The air in Orba's throne hall tasted like iron.
It always did.
Something about the stone here absorbed blood and never forgot it. The walls bore no decoration, no banners. Not because Orba lacked wealth or ego—but because the Abyss didn't care for beauty. Only power mattered. Only fear endured.
Simon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture steady, breath controlled. He didn't dare show fatigue or hesitation—not here, not under that gaze.
Orba lounged lazily on his throne of black bone, chin resting on one fist, crimson eyes studying Simon the way one appraises a weapon they've personally forged.
Not a subordinate.
Not a companion.
A blade.
A tool.
"Show me your hand," Orba finally said.
Simon obeyed without hesitation.
Orba flicked a finger, and a thread of abyssal flame cut Simon's palm open. The flesh split. Blood spilled. Pain burned up his arm.
Simon did not flinch.
He kept his hand outstretched, jaw clenched but silent.
The wound knit itself slowly—too slowly. It stung. It throbbed. No magic assisted it. This was raw flesh recovering on sheer stubbornness.
Orba watched, amused.
"You once wept from a scratch," the demon king said. "And now you swallow agony like water."
Simon said nothing. Pride was pointless here. Orba didn't reward pride. He rewarded usefulness.
When the wound closed completely, Orba tossed something toward him.
A sword.
It landed at Simon's feet with a dull, heavy thud.
The blade was long, metal so dark it swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Veins of red pulsed faintly along its surface like living blood vessels.
"Pick it up."
Simon kneel-down, fingers brushing the hilt. The weapon felt alive. Whispering. Thrumming. Hungry.
It fed on something—rage? Blood? Will?
He didn't know yet.
"What is this?" Simon asked quietly.
"Amujamu," Orba replied. "A devouring blade. It was forged from the bone marrow of a fallen Abyss Monarch and tempered in the souls of traitors."
Simon lifted the sword. It weighed more than steel should—heavy in both body and meaning. Cold. Unforgiving.
Orba's voice deepened.
"You will learn to kill my kind."
Simon's eyes widened a hair.
"You told me before," Orba continued, rising from his throne, "regeneration is the pride of demonkind." His smirk widened. "Pride is meant to be broken."
He circled Simon like a predator appraising prey. Orba's claws trailed lightly along Simon's shoulder—not affectionate, but measuring muscle density, posture, tension.
"You will master this blade," he said. "You will learn to sever flesh faster than it can knit, to strike illusions before they form, to break bones before they mend."
His breath was a rumble in Simon's ear.
"You will learn to end things that were born to never end."
Simon felt a shiver—not fear, but anticipation mixed with dread.
"I serve," he murmured.
Orba's hand closed around his throat—not choking, only pressing, reminding him how fragile even his hardened flesh was compared to true abyssal might.
"You do not serve," Orba corrected. "You survive. Never confuse the two."
He released him.
Simon inhaled slowly, steadying himself again.
"Today," Orba said, "marks the first of your real trials." His pupils narrowed to slits. "Your training until now has been play."
Simon's spine tensed.
Play? Years of hell, of blood and broken bones, of lost sleep and starvation—play?
But he didn't argue.
The Abyss had no room for disbelief. Only endurance.
Orba stepped away, raising a hand. A swirling vortex of shadow blossomed in his palm, oozing energy like thick tar.
A rift tore open in the floor.
Wind rushed upward, sour and hot, carrying a bestial stink. Roars echoed faintly—feral, savage, mindless.
Demon beasts.
Unlike demons, demon beasts had neither ambition nor speech. They were hunger molded into flesh, rage given muscle, instinct sharpened into fang.
"You will jump," Orba said calmly. "You will land among the Abyssal beasts. You will not die."
His tone made it clear: this was not a command.
It was reality.
Simon gripped Amujamu tighter.
"What is the objective?"
"To live," Orba answered. "Anything more than survival? Consider it a luxury. But know this…"
He leaned close, voice a whisper of thunder.
"If you return without blood on your blade, I will peel your mind apart piece by piece to find where you learned cowardice."
Simon's pulse didn't quicken. Fear dulled after enough repetition. It carved space for thought.
Amujamu pulsed, reacting to his heartbeat.
"Will I face them alone?" Simon asked.
"Of course," Orba said, amused. "Death is a solitary lesson."
Simon didn't respond.
"There is one more thing," Orba murmured. "Regeneration."
Simon stiffened slightly.
"You must learn to interrupt it. Demon beasts heal slower than us, but do not underestimate their pain tolerance. They will fight even with their intestines dragging and their limbs hanging."
He tapped Simon's chest with a claw.
"Kill fast. Or suffer long."
Simon saw it clearly now—this was not punishment. It was not even malice.
It was sharpening.
Grinding a blade against stone until sparks flew.
Orba turned away, cloak dragging like darkness given weight.
"You once thought despair was the bottom," he said, smirking. "How naive. You haven't even glimpsed it yet."
Simon exhaled slowly. Fear sat inside him, coiled like a serpent—but behind it pulsed something stronger.
Resolve.
Not courage. Not heroism.
Just stubborn endurance. The same stubbornness that kept him breathing in the human world when everyone told him to vanish, to quit, to accept failure.
He had survived hopelessness before.
He would again.
Simon stood at the edge of the abyssal pit—black, bottomless, full of guttural snarls and scratching claws.
He looked down.
Shapes moved in the dark. Eyes glowed red, yellow, violet. Rows of teeth gleamed wet and sharp.
He tightened his grip on Amujamu.
The blade whispered hungrily, as if eager to drink, to feast.
Simon whispered back—not to the sword, but to the echo of the person he used to be.
"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing."
Silence answered him. Then he stepped forward. And jumped.
The wind screamed. The world spun. A roar rose from beneath, not one voice but dozens, merging into a single murderous welcome.
Time stretched. Thought stretched. Memories flickered past.
His old bedroom.
His brother's tired smile.
His own pathetic reflection in a cracked mirror.
The first day he woke in Simonstita Aumar's body.
His first kill.
Vala burning.
Orba laughing.
He wasn't falling into death. He was falling into purpose. His feet touched ground.
The darkness roared alive. He lifted Amujamu. And the beasts charged.
The air around Simon vibrated—heavy, thick, and filled with invisible whispers that crawled inside the mind. The Abyss did not simply exist; it fed. It drank fear, devoured hope, and spat out whatever was left of a soul.
Standing on the jagged cliff edge, Simon inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the sword in his hand—Amujamu, the twisted steel that hummed faintly with a hatred not his own. It pulsed with a rhythm… like a heartbeat, corrupted and hungry.
Below him lay the endless pit Orba had commanded him to fall into.
Not jump.
Fall. Like trash tossed away. Like prey sent into the wolf's den.
But before any descent into hell, Simon had to perform the next command:
Show the demon magic you have learned.
And so, with the same emptiness he had learned to survive with, Simon lifted his hand.
The Abyss answered.
Dark mana curled around his fingers like smoke made of shadows and resentment. It twisted, lashed, then stabilized—barely—under his will.
Human magic required incantations, formulas, mental structures.
Demon magic only needed destruction.
To call demon magic, Simon merely touched the familiar void in his chest.
Not rage.
Not hatred.
But emptiness.
The kind of hollow a human shouldn't be able to survive.
Orba once called it "unnatural." An oddity among oddities. A defect even demons found… wrong.
Simon didn't care.
Wrong or not, it worked.
A sound like flesh tearing echoed as blackened veins bulged out under his skin. Breath scraped his throat. Pain burned through his back as bone twisted and flesh split.
Then—
Schrrk.
A wing burst out from his right shoulder, leathery, sharp-edged, and trembling like an infant beast's first breath. The membrane flickered with unstable mana, a creature of will, not nature.
Only one wing. Always only one. A grotesque half-transformation. Didn't wince.
He had long passed the phase where pain mattered.
The single wing rustled weakly, balancing nothing, meaningless as a broken blade. His face remained calm. If anything, the emptiness inside him deepened—more emotionless than when he started.
A living contradiction: desperation without desperation, effort without desire, survival without purpose.
He turned slightly. Orba stood farther up the cliff, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The demon's white hair moved faintly in the wind. Eyes sharper than blades, colder than any depth of the Abyss. Judging. Observing. Calculating.
Finally, Orba spoke.
"You still look pathetic with only one wing, human."
Simon didn't answer.
Orba's lips curved—not with amusement, not anger, but something close to… confusion. A kind of fascinated irritation.
"No shame. No frustration. No fear. You really are broken."
Simon lowered his hand. "Broken things don't feel pressure."
Orba clicked his tongue. "That line makes you sound cool, but you're just miserable."
Simon almost laughed—almost. The sound never left. Instead, he simply let the wing dissolve back into his body, flesh sealing with a soft hiss.
"What is next?" he asked flatly.
Orba pointed downward, toward the lightless chasm. "Survive."
Simon nodded once.
Then he stepped off the cliff.
The world turned into rushing air and cold stone scraping past. He did not scream. He did not brace.
He fell like someone who had already accepted death long ago.
And yet—
he did not fall blindly.
He reached inward, calling the wing again. Bones cracked, skin tore, and the half-formed appendage burst out once more. It flapped—once, twice—desperately attempting to control the fall. It was clumsy, uneven, painful.
Insufficient.
He slammed into a jagged rock outcrop.
Pain shot up his side, ribs snapping, blood spraying from his mouth.
Then more falling.
More stone.
More breaking.
The wing dragged along a cliff wall, ripping skin raw, until—
Impact.
Darkness.
Silence.
Then breath returned.
Pain followed.
And slowly, Simon moved again.
He lay in a cavern glowing faintly with purple-green fungus, casting sickly light on walls covered in claw marks and dried black blood. The sound of dripping echoed, like the Abyss was breathing.
Something moved in the dark.
Then another.
Eyes. Many eyes. Too many.
Demon beasts.
Skin like tar. Mouths too wide, teeth jagged like broken obsidian. Their bodies pulsed with foul energy, the same regenerative pulse Orba warned him of.
The same gift demons boasted.
Simon rose slowly, sword dragging along the ground.
His body trembled. Bones cracked as they reset. Flesh stitched agonizingly slowly. Even now—after all his training—his regeneration was still nothing like a real demon's.
The beasts didn't know mercy or pity. They only knew hunger.
The first lunged.
Simon moved.
Not with elegance. Not with finesse. But with survival.
His blade carved through the beast's neck, but the flesh knit back together immediately. The demon beast shrieked, lunged again. Simon dodged, rolled, stabbed—again and again. His breath grew ragged, arms burning.
Amujamu vibrated, reacting to each blow, its cursed nature resonating with the flesh it touched. Each strike slowed regeneration by a second. Half a second. A fragment of a breath.
Barely enough.
Always barely enough.
But barely enough was still enough if the wielder refused to die.
Another beast fell. A third lunged from behind; Simon spun, letting instinct and pain guide him. The wing burst briefly, flapping with raw mana, allowing him to twist in mid-air and cleave downward.
A roar.
A screech.
A spray of burning blood.
Simon exhaled shakily, sweat and blood mixing on his face.
He was alive.
For now.
And in the oppressive silence that followed, a thought whispered:
This is not training.
This is the Abyss asking—
Are you worthy of suffering further?
Simon clenched the hilt.
"I don't fight to win," he whispered, voice hoarse.
"I fight because I refuse to stop."
---
Far above, Orba stood at the cliff's edge, staring down into the darkness where Simon vanished.
He did not smirk. He did not gloat.
He simply watched.
A pupil?
A tool?
A curiosity?
Even Orba hadn't decided yet.
But one thing was certain:
Simon did not struggle like a human.
He did not hunger like a demon.
He existed like a scar that refused to fade.
And that terrified even demons.
"…He might survive," Orba murmured, voice low.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"Or he might become something worse."