The human world trembled.

City after city had fallen, yet the pattern was too deliberate, too clean.

No corpses torn by monsters, no trails of invasion.

Just smoldering ruins and the echo of a single presence.

At first, the kings thought it a new weapon.

But the traces—the circles, the shattered ether—carried a signature every veteran of the war knew by heart.

“Impossible…” whispered Ardyn Crossfield, his hand pressed on a broken ward-stone.

“No legion could do this.”

Rinea Valden, standing beside him, met his gaze.

“There’s only one demon who doesn’t need a legion.”

The Seven Blades exchanged glances.

They had all seen that face before—

lazy, mocking, untouchable.

The spoiled heir of the Demon Realm.

Sera Lunet clasped her hands, whispering a prayer that felt hollow even to herself.

Kael Kryne stared at the horizon, frost gathering around his boots.

“If he’s moving alone, we can’t contain him. Even the gods will take notice.”

“They already have,” Rinea said quietly.

Her eyes turned toward the sky, where faint threads of golden divinity flickered.

“Twelve lights… the old heavens are stirring.”

The council chamber dimmed.

In the reflection of the marble floor, the Seven saw their own fear staring back.

Meanwhile, in the Demon Realm, the ten thrones of the Dark Court shuddered beneath the weight of anger and pride.

Flames licked the ceiling as Lord Zephyr Sarenne rose from his seat.

“That boy burns the human world to ash, and we do nothing?!”

Lady Myrra Valcrus twirled a strand of silver hair between her fingers, eyes half-lidded.

“You’d rather join him and die? The twelve gods will not spare us for sentiment.”

General Kaor Volren slammed his clawed fist against the obsidian table.

“Then what, hide while he fights alone?”

The dragonlord’s roar cracked the runes beneath his feet.

Lord Dalph Bakian—black fire haloing his shoulders—stood at last.

He gazed toward the war map etched in flame and spoke with a calm that silenced even the roaring wind.

“My grandson walks into a thousand suns.

If he falls, then our bloodline ends with shame.

If we follow, we may burn with him.

But the Bakian name was never built on fear.”

Zephyr’s grin widened. “Then say it. Give the order.”

Dalph’s voice thundered through the court.

“Summon every legion.

From the Infernal Pits to the crimson border—

the Demon Realm marches.”

The ground split with a single toll of the war-bell.

Across the continents of flame, armies awoke,

their banners glowing red as magma.

But even as the legions prepared, an older fire ignited.

Lord Vaedrin Draveth leaned forward, his eyes sharp.

“Even if all of us march, we can’t match twelve gods. You know that.”

Dalph nodded slowly. “Then we call what even gods fear.”

A murmur rippled through the thrones.

“The Ancient Demons…” whispered Myrra, her smile fading.

“Those from the infernal abyss. They devour worlds.”

“So let them eat,” Dalph said.

“If the end has come, we’ll choose who ends it.”

Ten kings of ruin cut their palms,

their blood pooling into a single circle.

Runes that hadn’t glowed since the First Age flared alive,

and the air thickened with the scent of brimstone and eternity.

A voice—deep, distant, and unmistakably familiar—echoed from the dark.

“Still making a mess without me, are you?”

Every heart in the chamber stopped.

The runes froze mid-glow.

From the heart of the abyss, something vast stirred—

chains snapping, flames bending backward, shadows turning to light.

A silhouette rose, tall as mountains, eyes burning with eclipsed suns.

When he spoke, the world itself seemed to listen.

“So,” the voice said, half amusement, half disdain.

“My descendants have woken gods, shattered balance, and bled the world dry…

How nostalgic.”

Dalph Bakian bowed his head.

The figure stepped forward, the pressure alone forcing the ten to kneel.

The First Demon King—Dekaan Jeffmann—

the founder of the Ten Thrones,

the origin of every infernal crown.

His laughter rolled through the abyss.

“Rise, my children.

If the gods wish to return, let them.

I’ll remind them what it means to fear the dark.”

As the abyss trembled, the Demon Realm’s banners rose higher,

and for the first time in ten thousand years,

the name of the First King echoed once more.