The battlefield was silent.
Corpses littered the broken earth — demons, monsters, even gods — slain by a single man's hand.
The skies were blackened by the blood of angels.
The ground trembled beneath the pressure of one.
At the center stood Adexander — the Crimson King — drenched in blood, but unbowed.
His sword, Crimson Devourer, still hummed with the power of a thousand kills.
He had done it.
The war was over.
The heavens and the underworld both knelt before him.
Around him, his most trusted — generals, comrades, even friends — approached.
Their faces masked in solemnity.
He turned to them, speaking little, but his voice carried the weight of mountains.
> "It's finished. The world is ours."
Silence answered him.
Then...
A blade pierced his back.
His crimson eyes widened — not in fear, but in bitter, ancient disappointment.
He turned slightly.
It was Kael'Rith — once his sword brother — who twisted the blade deeper, his face a mask of regret.
Behind him, Velessia, the one who had fought by his side through hell and back, raised a staff shimmering with betrayal magic.
The others — countless others — drew weapons.
All aimed at him.
A chorus of treachery.
> "Forgive us, Crimson King," whispered Velessia, voice trembling. "The world cannot endure your reign."
Adexander did not scream.
He did not rage.
He smiled — a slow, cruel smile.
> "Endure?" he rasped, blood dripping from his lips. "You were too weak to endure my kindness."
They attacked all at once.
Blades, magic, divine judgment — all crashing down on him.
The heavens split.
The world wept.
But Adexander — even as he was torn apart — even as his life drained from him —
refused to kneel.
He glared at them through broken vision.
> "Crimson never falls," he whispered.
> "Crimson never bows."
> "Crimson... always... ascends."
As his final breath left him, the sky turned crimson.
And deep within his shattered soul, something ancient stirred.
A magic older than gods.
A curse placed by himself, long ago.
The Curse of Regression.
> "If I fall... send me back."
"Give me another chance. In fire. In blood. In fury."
The world blurred.
Reality cracked.
Adexander's soul was ripped from his broken body, spiraling backward —
through time —
through death —
through betrayal.
---
When he opened his eyes again —
He was lying in a dirty alley.
Rain dripped onto his face.
His body — weak, thin, bruised — was no longer the body of the Crimson King.
It was young.
Vulnerable.
A peasant's child, barely of age.
Mocking laughter echoed nearby.
> "Oi, look at this trash! Still alive somehow? Thought we beat him dead yesterday!"
"Hah! Little worm don't know when to quit. Should've stayed dead, freak!"
Ragged boots kicked him.
He felt the pain sharply.
But inside — deep inside —
there was only a cold, cruel joy.
The fools didn't know.
This body was small.
This body was weak.
But he... was still Adexander.
He pushed himself up slowly, blood running down his mouth.
The bullies sneered, stepping closer to beat him down again.
He lifted his head.
His crimson eyes glowed faintly under the rain.
They froze, mid-step — an animal fear crawling up their spines.
> "You think I'm weak."
"Good."
He smiled — the smile of a king who had once slain gods.
> "Stay alive a little longer."
He stood fully now, even as blood dripped from his mouth, even as his body screamed.
> "I want you to see what true fear is."
The bullies, faces pale, stumbled back without understanding why.
Adexander staggered forward —
not because he was weak —
but because the chains of this feeble flesh had not yet been broken.
But they would be.
Soon.
And when they were —
This world would burn in the crimson flame of his rebirth.