
Her violet eyes hardened, determination glinting like steel behind their softness.
Loyalty to the throne was expected. Service to the King was demanded. But her heart had already chosen.
Not to the crown. Not to the realm.
But to him.
The boy who dreamed of more.
✦ After the Audience
The great obsidian doors shut with a low, resonant boom.
The sound rolled down the corridor like thunder. Asura stood just beyond them, shoulders hunched, the edges of his robe brushing the floor. His golden eyes gleamed in the torchlight, but his face was drawn tight. For a moment, he looked far smaller than the grandson of the Demon King.
Selene stepped forward from the shadows. She had been waiting there all along, her hands folded neatly in front of her, tray long since abandoned.
"Young master," she said gently, bowing her head.
Asura flinched. Then, as if yanked by an invisible string, he spun on his heel, flashing a grin far too wide for the moment.
"Oh, Selene! Fancy seeing you here. Don't look so worried—I'm fine! Totally fine. Nothing happened."
His hands waved dramatically in front of him, his voice louder than normal, echoing against the silent hall. The grin on his face stretched like a mask, and Selene could see the cracks forming with every exaggerated gesture.
She said nothing. She only studied him, her violet eyes calm, steady.
"See?" Asura insisted, puffing out his chest. "Still standing. No singed hair. No missing horns. Grandfather just wanted to… talk. Normal family chat. You know, demon king stuff." He forced a laugh, too sharp, too quick.
Selene walked closer. Her slippers made no sound on the stone floor. She knelt so her gaze was level with his, reaching up to brush a lock of silver hair from his forehead.
"You're trembling," she said quietly.
Asura froze. His grin faltered, eyes darting away. "…No I'm not."
Her hand lingered against his temple. She could feel it—the faint, uneven thrum of his pulse, the residual quiver running through his small frame.
"Grandfather just… asked me some things," Asura muttered, his voice softer now. "It wasn't… it wasn't that bad."
But Selene had served nobles long enough to know when words were hollow.
She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You don't have to tell me what he said. But you should not pretend it was nothing. Not with me."
Asura's lips parted. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to argue, to conjure another excuse, another joke. But her eyes held him still. They weren't sharp, like the King's. They were steady, warm, like the flame of a candle that refused to be snuffed out.
"…It's harder than I thought," he whispered. The words slipped out, raw and unguarded.
Selene's chest tightened. She lowered her hand to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "That's why you don't have to carry it alone," she said. "Not while I am here."
Asura blinked up at her, golden eyes glimmering. His throat worked as if he wanted to speak, but no sound came. The grin he had worn minutes ago was gone. In its place was a boy—just a boy—whose pride was heavier than his small frame could bear.
Silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable.
Then, abruptly, Asura straightened, puffing out his chest again, forcing the fire back into his gaze. "Still! I'll show him. I'll show everyone! Next time, I won't run."
Selene smiled faintly, though the shadow in her eyes lingered. She bowed her head slightly, her voice softer than his, but sharper in its conviction. "Then I will be there, young master. Even if the whole world is against you."
His grin froze. His golden eyes widened, stunned.
For once, Asura—clever, quick-witted, sharp-tongued—had no reply. He only stared at her, silent, as though trying to memorize her words.
And Selene, seeing that silence, knew she had reached him.
She adjusted the collar of his robe, smoothing it down with a tenderness she reserved for no one else. "Come, it's late. Rest while you can. Tomorrow, you will fight your battles again."
Asura's throat tightened. He nodded, slowly.
He turned away, walking down the corridor with renewed determination, but his steps no longer dragged.
And Selene followed in silence, her vow echoing in her heart.
Not to the throne. Not to the realm. Not even to the Demon King.
Her loyalty belonged only to him.
✦ The Demon King's Reflection
The throne room stood empty, yet it was heavier than before.
The obsidian doors had closed on Asura's retreating figure, sealing the boy's presence away. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, broken only by the faint crackle of crimson torches mounted along the walls. Their light painted the King's figure in shades of fire and shadow, his massive frame unmoving upon the throne.
He leaned one clawed hand against the armrest, his golden eyes burning faintly in the dim. But their fire was not turned outward to terrify ministers or enemies. It was turned inward, searching, weighing.
He admitted it.
The boy had stood before him—small, trembling, yet with golden eyes that dared to meet his own. The words still lingered, sharp and fragile all at once. Yes, I fought it. Yes, I scarred it. But I could not win. I ran.
The memory made his chest rumble with a sound not quite laughter. It was a tangled thing, pride and worry woven into a single note.
Four years old. Just a child. Yet already bold enough to challenge the Abyssal Behemoth, one of the eight terrors of legend. Already strong enough to wound it, reckless enough to test his limits against the impossible, and wise—or desperate—enough to retreat.
No ordinary child could have done such a thing. No ordinary heir.
But Asura was not ordinary.
And when the Demon King had looked into those golden eyes, he had seen more than just potential. He had seen her.
His daughter.
Her fire. Her stubbornness. The way she had once stood in this very hall, hands on her hips, glaring up at him without fear. The way she had laughed even when the world pressed down upon her. The way she had defied him and yet loved him in the same breath.
The boy carried it all. Her golden gaze, her reckless courage, her warmth.
The ache struck deep.
The Demon King leaned forward, claws digging into the armrest. The obsidian cracked beneath his grip, splinters of stone falling like dust.
He had buried those feelings long ago, sealed them away in the same coffin that carried her body to the earth. For centuries he had ruled without softness, without hesitation. He had been king, tyrant, executioner. Mercy was weakness. Compassion dulled claws. Love blinded rulers.
But here, in this boy, that coffin cracked open.
The truth gnawed at his heart, raw and undeniable: I love this child.
It was not weakness. No—he realized now, with a clarity that shook him to his bones—it was strength. It was purpose. Without it, demons were nothing but beasts gnawing at each other's bones. Without it, his daughter's memory was dust. Without it, Asura would walk alone into a destiny too vast for him to carry.
The King's golden eyes flared brighter, molten with conviction.
"You are her son" he murmured into the silence, his voice low but resonant, "and you are my grandson. I will not let this world break you. Not while I still draw breath."
The torches along the walls roared higher, their flames twisting unnaturally as if answering his vow. Shadows writhed, stretching long and thin across the walls, bowing toward the throne.
His chest rose and fell with a breath that felt heavier than any war he had fought. For centuries he had carried the realm by himself, crushing traitors, silencing dissent, holding the border against angels and humans alike. He had been survival incarnate, the will of the demons made flesh.
But now, for the first time in an age, he felt something else.
Hope.
Hope carried not in his armies, not in his throne, but in the small boy with golden eyes who reminded him of a daughter long lost.
He leaned back, the obsidian seat groaning beneath his massive frame. His grin was not cruel, not sharp, but rare—softer, unguarded.
"As long as I live," he whispered, "you will not walk this path alone."
The hall quaked faintly, as if the world itself bent beneath his words.
And so he sat—ruler and tyrant, grandfather and guardian. Watching, waiting, swearing silently that the boy who bore his blood and his daughter's fire would not face destiny unarmed.
If Asura was to become the dawn of a new age, then the Demon King would be his shield.
✦ The Training Montage Begins
The days that followed blurred into something both ordinary and extraordinary. Ordinary in their rhythm—morning drills, evening practice, midnight meditations. Extraordinary in their results.
The courtyard had become Asura's world. From dawn until dusk, its stones rang with the sound of a wooden katana slicing air. Sweat slicked his silver hair, soaking into his robe. His small hands blistered, callouses forming where smooth skin should have been. Yet his grin never faded.
Selene never left his side. At first, it was fear that kept her there—fear of finding him collapsed and broken again, as she had that night in the ruins of the yard. But as the days stretched, fear became something else: a silent awe, a quiet respect. She had seen knights train for decades and never advance this quickly. But Asura… Asura was different.
Every swing lit up his system.
[EXP Gained: +100]
Swordsmanship Lv. 9 → Lv. 10.
[EXP Gained: +250]
Swordsmanship Lv. 10 → Lv. 11.
[EXP Gained: +400]
Swordsmanship Lv. 11 → Lv. 12.
The numbers danced before his eyes, brighter with every cut, every bead of sweat. At first, Asura blinked in disbelief.
"…Wait… I gain EXP just by training!?" he blurted out.
The courtyard fell silent. Selene froze mid-step, clutching the cloth she had been holding to wipe his brow. Her violet eyes widened with alarm.
"Young master! What happened? Did you overdo it again?" She rushed forward, kneeling in front of him, hands already glowing faintly with healing mana. "Your body is trembling—please, you must stop before—"
Asura panicked. He hadn't meant to shout. Quickly, he plastered on the most innocent grin he could muster and flopped onto the ground like a lazy child.
"Nooo, I'm fine! Totally fine!" he said, waving his arms. "I just… uh… got excited! Look, Selene!" He held up the wooden katana like a toy prize. "I swung super-duper fast! Isn't that cool?"
Selene blinked at him, torn between relief and exasperation. Her lips pressed into a line, then softened as she brushed a lock of damp silver hair from his forehead.
"…You are reckless," she murmured, though her voice carried a strange tenderness.
"Reckless but fine!" Asura chirped, puffing his chest. "See? No collapsing today. Just… super strong!" He flexed his thin little arm for effect, and though it barely showed, the way he smiled melted her worry.
Still, she hovered closer after that, refusing to let him push too far.
But Asura knew the truth. Inside, his heart hammered with exhilaration. Every ding of the system, every surge of experience, was proof. He wasn't just training blindly—he was leveling up. Faster than he'd ever thought possible.
✦ Breakthroughs
The third night came like a storm. The courtyard glowed faintly under the moonlight, its stones already scarred by days of Asura's relentless training. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, golden eyes gleaming as if reflecting the stars themselves.
He raised his wooden katana, inhaling deeply. His lungs filled with mana, his breath glowing faintly, spilling motes of light into the night air.
"Elemental Breathing—Fusion Style!"
The words tore from his lips, and the world shifted. Fire, lightning, shadow, and wind danced together in his stance. When he swung, the air exploded in a rainbow arc of raw power. Sparks burst skyward, stone cracked open, and even the torches along the courtyard wall guttered in shock.
The system screamed in his ears:
Unique Skill Created: Elemental Breathing – Fusion Style.
[EXP Gained: +1,500]
Class Acquired – Arc Swordsman.
(Hybrid Class: Merges physical mastery with elemental adaptation.)
Asura's golden eyes widened. His small chest heaved, and then—
"YESSSS!" he shouted, jumping into the air, his katana raised high. "I did it! I really did it!" His laughter rang across the courtyard, wild and unrestrained. "Arc Swordsman! Hah! I knew it! I knew I was amazing!"
Selene, who had been watching cautiously from the edge of the courtyard, froze. Her heart clenched. He wasn't just celebrating a good swing or a burst of mana—he was cheering as though he had touched something extraordinary. Something… unheard of.
"…Young master," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What did you just say?"
Asura spun toward her, cheeks flushed with excitement. For a split second, he almost blurted out the truth about his system. But he caught himself just in time, biting his tongue.
Instead, he grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "Uh… I think I got… a class?"
Selene's eyes widened further. "…A class? At your age?"
Children didn't awaken classes until at least twelve. Some had to wait until sixteen. And many trained their whole lives for something barely above common.
But this boy…
Selene's hands trembled as she pulled a small object from the satchel at her waist—a crystal orb bound in silver runes. It pulsed faintly with dark red light.
"Then… let us be certain," she said softly.
Asura blinked. "…What's that?"
"A Class Orb," she explained. "A relic used to determine the path one has awakened. Every noble child is tested at age ten. But… if you truly have awakened early, this will prove it."
She knelt, holding the orb before him. "Place your hand upon it."
Asura's heart thumped in his chest. Slowly, carefully, he pressed his small palm against the cool surface.
The orb flared instantly, runes blazing brighter than Selene had ever seen. The red light twisted, then split into streaks of blue, gold, and black. The courtyard bathed in its glow.
Letters carved themselves across the orb's surface.
Class Identified: Arc Swordsman.
Selene gasped aloud, nearly dropping it. "…Arc… Swordsman? That's… That's not possible."
She seen knights, mages, and assassins train—but never, never had she heard of such a class. The hybridization alone was beyond rare. The word "Arc" was something she had only ever read about in myth.
Her violet eyes flicked to the boy, who stood grinning, golden eyes wide with excitement. He looked every bit the child—beaming, flushed, trembling with joy. But the truth that hung in the air was anything but childish.
"Young master…" she whispered, voice shaking. "You have done something this world has never seen."
Asura puffed his chest, still playing his role. "Hehe… told you I was strong!" He flexed his skinny arm, wobbling a little as if his strength were still that of a boy. "But don't worry, Selene. I'm fine. I'm not gonna fall over this time!"
Her hands tightened on the orb. Relief battled with terror in her chest. He was too powerful, too early. And yet—when she saw him beam at her like a mischievous child, she couldn't bring herself to scold him.
Instead, she whispered the truth she could no longer hold back. "…Then the Demon King was right. You really are destined for something greater."
Asura grinned wider, hiding the storm of thoughts racing behind his eyes.
Arc Swordsman. A class this world doesn't even understand yet. And it's mine.