Thousands of years ago, in a distant realm beyond the known world lay Astara, an ancient land of demons. The young prince, Feng Deming, who appeared no older than ten years of age by human standards, raced through fields alongside the lieutenant. The grass brushed against his legs as they sprinted into the fading daylight on the horizon, hope and uncertainty pushing them forward until they stopped in the center of the field.

Deming's breath caught, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a distant drum. The ground underfoot shifted and swayed as hundreds of high faerie lords blocked their path. The faint metallic taste of fear coated his tongue, while the scent of damp earth filled his nostrils. "Enemies," he murmured, a shiver running down his spine as his pupils dilated. Preparing to flee, he shifted his gaze to the lieutenant, ready to anticipate his next move.

"Lord Muchen," the lieutenant whispered.

"Muchen?" Deming's heart raced, a knot forming in his chest as he locked eyes with the faerie leader. 'He killed my father.' A tear escaped his eye, and his fists clenched in fury, replaying his father's last words in his mind.

"Take my son to safety, Lieutenant. Protect him with your life."

Without a word, the lieutenant lowered his sword, its weight pressing heavily into his calloused palm. The air around them grew thick, almost suffocating, as tension pressed between them. The distant murmur of the faeries, a low hum, blended with the rustling grass and the prince's sharp, shallow breaths.

"What are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed!" Deming cried out as the lieutenant approached the faerie leader.

"My lord, you have arrived early," the lieutenant smiled.

"What? Him?" Dropping his jaw, Deming turned to the lieutenant and the faerie leader, eyes widening at the lieutenant's indifference. Like a setting sun, the vibrancy in his golden eyes dimmed as the truth sank in. "Don't tell me... that you..."

"Truthfully, Lieutenant, I had concerns that you would not uphold your end of the deal. However, I admit I was mistaken." The faerie leader, Lord Muchen, nodded and commanded, "NOW!"

With a flick of the faeries' wrists, they activated the chains wrapped around Deming's limbs, empowered by twenty layers of glyphs.

'What... is this?' Deming thought, eyeing the phantom chains encircling his wrists. He struggled to free himself, but the chains held firm, resisting his every effort. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he grasped the futility of his attempts—the glyphs reinforcing the bindings proved too powerful to overcome.

"I promise I shall take good care of my slave."

"Me? A slave?" Deming's jaw clenched, eyes boring into Lord Muchen in anger. He turned to the lieutenant, gaze intense as he whispered, "What is happening?"

The Astaran lieutenant's eyebrows furrowed as he moved forward with suspicion, capturing Deming's attention. He whispered, "What is happening? Your father was a coward who prioritized himself and his son over his own people. I am only doing what he lacked the guts to do for the safety of Astara. And as its new ruler, I will do it right." With a deep bow before the faerie leader, he swept his hand from his chest toward Deming in a grand gesture. "Lord Muchen, as you requested."

With a quickening pulse, Deming's gaze hardened as he fixed it on the lieutenant with a piercing glare. "You..." his voice trembled.

The lieutenant sneered, savoring his victory while maintaining his facade in front of the faerie leader. "In exchange for my life and the Supreme Throne of Astara, I present Feng Deming—the crown prince."

Disgust etched itself into Deming's features. "You despicable traitor!" he spat, voice quivering with rage. "My father was blind to trust a coward who stoops to slavery. You are a mockery of a king."

The lieutenant stepped back, eyes darting between Deming and Lord Muchen, sweat trickling down his forehead. 'I have no choice... If I don't hand over the prince, Astara is doomed. The faeries would wipe us out,' he agonized, guilt tearing at his soul. "I am aware that slavery goes against our principles. However..." Sighing, he acknowledged his treason and the strict prohibition against slavery, a code ingrained within his tribe since its foundation millions of years ago. 'There's nothing I can do now.'

In a final attempt, Deming's eyes pleaded with the lieutenant, begging for compassion, even as the chains held him in place.

Unable to meet Deming's eyes, the lieutenant stared at the ground, his face burning with shame. "He is all yours," he stated, turning away without a glance back.

Eyes flickering with pleasure, Lord Muchen stepped forward with grace, eyeing the prince with satisfaction. "A most generous offering, indeed."

Fury boiled within Deming, a fiery heat spreading from his clenched fists to the pit of his stomach as his once-prestigious life crumbled into a living hell. The iron taste of rage filled his mouth as he spat out his words. "One day, the Faerie Realm will fall, and its name will be forgotten forever—along with yours," he growled, his voice like the low rumble of thunder. "I promise you this!"

As the faeries approached Feng Deming, their footsteps reverberated through the ground, sending drumbeats against his chest. The scent of sharp and bitter ozone filled the air as the distance between them closed. His breaths grew shallow, the bitter taste of anxiety lingering on his tongue as the lieutenant shrank from view, leaving him to face the encroaching faeries.

"You will all regret this, mark my words!" Deming raged, his muscles straining against the chains. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought the overwhelming force pressing down on him. Resisting tears, memories of his father's teachings echoed in his mind, urging him to stand firm in the face of hardship.

"Listen closely, my son—never allow yourself to be trapped... You are our only hope against their millions of years of oppression. The faeries want to crush our pride and destroy our culture. If we lose our identity, everything our ancestors achieved will turn to dust. We will be nothing... They want to weaken us by making us less protective of our heritage, dividing Astara. If they succeed, faerie worship will occur here and doom us all... that even death is a mercy from the only God there is.

Even if they take away our lands and try to break our spirit, we must never turn the other cheek and abandon our ideology... We are Astarans; we never surrender to oppression or lose our dignity, even if death comes near.

One day, you must lead our people because only you can stand up to the faeries. When the time is right, I will reveal who you truly are. Until then, never forget our legacy, our culture, and who we are as a people... Always remember who you are, Feng Deming."

Hope brightened Deming's eyes. Frowning with determination and lips pressed together, he exhaled through his nose with force. 'Now I see why he never wanted me to waste time and play like the other kids...' Memories of grueling training sessions flooded his mind. 'That deciphering technique... I haven't mastered it yet, but I will... Father, I promise I'll restore Astara's glory... and once I decipher these seals, I'll break free...' A knot of dread tightened in his chest. 'But what if I fail after breaking out... and be trapped again... and never see my home again? What will they do to Astara... and my people?'

"Take this... monster... away," Muchen hissed.

Deming's heart clenched at the accusation. 'Monster,' the word twisted his insides. 'Father knew something about me that he didn't tell. Maybe that's why he trained me all my life. Maybe I am... a monster.'

A burning desire flowed through his veins, already planning his escape as the root of the promised day took hold in his heart.

~*~

Thousands of years had passed since Feng Deming's imprisonment; now, he appeared twenty by human standards. Sealed deep underground in a dungeon, the prince stood out even in the shadows. Dim light highlighted his pointed nose and high cheekbones. His defined eyebrows, as sharp as daggers, arched over his closed eyes. Long, dark-brown hair flowed like a river of shadows down to his thighs, adding an aura of mystery to his appearance.

The dungeon emitted a musty odor with a faint metallic hint of blood still staining the walls. The faint rustle echoed through the silence, interrupted only by the distant drip of water. Each drop resonated like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, marking years of insufferable torture endured.

Focused on breaking the phantasmal chains, each moment of captivity centered on mastering the deciphering of the twenty seals binding those chains. Ancient glyphs unraveled through sheer concentration, forehead glowing with intensity. His closed eyes twitched as he concentrated, the pressure of the chains digging into his skin a constant, throbbing reminder of his yearning for the liberty to walk free once more.

'How satisfying it would be to see no trace of their world, all by my own hands,' Deming entertained, an evil, pleasure-filled smirk curling his lips as the thought tasted as sweet as honey. 'Their mutilated bodies shall be my masterpiece, and their painful screams, well, the sweetest melody to my ears... And all of that is within my grasp now.'

Heavy footsteps reverberated through the stone walls, growing louder as they approached the dungeon, breaking his concentration. Male voices, low and urgent, murmured in the distance, their words indistinguishable but charged with tension.

Aware of Feng Deming's immense power, many self-proclaimed 'gods' had gathered to prevent his escape. The faerie general, known as 'the god of war,' shouted through the dungeon, his voice sharp and grating like metal scraping against stone. "Cease, demon!"

Deming did not open his eyes, not when he was this close to breaking the seal. 'Now, they shall witness the true meaning of what they call... a monster,' he sneered, his smirk deepening as he continued to decode the seals.

The faerie general appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Long silver hair added to his handsome appearance, and an elegant gold head chain with a jewel hanging from it rested against his forehead, matching his vibrant blue eyes.

His voice grew louder and more forceful. "I said, stop!" His hand crackled with energy, forming a beam of light that hummed with intensity.

Despite the warnings, Deming remained unmoved, his focus unbroken. The dungeon walls closed in, the pressure building as if the very stones held their breath.

His eyes, like molten metal, revealed the tales of untold suffering and a promise of vengeance as they opened. Long lashes left fleeting shadows across his cheeks with each slow blink. His golden eyes roamed over the trembling soldiers. Each shiver and flinch deepened the intense pleasure radiating from him, as though he fed on their fear.

Frustration and dread colored the general's voice as he turned to his troops. "Attack!"