The air tasted like ash and dead gods. Good. Bitterness suited him better than hope ever had.
Two truths clawed at his skull. First: revenge was a corpse with its throat slit. Second: rallying what was left of demon-kind against the human world? Same damn corpse, different funeral.
He snorted—a dry, broken sound. Revenge on the Hero? With this meat-sack of a body? He'd sooner piss into a hurricane and call it a plan. His fists twitched. The Hero's face flickered behind his eyes—smug bastard, golden sword gleaming like a sermon. Later. Later.
As for the Demon World? Gone feral. He knew the drill. Survival of the fattest predators, the hungriest monsters. He'd tried softening those teeth once. Look where it got him: buried in a shallow grave of his own hubris.
"…Pathetic."
The word slithered out before he could choke it down. His voice—what was left of it—rasped like a rusted saw. No echo. No audience. Just the wind gnawing through the trees.
Options? Two. Maybe three if he counted dying.
Option One: crawl back to the Demon World. Black magic thrived there, thick as oil. Recharge his veins. Rebuild. Maybe find a lackey stupid enough to still call him 'King.'
Sure. And then what? Parade your carcass through the wastes so the hellhounds can snack on your pride?
Time was a bastard. A few decades? A century? Who knew. Who cared. The Demon World's atmosphere would crush him like a grape regardless.
He flexed his fingers. Human hands. Weak. Warm. Alive. The irony wasn't funny. It itched .
Metaphors. Always metaphors.
Think of the Demon World as the deep sea. He was a gutted fish gasping on the shore. Or the turtle—useless bastard—stranded between land and drown.
"…Deep sea," he muttered. "Right."
Black magic pooled there like blood in a gutter. To tap it, he'd need gills. Lungs made of iron. A spine forged in hell. What he had instead was a borrowed body, stitched together from scraps and spite.
Option Two: play human. Hide. Hunt. Scrape by on lies and luck.
His lip curled. Humiliation.
The word festered. He spat.
He remembered faces—twisted in death rattle screams. Remembered Margarita's laugh, sharp and sweet, before the Hero's blade carved it into silence.
"…Fucking humans ."
Teeth ground. Jaws ached.
He'd burn their forests. Salt their fields. Carve their cities into tombstones.
When?
The question slithered in, venomous.
Now? Now he was prey. Now he'd beg scraps from the vermin he once ruled.
"…I have no choice."
The admission tasted like poison. Better than pride tasted like rot.
Demon King. Sinner. Fool.
He'd worn all those crowns. Still wore the splinters.
His army—scattered. His generals—dead. His lover—
Margarita.
Her name was a blade. Twisted.
He'd led them all to the slaughter. Let rage, not strategy, dictate his moves. Let the Hero's taunts dig hooks into his gut. Let the Hero—
"…Enough."
Water. Cold. Sour. He drank until his belly churned. Stood.
North. The hunter's village. Small. Weak. Human.
A tree stump's rings pointed the way. Nature's compass. He sneered.
"Like I need guidance ."
The forest thinned. No pursuit. Good.
Two hours. Maybe less.
He moved.
Pain bloomed in his chest—sharp, electric. Lungs too small. Heart too slow.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Human bodies weren't built for his soul. Every step screamed the lie.
Pacing. Short. Jagged.
Survive. Adapt. Bide.
The Hero's face again. Grinning. Laughing.
"…Not yet."
Frost bit his breath. Dawn? Dusk? Who knew. Time's a circle here.
A twig snapped.
He froze.
Eyes. Smell. Taste.
Nothing.
"…Paranoid."
But the forest wasn't empty. It never was.
He'd learned that lesson young. Learned it with a dagger in his ribs and a smile on his face.
"Keep moving."
The village. Two hours.
You'll make it.
He did.
…Until he didn't.