The Demon Realm did not fear war.
It remembered it.
Across scorched continents and blood-soaked plains, there existed a single name that echoed louder than thunder and cut deeper than any blade.
Azhryel Vaelgor.
The Great General of the Demon King's Army.
When his banner rose, enemies abandoned hope.
When his armor appeared, cities surrendered without resistance.
And when he stepped onto a battlefield—war itself fell silent.
The Battlefield of Black Ash
The sky burned crimson.
Mountains of corpses stretched as far as the eye could see—demons, beasts, and invaders alike. Rivers of blood carved new paths through the land, steaming under the heat of demonic fire.
At the center of it all stood a single figure.
Tall. Calm. Unmoving.
Azhryel Vaelgor.
He wore no ordinary armor. It was an inbuilt demonic armor, bonded to his flesh since birth—ancient, living, and unbreakable. It did not shine. It did not roar.
It simply existed.
Like inevitability.
Before him knelt the remaining enemy commander, trembling, sword shattered at his feet.
"P-please…" the commander whispered. "Spare us. We surrender—"
Azhryel's crimson eyes looked down without hatred.
Without mercy.
War was not personal.
With a single motion, his spear pierced through the commander's chest.
The battlefield ended.
Just like that.
Behind him, demon soldiers fell to one knee.
Not because they were ordered to.
But because their bodies remembered who he was.
The General of Endless Wars
For over three centuries, Azhryel had fought for the Demon Realm.
He fought when borders were threatened.
He fought when clans rebelled.
He fought when foreign realms invaded with divine weapons and cursed armies.
He never lost.
Not once.
His strategies were studied by demon scholars and feared by enemy tacticians. His ability to read battlefields bordered on prophetic. Where others saw chaos, Azhryel saw patterns.
He never chased glory.
He never claimed rewards.
He fought because the realm demanded it.
Because the throne demanded it.
And because his father, the Demon King, demanded it.
The Brothers of Blood and Shadow
The Demon King had three sons.
The eldest was Azhryel Vaelgor, born of the Demon Queen—pure royal blood, forged in war, raised on battlefields.
The second was Vaelric, his middle brother—born of the same mother, quieter, sharper of mind than blade, often standing beside Azhryel during campaigns as his strategist.
And the youngest—
Vaelor.
Born of a different mother.
A political union.
A noble consort from an ancient demon clan.
Vaelor had never seen war.
Never bled.
Never commanded troops.
Yet within the palace walls, whispers followed him like shadows.
"He resembles the king the most."
"He is gentle."
"He is fit to rule."
Azhryel never responded to such words.
He returned from war.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Return to the Imperial Demon Palace
The Imperial Demon Palace towered over the capital like a god's spine piercing the heavens. Built from obsidian and ancient bones, it radiated authority older than history.
As Azhryel entered the capital, streets emptied.
Demons bowed.
Clans lowered banners.
Even arrogant nobles fell silent.
Not out of fear.
Out of instinct.
Inside the palace, elders gathered.
The Throne of Dominion stood at the center of the Obsidian Hall—silent, ancient, waiting.
The Demon King sat upon it.
Time had carved lines into his face. His crown weighed heavier than any armor.
The war was over.
And now—
The future would be decided.
The Question of Succession
The elders spoke.
"The realm needs stability."
"The realm needs wisdom."
"The realm needs a king who can unite clans, not conquer them."
Azhryel stood among them, blood still staining his boots.
He said nothing.
Vaelric watched carefully, his fists clenched.
Vaelor stood calmly, dressed in ceremonial robes, eyes lowered in humility.
Then came the words that shattered centuries of expectation.
"The next Demon King," the High Elder declared, "shall be Prince Vaelor."
Silence.
Not a single breath stirred.
Vaelric's head snapped up. "What?"
The Demon King closed his eyes.
Azhryel did not move.
"Why?" Vaelric demanded. "Brother Azhryel has protected this realm longer than anyone alive! He bled for it! He—"
"Enough," the Demon King said.
His gaze did not meet Azhryel's.
"Power alone does not rule," the king continued. "A ruler must bring peace beyond war."
Azhryel finally stepped forward.
"I never asked for the throne," he said, voice steady. "I only ensured it still existed."
The throne did not respond.
Vaelor knelt.
The crown descended.
The Fall Without a Sound
No cheers erupted.
No celebration followed.
The realm had chosen peace over the blade.
That night, Azhryel stood alone at the palace edge.
He summoned his armor.
The living demonic plates surfaced from his flesh, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Slowly—
He sealed it back inside himself.
Vaelric approached.
"You're leaving," he said.
"Yes."
"You could have challenged them."
Azhryel looked toward the horizon. "Then the realm would drown in blood again."
"You deserve the crown."
Azhryel shook his head. "Crowns are cages."
He stepped beyond the boundary separating realms.
The air twisted.
The Demon Realm faded.
Birth of a New Name
In the Human Realm, under a foreign sky, Azhryel Vaelgor opened his eyes.
His demonic presence sealed.
His power hidden.
From that moment onward—
The Great General vanished from history.
And a new man was born.
Ren Ashiro.