The Demon Realm had no sky.
Instead, an endless crimson mist covered the world like a wound that never healed. Black towers pierced the haze, rivers of molten mana flowed beneath obsidian bridges, and screams—old, forgotten screams—were trapped in the air like echoes of a long war.
At the very center of this hell stood the Demon King's Throne.
And upon it sat Azrath Noctyfer, the strongest demon ever born.
His body was tall and regal, black horns curving backward like a crown forged by destruction itself. His crimson eyes glowed with ancient authority, and the mana leaking from him alone was enough to make even high-ranking demons kneel without realizing it.
Azrath was undefeated.
No demon, no army, no ancient beast had ever forced him to retreat.
That was why his brother chose poison.
"Brother."
Azrath slowly opened his eyes as the voice echoed through the throne room. Footsteps approached—familiar, controlled, cautious.
Belial Noctyfer.
His younger brother.
Azrath did not rise. He did not even turn his head.
"You're late," Azrath said calmly.
Belial chuckled. "As always, you speak as if the world moves according to your convenience."
Azrath finally looked at him. "You want something."
Belial smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "I want what should have been mine."
Azrath stared at him in silence.
Belial continued, his voice smooth like oil poured over fire. "Power. Authority. The title of Demon King."
"You were never suited for it," Azrath replied flatly.
That sentence sealed everything.
Belial's smile froze.
Azrath felt it then.
A faint disturbance in his mana flow.
"…Poison?" Azrath muttered.
Belial laughed loudly, madness spilling from his eyes. "Yes! A divine-grade toxin mixed with soul rot venom! Even you can't resist it!"
Azrath's body grew heavy. His demonic heart slowed.
Yet he did not panic.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
"I never challenged you," Belial said, stepping closer. "Because I knew I'd lose. So I killed you the only way possible."
Azrath leaned back against the throne, crimson light dimming in his eyes.
"You've won," Azrath said.
Belial trembled. "Say it properly."
Azrath closed his eyes.
"You are the Demon King now."
Belial screamed in triumph.
But Azrath was already falling.
Not into darkness—
—but into silence.
Warmth.
That was the first thing Azrath felt.
Not mana.
Not pain.
Warmth.
"…He's breathing."
A soft voice trembled near his ear.
"…My lord, the young master has opened his eyes!"
Azrath's consciousness snapped awake.
Light stabbed into his vision.
White ceiling.
Golden patterns.
The scent of flowers.
This is… not the Demon Realm.
His body felt… small. Weak. Fragile.
He tried to move his fingers.
They moved.
Human fingers.
"…Interesting," he whispered.
"Ah—young master!" a maid cried. "Please don't speak yet!"
Azrath slowly turned his head.
A beautiful woman with silver hair and gentle emerald eyes stood beside the bed. She wore a black-and-white maid uniform, but the mana surrounding her was unmistakable.
Strong.
Healing-class magic.
He analyzed everything instantly.
Human world. Noble residence. This body is young—perhaps five or six years old.
So… I was reborn.
His lips curved slightly.
Fate has a sense of humor.
"Father…" a deep male voice spoke.
A man with sharp features and noble dignity stood at the foot of the bed. His aura was heavy, trained, refined.
A noble warrior.
"You're awake," the man said calmly, though relief flashed through his eyes. "Good."
Azrath felt memories flooding into him.
This body's name—
Lucien Valecrest.
First son of the Valecrest Ducal Family, one of the richest and most influential families in the kingdom.
Born with extraordinary looks.
White skin, black hair, golden eyes.
Loved by maids.
Admired by noble girls.
A perfect life.
How boring.
"Lucien," the man said. "You collapsed during mana awakening. Do you feel pain?"
Azrath—no, Lucien—met his gaze.
"No," he answered.
His voice was soft, controlled.
Too controlled for a child.
The silver-haired maid smiled with tears in her eyes. "Thank the goddess…"
Lucien observed her carefully.
Her mana circulation was flawless.
Name: Iris.
Role: Personal maid.
Hidden potential: Extremely high.
So that's why you chose her, Father.
Lucien's father spoke again. "Lucien, you will soon attend Aetherion Magic Academy."
Lucien blinked.
Academy.
Just like that world.
"A big school?" Lucien asked innocently.
"Yes," his father said. "And Iris will accompany you."
Iris froze. "M-me?"
"You possess powerful healing magic," the duke said. "Lucien will need protection."
Lucien looked at Iris.
She blushed.
"…I will protect you with my life, young master."
Lucien smiled slightly.
An efficient asset.
After death, his mindset had changed.
No anger.
No hatred.
No revenge obsession.
Only calculation.
Power must be hidden. Enemies must be studied. Betrayal must be prevented before it begins.
Belial poisoned him because Azrath ruled openly.
That mistake would not be repeated.
If I am to reclaim everything…
I will do it as a shadow.
Lucien lay back on the bed, eyes half-closed.
In his chest, a sealed abyss stirred.
Demonic mana.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
This world still thinks I am human.
Good.
Let them.