A boy with golden blonde hair stood alone, facing a towering demon that loomed over ten meters tall.
The battlefield was scorched and trembling under the weight of its presence. Wind howled across the barren plains, carrying the scent of ash and blood.
His sword trembled slightly in his grip—not from fear, but from the exhaustion of battle. Around him, the remnants of a shattered squad lay unconscious or worse. He had pushed himself beyond his limit. Yet, something deeper surged within.
He tightened his grip on the hilt and glared at the demon. He wasn't done yet.
Without another thought, he dashed forward.
His aura exploded—wild, untamed, and burning gold.
"Starburst Slash!"
He poured every last drop of strength into that single attack. It was not just a slash—it was a challenge, a roar, a desperate declaration of defiance. Steel collided with flesh. A thunderous crack tore through the air.
Bang!
The sound echoed like a cannon. Dust and smoke enveloped them both.
And then… silence.
When the dust cleared, the demon still stood. His chest bore a fresh, long, gaping wound, oozing dark crimson. The attack had hit. It had injured him.
But he was far from defeated.
The boy, barely able to stand, collapsed to one knee. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Still, he kept his gaze locked on the demon.
The creature looked down at the wound on his chest and finally, finally spoke.
"Impressive. To think a mere human would injure me this deeply." His voice was like gravel soaked in venom—calm but unnervingly deep. "You've earned my attention."
His glowing red eyes pierced into the boy's soul. "I'll have to congratulate you on that. But you're a thousand years too early to challenge me."
The boy watched, dazed, as the demon stepped forward. A wide, old scar stretched diagonally across his body—from the top of his collarbone to his waistline. And now, a fresh wound ran alongside it.
"What kind of monster gave you a scar like that?" the boy muttered. "A wound that never healed...?"
The demon's eyes narrowed. Then, surprisingly, he smiled.
"You asked just the right question."
He chuckled as if remembering something long buried. "That wound… was given to me sixteen years ago."
He paused. "The one who gave it to me… was the only person to have ever brought me to the edge of death."
The demon's gaze became distant, nostalgic even.
"It was his full name that echoed through the Devil's Four Pleaties that day. If not for Salamander... I would have perished.
Even after training to this level I still doubt that I can be his opponent."
He looked back at the boy, his voice turning colder. As if building up suspense he paused and finally voiced
"His full name... was Dale Ritolas Silvearo."
The air shifted.
Even the skies seemed to go quiet at the mention of that name.
The boy's heart pounded. He stood slowly, staring at the scar.
"Dale... Ritolas Silvearo..."
He whispered the name as if it were divine.
A name that echoed through history. A name, even demons, spoke with reverence. A name that had become legend.
"You mean… the man who defeated you all those years ago?" Perclan asked, voice trembling—not with fear, but awe.
The demon nodded.
"You are not him and will never ever reach half of his power."
Perclan clenched his fists. "Of course not. No one could be him. Dale Ritolas Silvearo… even among the Aesters, his name shines too brightly."
He looked at the demon dead in the eye.
"Compared to him, the Aester Council is nothing but candlelight before the sun. He is not merely human… he is a demi-god—a being far beyond anything this world should have birthed."
The demon was silent.
He did not deny it.
Because he couldn't.
That scar... was proof enough.
And yet, something inside Perclan rebelled. Not with fear—but with a dark kind of honour.
"Before you said when you were once a devil of the four pleaties."
Perclan said under his breath, "Why were you using past tense?"
"Your observation skills are very high, as expected of an Aester candidate Do allow me to properly introduce myself."
Exiting his demon form the demon turned into a seemingly humanoid appearance.
He had silver hair that reached his waist and horns that pultruded on his forehead.
A boy with golden blonde hair stood alone, facing a towering demon that loomed over ten meters tall. The battlefield was scorched and trembling under the weight of its presence. Wind howled across the barren plains, carrying the scent of ash and blood.
His sword trembled slightly in his grip—not from fear, but from the exhaustion of battle. Around him, the remnants of a shattered squad lay unconscious or worse. He had pushed himself beyond his limit. Yet, something deeper surged within.
He tightened his grip on the hilt and glared at the demon. He wasn't done yet.
Without another thought, he dashed forward.
His aura exploded—wild, untamed, and burning gold.
"Starburst Slash!"
He poured every last drop of strength into that single attack. It was not just a slash—it was a challenge, a roar, a desperate declaration of defiance. Steel collided with flesh. A thunderous crack tore through the air.
Bang!
The sound echoed like a cannon. Dust and smoke enveloped them both.
And then… silence.
When the dust cleared, the demon still stood. His chest bore a fresh, long, gaping wound, oozing dark crimson. The attack had hit. It had injured him.
But he was far from defeated.
The boy, barely able to stand, collapsed to one knee. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Still, he kept his gaze locked on the demon.
The creature looked down at the wound on his chest and finally, finally spoke.
"Impressive. To think a mere human would injure me this deeply." His voice was like gravel soaked in venom—calm but unnervingly deep. "You've earned my attention."
His glowing red eyes pierced into the boy's soul. "I'll have to congratulate you on that. But you're a thousand years too early to challenge me."
The boy watched, dazed, as the demon stepped forward. A wide, old scar stretched diagonally across his body—from the top of his collarbone to his waistline. And now, a fresh wound ran alongside it.
"What kind of monster gave you a scar like that?" the boy muttered. "A wound that never healed...?"
The demon's eyes narrowed. Then, surprisingly, he smiled.
"You asked just the right question."
He chuckled as if remembering something long buried. "That wound… was given to me sixteen years ago."
He paused. "The one who gave it to me… was the only person to have ever brought me to the edge of death."
The demon's gaze became distant, nostalgic even.
"It was his full name that echoed through the Devil's Four Pleaties that day. If not for Salamander... I would have perished.
Even after training to this level I still doubt that I can be his opponent."
He looked back at the boy, his voice turning colder. As if building up suspense he paused and finally voiced
"His full name... was Dale Ritolas Silvearo."
The air shifted.
Even the skies seemed to go quiet at the mention of that name.
The boy's heart pounded. He stood slowly, staring at the scar.
"Dale... Ritolas Silvearo..."
He whispered the name as if it were divine.
A name that echoed through history. A name, even demons, spoke with reverence. A name that had become legend.
"You mean… the man who defeated you all those years ago?" Perclan asked, voice trembling—not with fear, but awe.
The demon nodded.
"You are not him and will never ever reach half of his power."
Perclan clenched his fists. "Of course not. No one could be him. Dale Ritolas Silvearo… even among the Aesters, his name shines too brightly."
He looked at the demon dead in the eye.
"Compared to him, the Aester Council is nothing but candlelight before the sun. He is not merely human… he is a demi-god—a being far beyond anything this world should have birthed."
The demon was silent.
He did not deny it.
Because he couldn't.
That scar... was proof enough.
And yet, something inside Perclan rebelled. Not with fear—but with a dark kind of honour.
"Before you said when you were once a devil of the four pleaties."
Perclan said under his breath, "Why were you using past tense?"
"Your observation skills are very high, as expected of an Aester candidate Do allow me to properly introduce myself."
Exiting his demon form the demon turned into a seemingly humanoid appearance.
He had silver hair that reached his waist and horns that pultruded on his forehead.
He looked as if he was in his 40s and exuded an otherworldly aura.
But if there was something notable it would be his blood red eyes.
Even in this form the scar left by Dale was visible.
"I am the current patriarch of the Lucifero family, Lazarus Lucifero the fourth Demon King."
The wind paused.
Perclan stood tall despite the blood dripping from his chin. He smiled—not in madness, but in quiet pride.
"To die by your hand… I'll carry that name into the afterlife."
Lazarus tilted his head, considering him.
"You accept death so easily?"
"I don't," Perclan said, lifting his sword one last time. "But if I'm going to fall… it will be with pride."
Lazarus sighed.
He respected that kind of resolve. But mercy was not his nature.
With a swift, clean movement, he vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he appeared behind Perclan.
Slice.
A clean, final cut.
Perclan's head fell, and his body slumped forward with dignity.
The world grew quiet once again.
Lazarus stood still, gazing down at the boy's fallen body.
"That day," he whispered, "was the day Perclan Valliant, second son of House Valliant, died."
The winds carried his name far and wide—echoing it across the world, to every corner that still dared challenge the Demon King.
Lazarus turned, his silver hair dancing in the wind. His crimson eyes burned like dying stars. The fresh wound on his chest still ached—a reminder that fate was never truly quiet.
A new force was rising.
And though Perclan had fallen… Lazarus knew, deep within his old soul, that this was only the beginning.
He looked as if he was in his 40s and exuded an otherworldly aura.
But if there was something notable it would be his blood red eyes.
Even in this form the scar left by Dale was visible.
"I am the current patriarch of the Lucifero family, Lazarus Lucifero the fourth Demon King."
The wind paused.
Perclan stood tall despite the blood dripping from his chin. He smiled—not in madness, but in quiet pride.
"To die by your hand… I'll carry that name into the afterlife."
Lazarus tilted his head, considering him.
"You accept death so easily?"
"I don't," Perclan said, lifting his sword one last time. "But if I'm going to fall… it will be with pride."
Lazarus sighed.
He respected that kind of resolve. But mercy was not his nature.
With a swift, clean movement, he vanished.
In the blink of an eye, he appeared behind Perclan.
Slice.
A clean, final cut.
Perclan's head fell, and his body slumped forward with dignity.
The world grew quiet once again.
Lazarus stood still, gazing down at the boy's fallen body.
"That day," he whispered, "was the day Perclan Valliant, second son of House Valliant, died."
The winds carried his name far and wide—echoing it across the world, to every corner that still dared challenge the Demon King.
Lazarus turned, his silver hair dancing in the wind. His crimson eyes burned like dying stars. The fresh wound on his chest still ached—a reminder that fate was never truly quiet.
A new force was rising.
And though Perclan had fallen… Lazarus knew, deep within his old soul, that this was only the beginning.