The storm tore through the village of Lorynth like a predator, relentless and unforgiving. Rain battered the brittle wooden rooftops, and jagged streaks of lightning painted the sky crimson. In a small, dilapidated hut at the village's edge, screams—human and otherwise—intertwined. A child was born.
The midwife's hands shook as she wrapped the newborn in ragged cloth. His skin was pale, almost translucent, yet his cry pierced through the storm like a blade. The villagers outside whispered, their words carrying fear and superstition.
"Born under the red storm… the devil walks among us," one muttered.
Kael's parents, humble farmers who had prayed for a child for years, did not flinch. They only stared, a mixture of awe and dread painting their faces. They did not yet know that their son carried the soul of a being once feared across worlds—a devil king named Azrael.
The boy's eyes opened, deep and unsettling, reflecting the lightning that split the sky. The midwife stepped back, instinctively shielding herself.
"Something is… not right," she whispered.
Kael did not yet understand the significance of his existence. The villagers would not know for years. They would only see the oddities—a bird falling mid-flight near him, shadows seeming to linger longer where he walked, animals instinctively avoiding his presence.
By the age of five, Kael's awareness of the world was unlike any other child's. He watched, observed, and memorized everything with an intensity that unnerved even his parents. He spoke little, but when he did, it was with a clarity and wisdom far beyond his years.
At night, Kael often awoke in the dark, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. The whispers came then, voices older than the stars themselves, dripping with malice and authority.
"I remember… I remember everything," they hissed.
At first, Kael did not understand. The memories were fragmented—images of fire, blood, and a throne forged from the bones of his enemies. He remembered being feared, worshiped, hated. But most of all, he remembered betrayal.
He did not yet know the names of those who had wronged him, nor the precise methods of their deceit, yet the rage was already forming, a slow-burning fire inside his chest. Even as a child, Kael understood that he had been robbed—not merely of life, but of dominion, of power, of a future he had ruled by right.
By ten, Kael's abilities had begun to manifest in ways that terrified those around him. A bully at school would trip over invisible roots, breaking an arm. A blacksmith's metal would warp under his unintentional touch. And one night, when a pack of wolves encroached near his home, Kael's anger surged uncontrollably for the first time. Shadows stretched from his body, dark tendrils that struck and scattered the wolves, leaving them dead before the village could even see them.
Kael did not rejoice in these acts. There was no childish glee, no sense of accomplishment. Only a growing, icy resolve. Every act of destruction, every flash of unnatural power, was a reminder: he was not meant to be human.
His adoptive parents tried to shield him, to teach him compassion and restraint. But even they could not deny the aura that clung to him—a shadow of the old king, a hint of the devil he had once been.
One evening, as the sun bled red across the horizon, Kael wandered to the edge of the village, staring at the darkened forest beyond. A voice, familiar and commanding, whispered in his mind.
"They will kneel. They will burn. They will remember the name Azrael."
Kael's small fists clenched at his sides. His human body, fragile and vulnerable, could not yet enact that revenge. But his mind, sharp and cold, began to plan. Every detail of his mortal life became a tool, a stepping stone for the inevitable return.
The villagers noticed the change in him. Children who had once dared to tease or harm him now avoided his gaze. Adults, even those with hardened hearts, felt a chill when he passed. Some spoke of curses; others simply whispered prayers for protection. Kael, however, felt nothing but anticipation.
School, chores, and play—these were distractions for him. He observed the world with the patience of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Each injustice, each slight or humiliation he suffered, was cataloged, analyzed, and stored in memory. In his dreams, he walked through flames, commanding legions of shadows, his enemies prostrate before him, trembling. And each night, he awoke more certain that he would rise again.
Kael's first conscious act of power came on a night stormed over by lightning even fiercer than the one at his birth. A traveling sorcerer had entered the village, seeking to exploit the rumors of the boy who carried an ancient curse. He cornered Kael in the forest, chanting incantations meant to bind the child's soul.
Kael felt the surge of magic touching him and, instinctively, unleashed a fragment of his dormant power. Shadows erupted from the earth, twisting around the sorcerer like living chains. The man screamed as the darkness tightened, and by the time Kael released him, the sorcerer was unconscious, his hair turned white as snow.
From that moment, Kael knew two truths: he could not remain in Lorynth forever, and he could not allow anyone to control him. His soul, reborn into a fragile human shell, was more dangerous than anyone could imagine—and one day, the world would tremble at his name.
Rain continued to lash the village, lightning still tearing across the sky. In the small hut where he had been born, Kael stood at the doorway, staring at the horizon. The wind carried the scent of wet earth and storm, but in his mind, he smelled something far darker: the promise of revenge.
And so, the devil king had returned—not in power, not yet in flesh, but in soul. A shadow had been reborn, waiting patiently for the day when it would claim all that was stolen and punish those who dared defy it.
Kael turned from the village and walked into the forest, the shadows clinging to him as if they recognized their master. He did not look back. The world had wronged him once. Soon, it would learn the true meaning of fear.