For 15,000 years, the world of Imperia has been locked in an endless cycle of war. Every century, the Demon Realm crowns a new Demon Lord through brutal warfare, purging the weak and glorifying the strong. When the new ruler rises, they lead their forces against The Holy Empire—only to be slain by the Hero and their allies. The cycle resets, each generation growing stronger, each war bloodier than the last.
In the Demon Realm, kindness is weakness, cruelty is strength, and evil is perfection. That is our motto. Let me tell you something, I hate that motto.
When I was born, my mother looked at me with a scowl, her eyes flashing with disappointment, as if I'd already wronged her before taking my first breath. My father had already died in the last century's war, leaving behind a legacy of blood and glory, and I was born just as the current conflict ignited. I never got to know him, nor ever have a single memory. A shadow of a shadow; I was less than a whisper of his existence.
I am twenty years old this year—barely a blip in the span of demon lifetimes. Demons are not considered old until they reach at least seven or eight hundred years. That means I have centuries ahead of me, centuries intended for suffering, disdain, and being nothing but a disappointment.
"An utter embarrassment!" That is what I have been hearing my entire life.
Hi, my name is Arminius. But most people either call me "Trash!" "Garbage!" "Demon in only name!" or some other slur that punctures the air like knives. When they don't, they usually call me Armin. A name rich in heritage. It means "Man of War." My mother had already decided on that name before my birth. A name chosen as a symbol of strength. But I… well, I don't particularly live up to that name.
I don't have any talent for Veil Arts. Veil Arts are abilities that grant someone the power to bend the fundamental rules of reality. They are the defining force of the greatest warriors, the most feared rulers, and the most powerful demons. The mere ability to use mana, the lifeblood of our kind, is a joke for me, a punchline crafted by fate or perhaps my own foolish lineage.
All demons are born with the ability of [Sorcery]; yet the strongest Veil Arts are those that are unique, personal to one's essence. That's why they almost always appear in nobility, amongst the recklessly powerful who've engineered their bloodlines through violence and cruelty. A powerful mother could pave the way for her child to succeed, while a failed lineage like mine simply faded into obscurity.
Ah, what horrible luck I was born with.
The wind howled through the barren landscape as I sat atop a field of Red Dust Flowers, the only color emerging from the loamy soil. Not many flowers bloomed in this part of the Demon Realm—not in the cursed Red Deserts of the Romulus Duchy. This was one of the few that did. It had dull red petals and three yellow anthers, a peculiar adornment on a land forgotten by abundance. Honestly, it was beautiful in its own way, yet that beauty came at a dire consequence. The flowers flourished, spreading wildly, sucking the nutrients out of the ground until the soil itself became barren. They thrived until the very essence of life around them dwindled away.
I gazed at the flowers longingly, their existence a constant reminder of my insignificance in the grand scheme of things. "I wonder how it must feel to be a flower?" I murmured to myself, my voice barely above a whisper.
Looking up, I noted the sky was filled with thick thunderclouds that swirled ominously like an angry sea. The weather in the Demon Realm was unpredictable, mercurial like the spirits of those who curried favor of the winds. A desert could be drowned in a storm within mere minutes, only for the sun to dry it out hours later, leaving a wasteland behind. The world kept changing, but not me. I felt stagnant.
Most demons were hastily retreating to their homes, seeking refuge from the storm that loomed, but no one called out for me or wondered where I was. No one cared. It was a simple truth I had painfully accepted.
I belonged to the Ruber Clan, a low-level clan that, like the flowers, thrived in misery. It was a clan rumored to be cursed, diluted in honor and respect within the wider community of demons. Amongst our bloodied battles, we struggled to stake our claim in the larger conflicts, forcing our lowly status further into oblivion. Storms came and went, yet the land remained lifeless, an ironic reflection of my own fate. Much like my life.
My fingers traced the petals of a flower absentmindedly, the vibrance failing to resonate with my withered spirit. The reason I was here, outside, away from everyone else, was because my mother had died the previous day. I had buried her, that desolate, stark reality now a part of my history.
Her grave was modest—a small mound of red dirt, slightly raised above the rest of the field. I had placed flowers atop it, a gesture that felt strangely human in the ruthless culture we inhabited. Burying one's family was a task relegated to the nobles, while the lowly demons of the clans typically left their dead to the vultures of inevitability.
"Even though you hated me… you still birthed me," I muttered, my voice lacking in bitterness, only laced with resignation. It was ridiculous. My mother endured a lifetime of disappointments, and yet still, she brought me forth to endure the very same cycle. After a beat, I turned back toward the village, the home I shared with pain and regret.
My home was small, constructed of the same red dirt as all the others scattered across the patchy landscape. When storms raged, it leaked, soaking corners and painting walls with misery—just like it was now. I sighed as I watched water drip down from the ceiling, each drop a rhythmic reminder of my failures. A pan was slid beneath the leak, then another, until soon I ran out of pans and simply sat in a corner, watching the water trickle down the walls like a silent, mourning specter.
The shadows of the room embraced me, the patterns folding into my very being. Before long, the steady dripping reached me, droplets hitting my shoulder—a faint antagonism echoing through the current silence.
"...I really hate myself," I murmured, the words slithering from my lips, thin and brittle against the weight of my melancholy.
That night, as I tried to sleep, the dance of rain outside was a gentle patter, yet it felt like a persistent knock at the door of my soul. Restlessness stirred my spirit, a noise interrupted the patter, faint yet unwavering. A cry.
I tried to ignore it, settled deep in the crevices of my own despair, cocooned in self-loathing. But after minutes of tossing and turning, the call became a siren, urging me to rise. Groaning, I stood up, body heavy and spirit weary.
The rain was relentless, pelting against my skin, snapping me into focus, as my eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness of night. I followed the sound, each step hesitating in the pull of heavy mud beneath my feet, the wet earth clinging to me.
The cry led me back to the very red flower fields that had become all too familiar. My heart raced as two small creatures huddled beneath a scrappy bush, a pitiful excuse for shelter. One was a wolf pup with thick black fur, matted and stained, embroiled in a tale of pain. The other was a tiger cub, a beacon of white with black stripes, now faint and trembling.
The wolf noticed me first, eyes narrowed, instinctively hissing at my presence.
"Yip! Yip!" It yapped defiantly despite its condition, a feeble show of intimidation.
Arminius, you foolish fool, I thought, as I knelt down in the mud to get a closer look. The wolf snapped at me, a warning wrapped in desperation. "Alright, alright, I get it, you don't trust me," I said, as if the acknowledgment of that fact was some sweet balm for my wounded ego.
But then, my focus landed on the tiger cub, who lifted its head just a fraction. Its eyes were foggy, filled with painful dreams. "Nnnnh... meow! Meow!" it let out a small, pitiful cry, almost trying to comfort the wolf more than itself. It was bittersweet, this misplaced camaraderie between adversaries.
I felt a small smile tug at my lips, warmth spreading in my heart."You're worried about him, huh?" I murmured.
'A tiger cub and a wolf cub,in this demon realm they should be cutting apart each others throats not standing by each other' he thought.
Though with a smile he reached out a hesitant hand, fingers stretching towards the fragile connection before me.
The wolf nipped at my fingers. "Ow!" I yelped, pulling back, half-amused, half-intrigued. Who would have thought I'd be here, standing in the relentless angst and barrenness of the Demon Realm shrouded in a storm, a demon with no power, being scolded by a tiny creature.
"Okay, alright!" I chuckled despite the sting, my heart lighting up amidst the dreary landscape. Carefully, I scooped both creatures into my arms—their frail bodies juxtaposed against my own.
"Don't worry," I whispered, warmth rising in my voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a kind demon."
Looking back now, those words were paradoxical.
But true.
Meanwhile,
In a plain of existence above the one that Armin resided in.
A figure,watching him, pondered before cracking a satisfactory smile.
[A kind demon?,that's...perfect!]
End Of Chapter-1